Chapter 22
Sleep was impossible that night.
I stared up at my ceiling, rain lashing against my windows, wind whistling through the chimney.
It was after midnight, and I’d been trying to fall asleep for close to two hours now.
It wasn’t the storm that kept me awake or that I felt unsafe.
I knew the house was locked, that Mrs. Rawlings was in the room beside me, that there were servants who would come at the ring of a bell.
It was simply that I felt the lack of him.
It was the first night without having Alexander within the reach of my voice, and I was left unsettled and restless.
I hated the feeling and wickedly hoped that at whatever drafty inn he was spending the night, he, too, was unable to sleep for thinking of me.
When the clock finally struck twelve thirty, I gave up.
I threw on my dressing gown and paced my room, hoping some exercise would calm my mind.
The floor was cold against my feet, the chill of the storm outside leeching through the house.
I spotted the writing desk in the corner and stopped.
If I could not sleep, perhaps I could work.
I slipped quietly from my room, not wanting to wake Mrs. Rawlings, and started down the stairs. The third step from the bottom creaked loudly as I stepped on it, and I winced, pausing. But I heard nothing else and continued on.
Reaching the study, I went to Alexander’s desk and sorted through the papers.
Here were his notes, several pages in his own handwriting.
A different bundle held the unfamiliar script of another man, which must be the new notes the Bow Street clerk had sent.
They looked to be cases dating further back, two years or so.
Beneath the notes, I also found the sketch Verity had done of our attacker.
A copy, I imagined, that must have arrived with Drake’s letter.
I wondered if Alexander had requested it, thinking it might jog his memory.
I glanced it over, stomach twisting at the man’s shadowed eyes, and then I quickly placed the sketch at the bottom of my stack.
Closing the study door behind me, I hurried back up the stairs, skipping over the third step to avoid the creak.
Reaching my room, I lit a candle, then organized the papers neatly on the writing desk. I prepared a pen and ink to take notes and began to read.
First, I skimmed over Alexander’s records—thorough, detailed, and clear.
He’d written down each of the robberies he suspected could have been connected through Society events along with what was stolen, the dates, and any mentions of guests who had attended.
Thus far, there seemed to be no obvious suspect—none of the names appeared more than once, at least.
Next, I picked up the information sent by the Bow Street clerk who’d been tasked with searching through the records at the magistrates’ court for any similar cases.
The first page started with occurrences dating just over a year ago.
I read through them carefully. Some did not seem to line up quite right—either the robberies occurred much later than whatever event was hosted, or the missing item was eventually found and recovered.
It took me close to thirty minutes to read through the notes, and by then, my eyes were growing heavy and dry. I rubbed them with my fingertips as I turned to the last page of the clerk’s notes, determined to finish before once more attempting to sleep.
I squinted at the words in the flickering candlelight, reading quickly. Then I frowned and read it again, slowly.
July 7, 1801
A robbery was reported at the household of Lord and Lady Granville. They hosted a grand ball the evening before with close to a hundred guests. The item stolen was a rare copy of Shakespeare’s first folio. The book was never recovered.
A bell rang in my head, vague at first, then stronger, more alarming.
I stared at the passage, disbelief hot in my veins.
I’d attended a ball hosted by Lord and Lady Granville in July two years ago.
In fact, it had been the last ball I’d ever attended in London because it was the same unhappy evening that I’d seen Clarissa Haythorne in the midst of her romantic tryst.
It was also the same evening I’d seen Lord Granville’s copy of the first folio in his library. I remembered it so clearly—the calfskin cover, the thick pages, the volume slightly askew on its stand.
The robbery had to have been the same night as the ball.
Lord Granville would not have hosted more than one ball that Season.
But why hadn’t I ever heard of the theft?
I imagined it would have made some waves in Society.
Then again, I hadn’t been particularly aware of other goings-on in London in the days following that particular ball.
I had been far too concerned about my absolute ruination at Clarissa’s hands.
