Chapter Fourteen
“You cannot expect me to remain behind,” Georgina said, her arms folding tightly as Alex tightened the saddle girth with grim finality.
His hands stilled on the leather strap. He had braced for her resistance, but the clarity in her tone struck deeper than he cared to admit. “No,” he said, keeping his voice level, “I expect you to do something that no one else can accomplish but you.”
Beside him, Barrington stood, his steady gaze tracking the preparations in the yard. “We need to know what passed between your late husband and Tom Carver,” Barrington added. “There’s history there, and it’s buried deeper than the mines themselves.”
Georgina’s lips pressed together, her chin lifting. She had no intention of being pushed aside, not after everything they had uncovered. “Then let me hear it from Carver himself,” she challenged.
The steadiness in her voice caught him off guard.
Pride stirred, tempered by the quiet ache of knowing she would never again yield to anyone’s protection, least of all his.
Alex’s mouth tightened. He wished he could give her that freedom, but not this time.
“Carver is too unpredictable. He may not be involved, but as a mine owner, he has his own stake in this. I will not risk you walking into a trap.”
She drew a breath. “You think this is a trap?”
“I hope not, but we’re not certain. Barrington and I must be prepared.”
“Very well,” she allowed. Her mind had begun to race with thoughts on how to obtain the information they needed. “I won’t disappoint you.”
“I didn’t think you would,” Alex agreed. “Find out everything you can about Rowland’s dealings with Carver. Mrs. Hemsley will have kept a close eye on household matters.”
Georgina nodded, already turning over possibilities. “Mr. Titus,” she added aloud, thinking swiftly. “Rowland’s valet. He might have kept letters or notes. He knew the rhythms of Rowland’s dealings better than anyone.”
Barrington’s expression shifted slightly. “Titus sailed for Canada shortly after your husband’s passing.”
Her mouth tightened, but she pressed on. “Then, Mrs. Hemsley, it shall be. She will remember. She always remembers.”
Alex could not help the trace of admiration that flickered in his gaze. “You will see what others have missed. I will be at Barrington’s after seeing Carver.”
Before she turned away, he reached into his coat and drew out a small pistol. It was light but reliable. He held it out without ceremony.
She raised a brow at the sight of it. “You cannot be serious.”
He wished, for one reckless moment, that he could keep her out of harm’s way with words instead of weapons. “I am very serious,” he returned. “You’ll carry it because I won’t risk losing you, not to them. Not to silence.”
She accepted it without hesitation, her hand steady. There was no bravado, only the quiet assurance of someone who understood the importance of such things.
He leaned in slightly. “Breathe. Never rush the shot.”
A flicker of something warmer stirred in her eyes. Not amusement, but a quiet respect, perhaps even trust. She accepted the pistol and tucked it beneath her cloak without further comment.
Alex helped her into the coach, closing his hand over hers a heartbeat longer than necessary as she settled into her seat. He lowered his voice. His words were meant only for her ears. “Trust me to keep the road clear.”
Her answer came soft but certain. “I trust you.”
The words landed deeper than she could have known. In the hush that followed, trust was perilously close to confession.
Their eyes held for a breath longer, then he closed the door firmly behind her.
As Alex swung into the saddle beside Barrington, Georgina’s coach rolled forward, wheels crunching over the damp gravel as it turned toward Ravenstock Manor.
“We may be riding in different directions,” Barrington said, “but we’re still fighting the same battle.”
Alex nodded once, eyes narrowing toward the uncertain horizon. “And no ground left uncovered.”
*
As they rode into Carver’s yard, the sound of hooves drew attention long before words were spoken.
A few miners glanced up from their tasks, wary eyes tracking Alex and Barrington as they dismounted.
Carver emerged from beneath the timbered lean-to, a rag in one hand, wiping coal dust from his fingers as he watched them approach.
He hadn’t been waiting, but he was not caught unprepared either. His posture spoke of a man accustomed to hard labor and harder decisions, guarded but not openly hostile.
“My lords,” Carver greeted, with a nod first to Alex, then to Barrington. His gaze shifted between them, cool but not insolent. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Alex met the miner’s eye steadily. “A few questions about your recent orders.” His tone was calm and steady. “We’ve reason to believe your name has been used in some irregular dealings.”
Carver’s jaw tightened subtly, and he glanced back toward the men behind him. “I run an honest mine, my lord. Orders come and go. Some I fill, some I decline.”
