By the time we reached the warmth of the main house, Margaret was waiting in the kitchen with a pot of hot tea and a plate of cookies for Emma.

She didn’t say a word, but she took Emma from my arms and held her close, her stern face softening as she carried her toward the sitting room.

I sat down at the heavy oak kitchen table, staring at the steam rising from the teacup Margaret had placed in front of me.

The files—the ones Ben had died for, the ones that proved the Whitmores had been using the shipping lines for illegal smuggling—were safe in Julian’s study.

It was over.

The silence of the great stone house felt different now, no longer heavy with secrets, but quiet in a way that felt like a clean slate.

An hour later, the heavy front doors opened, and I heard Julian’s footsteps in the hallway.

He didn’t go to his study; instead, he walked straight into the kitchen, carrying a thick leather folder.

He set it on the table across from me and sat down, pulling off his leather gloves.