I sat back in my chair, staring at the notes in front of me, my vision glazed over. What were the chances that I would have seen the folio the same night it had been stolen? Indeed, I’d likely been the last to see it. I was lucky I hadn’t happened upon the thief in the midst of the robbery.
I straightened as that thought struck itself into my mind.
Or perhaps I had.
Breathing hard, I drew back my memory of that night, one I usually did everything in my power to avoid.
In my mind’s eye, I moved down the corridor, the music from the ball following after me.
I found the library, crossed the room to the folio stand.
Then I’d heard the rustle and seen Clarissa’s head rise above the sofa.
The man she’d been with appeared beside her, scowling.
And I froze—not the memory of me, but the real me, sitting in the cold of my bedroom. The man’s face seemed to take up every inch of my memory. Brown hair. Shadowed eyes. A lowered brow, faintly menacing.
I sat unseeing, my heartbeat slowly quickening as if my body understood before my mind. That man. I knew that man.
I riffled through the papers in front of me, my hands shaking, throat tight, until I found the sketch Verity had drawn. I held it up to the candlelight. The attacker’s face stared back at me, eyes dark and intent, lips grim.
And my breath left my body entirely.
Because I was nearly certain that this man—the stranger who had attacked us in Vauxhall—was the same man I’d seen with Clarissa in the library that night.
I couldn’t be sure. I knew that. I’d been so focused on Clarissa’s face, on the shock of seeing her in such a state.
But the other details filled in around my realization.
Someone high in Society had been involved in these robberies, that much was clear.
What if that someone had been Clarissa? What if she’d been helping this man the night of the ball, and I’d caught them about to steal from Lord Granville?
That would explain why the folio had been askew.
And perhaps their romantic tryst had all been a cover as well.
After all, an impassioned embrace was much easier to explain than an interrupted robbery.
Doubt immediately flared. It couldn’t be. It made no reasonable sense. Why would this man have attacked Alexander at Vauxhall? Was he somehow involved in the viscount’s murder?
Unless . . .
My chest froze, breath and heartbeat suspended.
Unless he hadn’t been there for Alexander.
Unless he’d been there for me.
I remembered how he’d glared at me with such hatred. I’d thought it had been because I’d fought back against him. But what if he was angry because I was a threat to him?
Because I’d caught him in the midst of a robbery?
You’re mine, he’d snarled.
My lungs were working too hard, breaths coming rapidly.
I did not have a memory for faces like Verity did, but everything in me was screaming the truth of this.
If I was right—and I was feeling more and more sure with every passing second—then I was not a witness to the identity of a murderer.
I was a witness to a robbery, and only one of many over the past few years, if the notes spread before me were any indication.
How many cases might I implicate this man in? And Clarissa?
I sat back in my chair. I had no proof. No real evidence of anything, save for a memory that was two years old.
The conclusions I was leaping to seemed impossible.
How could I explain this to anyone? It felt right, but feelings meant nothing in a court of law.
How I wished Alexander were here. I would not have hesitated to tell him everything I’d discovered.
He would have listened and then decided whether my theory had merit.
Just then, I heard footsteps from the room beside mine. Mrs. Rawlings. What was she doing awake at this hour?
I went to my door and peeked out into the corridor. Candlelight shone from beneath her door. I hesitated. Did I really think Mrs. Rawlings cared one whit about what I’d learned tonight?
Then again, this involved her son and possibly the safety of her home. Perhaps she deserved to know.
Or perhaps I simply knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I did not tell someone.
Either way, she was awake, and it would not hurt to try. She’d rejected me enough in the past that I was quite used to the feeling.
I fetched the clerk’s notes about the Granvilles’ ball, then went out into the corridor. I closed my door behind me, then crept toward Mrs. Rawlings’s. I knocked lightly.
The door opened a few seconds later, spilling candlelight into the dark corridor. She was wrapped in her dressing gown, her hair in two precise braids. She looked so very different—so informal—that I simply blinked at her.
“Miss Lacey,” she said, raising one eyebrow. “Strange time for a social visit.”