Barrington stepped forward slightly, his gaze sweeping the quiet yard. There was no sign of outward trouble, but there was something in the way the workers lingered, watchful, cautious, as though deciding whether to stay or slip away.
“You’ve turned away orders, then?” Barrington asked, keeping his voice even.
Carver folded the rag between his hands. “Aye. A few lately. Materials that didn’t suit, or requests that came from unfamiliar quarters.”
Alex studied him closely. Carver’s responses were careful, not evasive. He was not a man accustomed to explaining himself, but neither did he seem surprised by the line of questioning.
“You didn’t think to raise any concern?” Alex pressed gently, a prompt, not an accusation.
Carver’s mouth pulled tight. “With respect, my lord, a man in my position thinks twice before accusing gentlemen of misconduct. Especially when the orders come dressed in proper accounts and fine seals.”
Alex absorbed that quietly. It was an honest answer, and it told him more than if Carver had blustered.
“What did these gentlemen look like?” Barrington asked.
Carver shifted his weight. “Respectable. Well-fed. Fine coats. You know the sort.” His gaze flicked to Alex, not as an accusation, but as a grim acknowledgment.
Barrington’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Did you recognize any names?”
Carver shook his head once. “Names were not given.” He paused, then added, “But their eyes were sharp as razors. They knew what they were about.”
Alex held his gaze a moment longer, seeing the truth beneath the caution. Carver would not say more, but it was clear enough. The man had seen trouble coming and chose to stand aside rather than risk himself.
“You’ve done the right thing to refuse them,” Alex said at last. “And if they return?”
Carver’s expression hardened. “I’ll do the same.”
There was a quiet moment as the words settled between them. Alex inclined his head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment and, perhaps, quiet respect.
“Good,” Barrington said simply.
With that, they stepped back, allowing Carver to return to his men. As they turned toward their horses, Barrington spoke low to Alex beneath the creak of harness leather.
“He knows more.”
Alex’s eyes stayed on the mine yard as he replied, his voice low and sure. “He does. But we’ve planted the seed. He’ll come to us when he’s ready.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
Alex swung into the saddle with practiced ease. “Then we’ll be ready when he slips.”
He trusted her. Respected her. But the part of him that had walked battlefields also knew that not all courage went unpunished.
*
The carriage had scarcely stopped before Mrs. Hemsley appeared at the front door, her shawl clutched tightly against the wind. She was not a woman easily flustered, yet beneath her usual composure flickered a hint of unease.
“My lady,” she said as Georgina stepped down from the coach. “There’s a visitor to see you. She claims to have information about the mine.”
Georgina’s pulse quickened. “The mine? Who is she?”
“A tradesman’s wife by the look of her. She wouldn’t give me her name nor be turned away, not even when I said you were at Hawkesbury.” Mrs. Hemsley lowered her voice slightly. “She asked after Baron Ravenstock.”
That settled it. Georgina gathered her cloak tighter around her shoulders and strode into the house, her mind already piecing together questions before she reached the study.
The woman rose as she entered, twisting her hands in the apron bunched at her waist. Her clothes were modest, neat but worn, and her eyes were rimmed red from worry and sleepless nights.
“My lady,” the woman began, her voice frayed at the edges. “I…I thought it right to come myself.”
Georgina gestured to the chair opposite the hearth. “Please, have a seat. We’ll have tea.”
The woman glanced at the seat as if it were a strange thing. “No, thank you, my lady. I’ll stand. I cannot stay long. My boy is waiting for me by the gate.”
“I understand. Then tell me why you’re here.”
Mrs. Hemsley lingered just long enough to ensure their guest was settled before retreating toward the doorway, where she kept to the shadows, attentive but discreet.
“My husband,” the woman began, clutching her hands tightly together. “He’s a carrier by trade. Last fortnight, he began receiving parcels from a man I’d never seen before. Orders, he claimed. But not from anyone he trusted.”
Georgina’s brow drew together. “And this man, did you see him clearly?”
The woman hesitated, then nodded. “Pale as milk, dark hair combed too fine for a laborer. He looked like a clerk, but he had the manner of someone used to giving orders. He lingered in the village longer than he needed to, watching.”
“And your husband?” Georgina pressed.
The woman’s eyes filled with a troubled sheen. “He’s been restless. Unsettled. I fear he’s caught in something neither of us understands.”
