Episode 4

Gabriel stopped in front of the rusted gates of his property. Time had been unkind, both to the house and to him. During the years he had been away, he had returned to England a few times, but never to this place. He had never crossed that cursed threshold. Not even after his father's death. Now, because of Lilian and that note, he had no choice.

The sky, a flawless blue, made the shadows of the nearby trees stand out, swaying gently in the cold breeze. The corroded iron, intertwined with ivy, marked the passage of time since he had abandoned this place.

He dismounted from his horse, the folded note from Clara, with her urgent message, still tucked in the inside pocket of his coat. He was not a man who trusted easily, especially not a sudden warning like this. But Clara’s handwriting was unmistakable. The fragile young woman who had once run through the fields with him seemed to have decided to ask for his help.

Gabriel hesitated for a moment, surveying his surroundings. The air smelled of heather growing along the path. This place, once full of life, now unsettled him. The gates gave way with a prolonged creak, the scent of wet earth and heather flooding his senses. He was not a man given to sentimentality, but this place carried too many memories. None of them good. Each step he took brought him closer to the mansion. The windows were empty holes, the shutters swaying slightly in the wind.

He stopped in the central courtyard. His heart tightened as he remembered the last time he had been here — the moment his father had let him leave without even fighting for him. His jaw clenched at the bitter recollection.

“There’s no time for this,” he murmured, heading toward the main entrance. The familiar scent of aged wood mixed with dust filled his senses as he pushed the door open. The long creak echoed through the entrance as if the house were whispering forgotten memories. For a moment, Gabriel hesitated. The past was there, wrapped in the silence of the walls and the dust that had settled on the abandoned furniture.

The mansion swallowed him in its dark embrace as soon as he crossed the threshold. The smell of aged wood mixed with dampness, creating a bitter perfume of decay. The tapestries, once opulent, had become ghosts of fabric, faded and torn by time. The house was alive only in the shadows that watched him, filled with memories that had never left.

He explored the space with slow, careful steps. Each room was a shadow of what it once was. In the library, the dusty shelves still held forgotten volumes. The smell of aged paper and dried leather lingered in the air. Books that had once filled the Viscount’s library with pride now lay abandoned, covered in dust and mold. Gabriel ran his fingers along one of the cracked spines. Time did not forgive anything. Not houses. Not legacies. Not sons.

It was here that his father had spent hours, surrounded by papers. “It’s for your own good, Gabriel,” he remembered his father’s voice. “You’ll learn to be strong.”

He sighed, his gaze lingering on a tattered armchair. The ghosts of the past wouldn’t stop him. As he left, the sun hit him directly, blinding after the gloom of the house. He mounted his horse and headed toward the village, determined. As he pulled away from the house, the note burned in his pocket like a warning.

He never ignored a threat, and that message carried a name he was unwilling to lose. It wasn’t just the mansion that made him feel out of place; it was the idea that Lilian was in danger. That thought made it impossible to ignore the past he had always tried to leave behind. Is she really in danger? Is it because of the rumours I’ve heard? The doubt was a subtle poison, but enough to push him forward.

He arrived in the village just before midday. The streets were busy, with merchants unloading carts, children running between the stalls, and women bargaining for fresh vegetables. The sound of voices mixed with the clatter of horse hooves and the creak of cart wheels. Despite the apparent normalcy, Gabriel felt out of place.

He stopped his horse in front of a discreet inn at the end of a street. The sign hanging at the entrance swayed gently in the breeze, the name of the place almost illegible under layers of faded paint. He tied the reins to a wooden post and entered.

The interior was cool, a welcome escape from the cold that was beginning to intensify. The smell of freshly baked bread mingled with the scent of beer and tobacco. A few men occupied tables near the windows.

Gabriel entered the inn and walked directly to the farthest table, where a man with graying hair tied in a short braid sat. Dorian’s sharp gaze lifted as Gabriel approached.

“Captain D’Anjou.” Dorian leaned back in his chair with a crooked smile, his sharp gaze measuring every movement Gabriel made. “Or should I call you Viscount Sinclair now that you’ve returned to British soil?”

Gabriel slid into the chair across from him without wasting time on formalities. “Renew the letter of marque.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow, as if savoring the words. “I’ve heard you’ve been busy in the Caribbean... some would say you’ve had quite the... active agenda.” The tone was both provocative and genuinely interested.

“I didn’t come here for idle chit-chat, Dorian,” Gabriel cut in, his voice controlled, but laced with ice. “Just tell me if you can handle it or not.”