Alistair Finch, vanished. The words, whispered by Davies in the moonlit conservatory, echoed the finality of a slammed door, a path abruptly cut off. My most promising lead, the man Penny Featherworth had hinted held "further keys" to my grandmother's Rose Guard Fund, was a ghost. Had he simply sought deeper seclusion, as Davies had neutrally suggested? Or had the "something more sinister" already played its hand? The chill in the conservatory air had little to do with the night and everything to do with the cold tendrils of fear coiling around my heart. Caroline, Olivia, and now the menacing Julian Thornecroft – their shadows seemed to stretch further, reach deeper, than I had ever imagined.
"So, Finch is gone," I stated, the words flat, a stark acknowledgment of this new, formidable obstacle. The crimson rose Davies had given me felt heavy in my hand, its thorns a painful reminder of the dangers inherent in this quest. "Does Penny know the details of his… departure?"
Davies' expression remained impassive, but his eyes held a flicker of something – caution, perhaps, or a shared understanding of the gravity. "Miss Featherworth was… distressed by the news. Mr. Finch was an old and trusted colleague of Mr. Grimshaw. His retirement community in Sarasota reported he settled his affairs with uncharacteristic haste, mentioned a desire for 'absolute privacy,' and left no forwarding address. This was approximately six months ago, shortly after… certain inquiries into old Vance family legal matters began circulating in some very discreet circles."
My blood ran colder. "Certain inquiries? You mean… not mine? Someone else was looking into this before me?" This was a horrifying new dimension. Had my rebirth simply stumbled into an already active, and perhaps deadly, investigation?
"The Vance legacy is a complex tapestry, Miss Eleanor," Davies said, his voice a low murmur. "Lady Annelise was not the only one who harbored… reservations… about its handling over the years. There have always been whispers, quiet questions from distant branches of the family, or from those who felt her philanthropic vision was being… reinterpreted too liberally."
This changed everything. I wasn't just fighting Olivia and Caroline for my birthright; I was potentially stepping into a pre-existing conflict, one that might have already claimed Alistair Finch as a casualty. Julian Thornecroft's sudden appearance in Olivia's orbit took on an even more sinister light. Was he hired to silence Finch, to ensure the "alternative provisions" my grandmother made remained buried forever?
"Thornecroft," I said, the name feeling like poison on my tongue. "If he's involved, if he made Finch disappear…"
"Mr. Thornecroft is a man who leaves few traces, Miss Eleanor," Davies interjected, his tone a quiet warning. "Directly linking him to Mr. Finch's current… unavailability… would be exceedingly difficult, and potentially, very dangerous for anyone attempting to do so."
The implication was clear: I was outmatched, outmaneuvered, and treading on ground where even seasoned players feared to tread. For a moment, the sheer weight of the conspiracy, the layers of deceit, threatened to overwhelm me. The vellum in my pocket, once a beacon of hope, now felt like a dangerous liability.
"So, what is your counsel, Davies?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "Do I abandon this? Let them win? Let my grandmother's true wishes remain a secret, her Rose Guard Fund a forgotten dream?" The words tasted like ash.
"Lady Annelise," Davies said, his gaze meeting mine, steady and unwavering, "was not a woman who surrendered easily. She understood the nature of the beasts she was dealing with." He paused, then added, "Mr. Finch, though currently… absent… was a meticulous man. Like Mr. Grimshaw. Men of their profession often create redundancies, safeguards. It is possible he anticipated such… contingencies."
A flicker of hope. "Redundancies? You mean, he might have left information elsewhere? With someone else?"
"It is a possibility one might explore," Davies conceded. "Miss Featherworth, despite her current need for discretion, might possess further recollections, names of other associates, perhaps even a hint as to Mr. Finch's own contingency plans, should he have had any. She knew both men, and their methods, intimately. But approaching her again, so soon after your last visit, and with Mr. Thornecroft now a visible presence in Miss Olivia's circle… the risk is substantially elevated."
He was right. Any direct contact with Penny could endanger her, and me. I needed another way, a less direct approach to understanding Finch's world, his connections.
