Chapter Eleven
“We begin here,” Alex said, his voice low but firm, “reviewing each document.”
Alex’s finger paused at the column of figures again. “This entire shipment is misdated,” he said, tapping once. “And not just by days. It’s weeks out of step with the others.”
Georgina leaned in, brow furrowed. “Then it’s more than forgery. It’s an orchestration. Someone wanted that entry to be seen at a glance and accepted.”
Barrington joined them at the table, eyes scanning the spread of documents with practiced scrutiny. “This one too,” he said, drawing out a slip Georgina hadn’t yet noticed. “Coal. Same supplier. Different recipient.”
He held it out for Alex, who frowned as he read. “Hawkstone Holdings,” he muttered. “We’ve seen that name before.”
Georgina nodded. “In Rowland’s accounts. Once. A single mention, and I remember it because he corrected it in the margin. He crossed it out and wrote ‘error.’”
Barrington exhaled through his nose, setting the slip beside the others. “It wasn’t an error. It was a thread they meant to snip before anyone noticed.”
Alex looked between them, something cold settling in his chest. “Then we scrutinize everything. From this point forward, nothing is too small. Nothing is assumed.”
The room fell quiet for a beat, the rain offering its steady rhythm as the only sound.
Georgina reached for another page, sliding it across the table. “If we follow the names, the shipments, the payments, you can see the pattern. It’s not clear yet, but it’s there.”
Alex glanced at her. “We’re not chasing shadows anymore. We’re building the map.”
Barrington stepped back, eyes on the growing line of papers. “And when we’ve got it?”
Alex didn’t hesitate. “Then we start pulling threads.”
Alex glanced at her, meaning to study the page, but his gaze caught instead on her mouth as she read.
She licked her lips in concentration, and his body betrayed him before his mind could take hold.
He forced his eyes back to the ledger, the neat columns his only refuge from thoughts he had no business entertaining.
And yet the memory caught hard, her mouth beneath his, warm and certain, nothing held back. She had kissed him back. No pretense, no caution. A woman certain of herself, and, for that moment, certain of him. But this was not the time.
He dragged his attention back to the ledgers, as neat columns and cold ink might cool the heat in his veins.
“This supplier name,” he said, his voice rougher than he meant, “we’ve dealt with them before.”
“Legitimate dealings?” Barrington asked, his arms folded, his gaze leveled on the page.
Alex pressed his mouth into a grim line. “To my knowledge. But Bexley manages most of the estate’s transactions. He should have caught this.”
Georgina’s gaze sharpened. She knew Bexley by reputation, buried in paperwork and apologies, known for his diligence yet forever scrambling to keep pace with the estate’s needs. Overwhelmed, perhaps. But complicit? She tucked the thought away.
“We’ll speak with him,” Barrington said quietly, as if reading her thought. “Discreetly.”
Alex’s eyes narrowed on the ledger. “We’ve also had trouble with Tom Carver.
Refused to fill a coal order last quarter.
Said it was an issue of stock from his mine, but I wonder now if there’s more beneath it.
” Alex rolled his shoulders once, a tight, unconscious motion.
“Could be coincidence. But it doesn’t smell like one. ”
“Could Carver be at the center of this?” Georgina asked.
“If he is,” Barrington replied, “he’s played it well. Either his refusal is genuine, or someone’s using his name to muddy the trail.”
Georgina frowned as she traced the supplier’s name with her fingertip. “Then they’re using Carver’s name to conceal the real transactions.”
“Exactly,” Alex said grimly. “Carver would never cooperate willingly. But his name provides convenient cover.”
Barrington squinted at another entry. “Here. Trentham & Clegg. They’re legitimate and reputable. They’re large enough to handle multiple contracts without raising questions.”
“Didn’t they supply the iron railings for the garden enclosure?” Barrington asked.
“They did,” came Mrs. Bainbridge’s voice from the doorway.
She swept into the room like a general, a second ledger balanced in one hand.
“And household coal for the seminary. Reliable enough, though not flawless. We’ve had to chase them over missing invoices more than once.
Their clerk has a most inconvenient habit of disappearing the moment answers are required. ”
She tipped her head toward Georgina, adding wryly, “You recall the poor fellow, Lady Georgina? Pale as milk, sweat beading on his brow, and all too eager to blame the post.”
Georgina allowed herself a tight smile. “As I recall, he nearly bolted when you produced the accounts book.”
“Only nearly,” Mrs. Bainbridge replied, a touch of pride in her voice.
A flicker of amusement passed between them, a brief spark that lit the room. Barrington glanced up, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth, though his eyes remained fixed on the ledger. “Fear of you, madam, may yet keep the honest men from straying.”
“Fear and accuracy,” Mrs. Bainbridge answered smartly, running a finger down the page before her. “Both serve their uses.”
Alex’s expression darkened. “Which makes their name the perfect cover to mask illicit payments.”
Barrington tapped a line in the account book. “Except this payment didn’t go to them.”
Alex leaned in and swore softly. “No. It went to an unaffiliated account using their name. It’s a false trail. Deliberate misdirection.”
Alex closed the folio carefully, pressing his palm against the leather as though sealing it. “I want every account. Every name. Every shipment that passed through these hands.”
“We’ll find them,” Barrington agreed. “But we’ll need Mrs. Bainbridge’s ledger to cross-reference.” He turned to Mrs. Bainbridge. “Did you bring the household ledger?”
She gave a small nod. “I brought it but left it in the carriage. I wasn’t certain if you’d need it.”
He turned toward the door. “Kenworth.”
The valet appeared almost immediately, still carrying the damp from outside.
“Please retrieve Mrs. Bainbridge’s household ledger from the carriage.”
