Chapter Twenty-Six
The morning had opened gently, the mist rising off the fields, the leaves clinging to dew, and the quiet rustle of a house not yet fully awake.
Georgina stood in Rowland’s study, one hand resting on the worn back of his old chair, the other holding the edge of a file box she’d left untouched for weeks.
She had not planned to come here today. But the hush and the sense of something unfinished had drawn her.
Alex had already gone, and the absence of his presence was like the lingering warmth of a fire after the flame had died.
She hadn’t asked where he was headed. She trusted him.
Trust, she knew, asked as much as it offered.
He had learned to let her choose her battles. This one, she chose alone.
And now, here she was, surrounded by shadows that no longer hurt as they once had.
The crate on the floor still bore Rowland’s handwriting: W.R. – Ledgers West Accounts. She knelt beside it, brushing a film of dust from the lid. One of the hinges had started to rust.
Inside were neat stacks of papers, tied with ribbon or twine. Some were labeled. Others not. She sorted them gently, careful not to disturb the order, though she suspected it mattered little now. Most were dry, investment summaries, modest dividends, and rent rolls.
Until she reached the bottom layer.
One unmarked file contained several receipts and a torn memorandum, with the top half missing. The remaining fragment was dated from nearly six months before Rowland’s death and bore the name:
Greyline Holdings – Schedule B: Disbursements
She frowned.
She’d seen the name Greyline before, passing on shipping manifests or property transfer documents. But never in connection to Rowland. Never linked to anything significant.
Beneath the slip was a note in Rowland’s hand. The ink was smeared in one corner, as if he’d dashed it off and never returned to it.
Hold for follow-up. Ask Barrington re: Everly’s investment arm. Check if tied to ‘GH.’
Her stomach clenched. The letters blurred for a heartbeat, not from fear but from the echo of Alex’s warning that danger never travels alone.
Everly. That meant the Order.
Georgina stood slowly, the page still between her fingers.
She could wait. Let Barrington sort it. Let Alex shield her again. But every instinct in her body rebelled at the thought of standing still while others decided her fate. And some part of her, the sharp, stubborn, and tired of being protected part, refused to do that. Not this time.
She crossed to the writing desk, selected a fresh sheet of paper, and began to write.
Eliza—
I hope you’re well. Would you mind delaying our walk slightly? I’ll meet you at half past eleven, in the park as planned.
Yours,
G.
She sanded the ink, folded the page, and called for a footman to have it delivered to Miss Eliza.
Then, without rushing, but with the same focused calm she’d used to handle barristers, bankers, and whispered threats in drawing rooms, she changed her gown, selected her gloves, and pinned her hat precisely.
She passed the staff in the corridor with a polite nod and slipped out the front door without explanation.
For a fleeting moment, she imagined Alex standing at the gate, half-smile in place, telling her to be careful. She answered him in silence. I will.
The air was crisp with the scent of chimney smoke and fallen leaves. She walked with purpose, the hem of her cloak brushing against the gravel as she followed the lane down to the village.
There was always a carriage for hire at the White Bell Inn. No questions asked. A small errand, no longer than an hour. Eliza wouldn’t mind the delay.
She would be back in plenty of time.
The Greyline Holdings offices were located in a narrow brick building near the edge of town, where the streets grew quieter and the scent of salt and coal mingled in the air.
It bore no sign of wealth or power. There was no polished brass plate, no livery at the door, just a modest knocker and a name discreetly painted on the window above.
Georgina stepped down from the hired carriage and paused to gather herself. Her gloves were buttoned. Her reticule hung neatly at her wrist. She looked every inch the composed young widow she had learned to be.
Inside, the office was dim and spare, the front room dominated by a counter and two tall stools. A clerk looked up from behind a pile of ledgers, startled to see her.
“Good morning,” she said smoothly. “I’m Lady Ravenstock. I believe you have some holdings previously managed by my late husband.”
The clerk rose at once, bowing quickly. “Of course, my lady. Do you, did Lord Ravenstock have a scheduled appointment?”
“No,” she said, not unkindly. “But I’m sure someone can spare ten minutes.”
He hesitated, clearly unused to titled women arriving without notice, especially not ones with eyes this direct.
“I’ll see if Mr. Hargraves is in,” he murmured, then disappeared through the rear door.
She stood in silence, glancing over the neat but weathered appointments, the chipped paint near the wainscoting, the faded registry log on the counter. Everything clean, quiet, respectable.
The clerk returned. “He’ll see you in the back room, my lady.”
“Thank you.”
Hargraves was a broad man with thinning hair and the uneasy air of someone who didn’t like surprises. He rose when she entered, but didn’t offer a chair until she had already claimed it.
“Lady Ravenstock,” he said with an approximation of warmth. “What can we help you with today?”
She placed her gloves on the desk and offered him a calm smile.
“I came across a reference in my husband’s estate papers. Greyline Holdings – Schedule B: Disbursements. Dated some months before his passing. It wasn’t filed with his other investments.”
Hargraves lifted his brows but kept his expression unreadable. “Greyline maintains many partnerships, my lady. Not all are public.”
“I’m aware. I’m simply hoping to understand whether my husband was an active investor or something more passive. I’m trying to get a sense of… obligations he may have left behind.”
“Obligations?”
“Quiet ones,” she said lightly. “The sort that don’t make it into probate but have a way of returning if ignored.”
He glanced at a ledger on his desk, fingers drumming once. “Your husband was listed among our limited partners, but only for a brief period. He divested before the summer.”
She inclined her head. “Why?”
“I couldn’t say.”
“Of course you could. But I understand you won’t.”
He offered a small, practiced smile. “I believe Lord Ravenstock handled those matters privately,” Hargraves said, his hand resting lightly atop a closed ledger. “We were not always invited to inquire.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “He did.”
There was a pause.
“I appreciate your time,” she said, rising smoothly. “Please don’t trouble yourself with sending word if anything changes. I prefer to ask my own questions.”
She turned, gloves in hand, and walked with quiet precision from the room.
The air outside was cooler than it had been an hour ago. A breeze stirred the edge of Georgina’s cloak as she stepped back onto the street, the autumn sun caught in the angles of the brick buildings around her. Somewhere, a bell chimed the half hour.
She drew her gloves on one finger at a time, then descended the short stone steps of Greyline’s office. Her breath came steady, though her thoughts did not.
She drew her gloves on one finger at a time, her breath steady, though her thoughts were not.
A gentleman stood just beyond the gate.
He leaned with casual ease against the iron post, his hat tipped slightly forward, his gloved hands resting lightly on a walking stick he didn’t seem to need. His coat was impeccable. His expression was serene.
The breeze shifted. It carried something unfamiliar, clove, maybe. Or cedar oil. Not unpleasant. But out of place.
As she passed, he stepped away from the post and bent slightly, not blocking her, but close enough to be noticed.
“You dropped this,” he said, holding out a handkerchief.
It was finely embroidered. Pale cream linen. Her initials, GR, stitched in soft gold.
Her fingers hesitated, too long, perhaps, and the air between them tightened. Then, because to refuse would be to reveal the tremor in her pulse, she reached for it.