The following days were a torment of feigned normalcy. I attended family meals, endured Olivia's saccharine pronouncements and Caroline's icy critiques, all while my mind raced. I needed to access information about Alistair Finch – his professional life, his associates beyond Grimshaw, anything that might point to where he'd gone, or to whom he might have entrusted his secrets. The Vance library, with its extensive collection of legal journals and directories from past decades, became my covert hunting ground.
Under the guise of researching "early 20th-century philanthropic trust law" – a topic suitably dull to deflect suspicion – I spent hours sifting through dusty archives. Olivia made a point of "checking in" on me more frequently, her appearances in the library always timed to be slightly disruptive, her questions about my "fascinating research" laced with a subtle, probing curiosity.
"Still buried in those dreary old books, Eleanor?" she'd remarked one afternoon, leaning against a bookshelf, the picture of casual elegance. "One might think you were planning a career in law, not just… appreciating art."
"Just trying to understand Grandmother's world a little better, Olivia," I'd replied, my smile carefully bland. "Her dedication to the Foundation was so inspiring. I thought understanding the legal frameworks of her time might offer… insights."
Her eyes, like a cat's, had narrowed slightly. "Insights are indeed valuable, Eleanor. Just be careful what doors you try to open. Some are best left locked for a reason." Another warning, more direct this time.
It was during one of these late-night library sessions, my eyes aching from deciphering faded print, that I found a small, almost overlooked entry in an old Bar Association directory from twenty-five years ago. Alistair Finch, listed as a junior partner at Grimshaw & Associates. But beneath his name, under "Associated Practices & Consultancies," was a single, intriguing line: Finch & Thornecroft – Specialized Fiduciary Services (Sarasota, FL Office – By Appointment Only).
Thornecroft. Not Julian, surely. The timeline wouldn't fit; Julian Thornecroft was, by all accounts, closer to my own age, perhaps a few years older. But a relative? A father? An uncle? The Sarasota connection was too specific to ignore. Finch hadn't just retired to Florida; he'd had a professional link there, a link that bore the Thornecroft name.
My heart hammered. This was it. A new thread, a dangerous one, but a thread nonetheless.
The next morning, I "casually" mentioned to Caroline my desire to improve my rather lackluster tennis game. "The courts here are lovely, of course," I'd said, "but I was thinking, perhaps a few intensive lessons with a really top-tier coach? I read about an excellent academy down in Florida, near Sarasota, actually. They have a wonderful program. Perhaps, if Father approved, a short trip…?"
Caroline's reaction was surprisingly swift. "Florida? In this heat? Eleanor, darling, your constitution is so delicate." But then, a flicker of something else in her eyes. Olivia had been pestering her for a trip to Palm Beach. Perhaps this was a way to appease Olivia, and to get me, the increasingly unpredictable Eleanor, out of the house for a while, under a new, and perhaps more easily controlled, form of observation. "Sarasota, you say? I suppose a change of scenery might do you some good. We can discuss it with your father."
The ease with which she agreed was, in itself, alarming. Were they letting me walk into another trap? Or did they genuinely believe my interest was in tennis, not in a vanished lawyer and a shadowy family named Thornecroft?
As I packed a small bag for the "tennis retreat" a few days later – a trip Olivia had, with much theatrical sighing, agreed to chaperone, no doubt at Caroline's insistence – Davies approached me in my room. He was carrying a small, discreetly wrapped package.
"A small travel necessity, Miss Eleanor," he said, his voice its usual neutral tone. He placed it on my vanity. "Florida can be… unpredictable."
Inside the package was a state-of-the-art, incredibly compact satellite phone, and a small, encrypted data chip. No note. No explanation. Just the items themselves.
My breath caught. This was more than a guiding hand; this was active assistance, a dangerous provision of tools. Davies knew. He knew I wasn't going for tennis. He was enabling my search, but why the sudden escalation in his involvement?
As I boarded the private Vance jet with a chattering, oblivious Olivia, the weight of the satellite phone in my travel bag was a cold, hard reality. Alistair Finch had a Thornecroft connection in Sarasota. Julian Thornecroft was now Olivia's dangerous associate. Was I flying towards an answer, or directly into the heart of the viper's nest? And what did Davies truly expect me to find in Florida that would require such a secure, untraceable means of communication? The silence from the cockpit was broken only by the roar of the engines, a sound that felt like a countdown to an unknown, and potentially lethal, confrontation.