“I left it under the forward seat, Mr. Kenworth. It’s wrapped in oilcloth,” Mrs. Bainbridge added.
“At once, ma’am.” He disappeared down the corridor. As the door closed, the quiet deepened.
The fire had burned low, embers pulsing in the grate as shadows stretched long across the walls. Outside, the rain picked up, drumming harder against the glass.
Alex paced the length of the room, restless. His gaze drifted to the scattered folios and finally to a stack of Rowland’s letters. He picked one up, scanning the familiar, uneven script.
Georgina watched him a moment, then asked softly, “Were you close? You and Rowland?”
Alex hesitated, then answered honestly. “We respected each other. That’s not always easy.”
Georgina’s mouth curved. Her smile was soft, genuine. “No, it isn’t.”
They returned to the ledgers. Georgina and Mrs. Bainbridge bent together over the figures, the rhythm of their work quiet but purposeful, the storm outside echoing the reckoning taking shape.
Mrs. Bainbridge traced a finger down one column. “Here. A coal delivery, paid to an unfamiliar account.”
“Not one of our suppliers,” Georgina noted, her pulse quickening.
Alex leaned in. “Same name as in Rowland’s transaction.”
Georgina squinted at the slip, something prickling at the edge of her thoughts. The date had troubled her since morning. Could it have been an innocent mistake?
But then her eyes drifted lower, catching the word that made her breath catch. Commision.
Her hand came to her mouth before the laughter burst out, bright and unrestrained, until tears stung her eyes.
The men stared at her, startled.
“Georgina?” Alex’s concern cut through the room.
She waved a hand, breathless. “Don’t you see it, Alex? The date was bothering me, yes, perhaps just an error, but this,” she pointed, her eyes alight, “look at the word. Read what’s there. Not what you expect to see.”
Alex took the slip, brow furrowed. Then comprehension bloomed across his features. Slowly, unmistakably, his mouth curved into a grin. He passed it to Barrington.
“Rowland’s signature,” he said, his voice rich with realization. “It was always the double s in ‘commission.’ He never spelled it correctly.”
Silence held for a long moment. Then, relief. Laughter. The sharp, sweet kind that comes not from joy, but from finally knowing.
Barrington’s eyes narrowed. “But this one is.”
“There’s your proof,” Alex said grimly. “It’s a forgery.”
Georgina wiped her eyes, her breath coming in short, triumphant gasps. “And not even a clever one.”
At that moment, the library door creaked open. Kenworth stepped in, shoulders beaded with rain, holding a leather-bound ledger and wearing a look of long-suffering patience that couldn’t quite hide the humor beneath.
“I retrieved the ledger from the carriage,” he said, crossing the room. “Mrs. Bainbridge, I found it precisely where you said it would be.”
He set the book on the table with care, then added, more to the room at large than to her directly, “I remain grateful that she accompanied me earlier today to collect it. I gave her my best arguments for staying behind, but I suspect she could out-debate Parliament itself.”
Already at Georgina’s side, Mrs. Bainbridge arched a brow. “A good thing you didn’t waste your breath, Kenworth. We saved time.”
“And discussed the entire wedding seating arrangement while we were at it,” he added, deadpan. “I fear the guest list may haunt my dreams.”
“You shall be well prepared, then,” Barrington said, dry as dust as he closed a ledger. “If this investigation proves less treacherous than wedding preparations, we shall count ourselves fortunate.”
Georgina’s lips curved despite the tension still coiled beneath her ribs. She brushed a damp curl from her cheek, her gaze sweeping the room, where scattered ledgers, rain-damp coats, and quiet resolve bound them not just in purpose, but in partnership.
“Better our investigations than our nightmares,” Mrs. Bainbridge replied, tapping the ledger with a crisp finality.
Alex let the moment of levity settle, then straightened. “At first light, we go to Trentham & Clegg directly. Barrington, have the Brigade ready to move. Mrs. Bainbridge, I ask you and Lady Georgina to continue combing the seminary accounts. Any irregularities, no matter how small, must be found.”
Georgina inclined her head, meeting his gaze squarely. “We’ll not overlook a single line.”
“And Bexley?” Barrington asked.
“I’ll handle him,” Alex replied, his voice clipped with resolve.
A pause followed, thick with understanding.
Georgina’s eyes swept over the ledgers once more, the impact of their findings settling in her chest. They had moved beyond chance discoveries now. What lay ahead was deliberate, dangerous, and no longer hidden.
She could feel it, thrumming beneath the surface of the quiet room: not fear, but determination. A tether of purpose binding them. Barrington with his steady command, Mrs. Bainbridge sharp-eyed and unflinching, Kenworth ready at a moment’s notice, and Alex.
Alex, whose gaze met hers across the scattered ledgers. In his gaze, she saw not only determination but something deeper, something unsaid yet unmistakable. Respect, yes. Admiration, perhaps. And beneath it all, a flicker of something unspoken, far harder to name, and far more dangerous.
Heat bloomed in her chest, warmer than the fire’s glow. She did not look away.
For so long, she had lived as though her story had ended with Rowland’s death.
As though her purpose had been buried alongside him.
But here, now, with the evidence spread before them and Alex’s steady gaze holding hers, she felt the unmistakable stirring of something new. Not an ending. A beginning.
“You told us how to begin,” she said, her voice clear and sure. “Now, when do we begin?”
His reply was a promise, quiet and fierce. “At first light.”
Outside, the shadows deepened as the storm thickened beyond the windows, but within the library walls, their purpose held fast, no longer scattered fragments, but a force. Ready to fight.
And beneath his words, she heard something else. Not spoken, not yet, but present all the same… Not spoken. Not yet. But they threaded beneath every plan they’d made. A promise waiting to be named. With you.