Georgina’s voice softened, threading reassurance into her words. “You did well to come to me. Does your husband still carry for this man?”
“No, my lady. Not since last week. He found reason to turn him away, saying the work was too thin to waste the effort.”
A measure of relief, but not enough to ease the tightness in Georgina’s chest. “And the man, did he give his name?”
“No, my lady,” the woman said. “But he watched our house for days after.”
Georgina’s expression hardened. “I will see that no harm comes to you, your husband or your children,” she promised quietly.
Tears pricked at the corners of the woman’s eyes. She bent her head in a silent, grateful nod.
Mrs. Hemsley stepped forward then, gently taking the woman’s arm. “Come, we’ll see you to your boy,” she said, her tone kind.
Georgina waited until the door closed behind them, her gaze fixed on the hearth where the shadows played over iron and stone. She let out a breath she had not realized she’d been holding, her mind already chasing the threads the woman had offered.
When Mrs. Hemsley returned, Georgina turned to her at once, her voice firm.
“What do you know of my husband’s dealings with Mr. Carver?”
Mrs. Hemsley folded her hands and took her time gathering her thoughts.
“They spoke now and then, my lady, but rarely at the house. Most of their dealings were kept to letters or at the mine. His lordship was a careful man.” She hesitated, then added, “Mr. Titis kept all his lordship’s personal correspondence.
Before he left, he tucked it away in the crate you’ve not yet finished going through. ”
Georgina’s gaze sharpened. “Show me.”
Mrs. Hemsley led the way to the corner of the study, where a crate sat beneath the window, half-sorted papers spilling from its top. “When I shifted it earlier, there was a folio tucked beneath the ledgers. I thought it odd at the time.”
Georgina knelt beside the crate, pushing aside a stack of estate receipts to reach the bottom. Her fingers brushed over folded vellum, then caught on a familiar ribbon. She drew it out, her pulse quickening.
Rowland’s hand. Slanted, precise. His private notations marked the margins of payment routes, suppliers, and dates. Names she had seen in the Hawkesbury ledgers. Names she had seen today, including Tom Carver.
Her breath caught, not in surprise, but in confirmation. The truth wasn’t hidden. It had been there all along. She was simply the one willing to see it.
“This is exactly what I was looking for.”
Mrs. Hemsley’s voice became quiet but sure. “You always did have an eye for the truth, my lady.”
Georgina rose, clutching the folio. “Call for the carriage. I’ll take this to Barrington and Alex.”
“As you wish,” Mrs. Hemsley said, already turning to the bell.
As the servant left the room, Georgina allowed herself one final glance at the papers in her hands. The threads were beginning to gather, not yet a noose, but close. And this time, she intended to tighten it.
*
The approach to Sommer Chase stretched ahead, the hedgerows dark with lingering mist, and the lane still damp from the day’s rain. Alex guided his horse at a steady pace, Barrington riding beside him in thoughtful silence.
Carver had given them little, but little was not nothing. Shadows clung to his words, just enough to confirm their suspicions. And enough, too, to confirm that the man was not yet an enemy, but neither was he a friend.
Alex’s mind, however, had already turned toward Georgina.
He had given her a task suited to her talents, and he knew well she would not treat it lightly. Still, a tightness lingered beneath his ribs. He could not deny that part of him didn’t want her near any danger.
As they crested the final rise, hooves drummed behind them. Alex twisted in the saddle, just in time to see a second carriage turning up the lane. It was familiar, elegant, and unmistakably Georgina’s.
His breath caught, not with surprise, but with a sharp spark of anticipation. She had found something. He could see it in the firm set of her shoulders, the way she leaned forward as if eager to close the distance between them.
Barrington’s gaze flicked toward him, then to the carriage, his eyes sharpening. “Looks as though your lady has not been idle.”
“It certainly does,” Alex replied, already swinging down from his mount.
The coach drew to a halt almost alongside them, and before the footman could descend, Alex was there, opening the door himself.
Georgina met his gaze, her chin lifting in quiet triumph. Without a word, she placed the folio in his hand.
Alex’s eyes fell to the bundle, its worn ribbon barely holding its contents. He didn’t open it. There would be time for that once they got inside. But he felt its significance as surely as if the pages burned in his palm.
Their gazes held, something unspoken passing between them.
“You’ve found the trail,” he said softly.
“No,” she said. “We did.”