Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The private room was quiet, too quiet for a London afternoon.
Alasdair stepped inside and let the thick velvet curtain fall behind him, muting the sounds of the gentlemen’s club beyond.
A fire crackled low in the hearth, the scent of aged leather and pipe smoke heavy in the air. The walls were paneled in dark mahogany, lined with shelves of books that looked more decorative than read. Two armchairs sat angled before the hearth.
Lord Farnleigh occupied one of them with the air of someone who had claimed it long ago and had never been asked to yield.
Alasdair didn’t sit immediately. He took in the room, the angles, the exits, the set of the man before him.
Farnleigh glanced up from his cup of tea. “Your Grace,” he said. “Punctual. I appreciate that.”
“I’ve been called worse,” Alasdair said dryly, moving forward.
He removed his gloves, slid into the opposite chair, and leaned back.
Farnleigh studied him for a moment longer, then placed his teacup on the side table. “Shall we speak plainly?”
“That’d be my preference.”
A beat of silence followed, broken only by the pop of the fire. Then Farnleigh reached into the inner pocket of his coat and withdrew a slim leather folder. He laid it on the table between them.
Alasdair didn’t touch it. Not yet.
“There’s been a network of corruption stretching back nearly twenty years,” Farnleigh said, voice low.
“Most of it centers on land speculation, fraudulent tariffs, and false debts levied against Highland estates. A handful of men made themselves quite rich funneling the fallout through false accounts.”
“Kittridge?” Alasdair asked.
Farnleigh’s mouth tightened, not in hesitation but calculation.
“Always nearby. Always clean. Never the signature, never the direct order. But the connections are there. I’ve compiled what I could over the years: letters, receipts, withdrawals. Enough smoke to hint at fire. But not enough to burn him.”
Alasdair reached forward and opened the folder.
The first page was a list of names: minor lords, estate stewards, merchants in the north. He recognized two from his father’s court case. The others were new, but something about the pattern, the clusters of dates and transactions, tugged at memory.
“I thought I was mad for keeping track of this,” Alasdair muttered.
“You weren’t mad,” Farnleigh said. “But you were loud.”
Alasdair looked up.
“You came into society snarling, fists raised, eyes wild,” Farnleigh continued, not unkindly. “No one listens to a man like that. They survive him. But this,” he nodded toward the folder, “this is a weapon. And you must learn how to wield it.”
Alasdair’s jaw worked silently for a moment. He looked back at the page. The smell of ink and old parchment curled up from the folder, mingling with the firewood smoke.
It reminded him of his father’s study. Of the last day he’d seen him alive.
“He died in a cell, stripped of his dignity. They said he was sick. But I saw what they did to him,” Alasdair said, voice low.
Farnleigh nodded once. “I know.”
“How?”
“I spoke to one of the guards who worked the wing. A quiet man with a guilty conscience. I paid him well.”
That landed like a stone in Alasdair’s chest.
“All these years,” he said. “Ye’ve been investigatin’ him?”
“Yes. I never trusted Kittridge. Men like him never show their teeth unless they plan to bite.” Farnleigh paused, eyes sharpening. “But I didn’t know your father’s death was tied to this until much later. By then, it was too dangerous to pursue openly.”
The older man inclined his head slightly, then reached for the folder, and drew out a thin packet of folded correspondence, some of it yellowed with age, and one newer note that bore a distinct postmark.
One that Alasdair didn’t recognize.
Farnleigh laid it down between them. “His name is Thomas Cray. He worked under Kittridge as a clerk. Officially for his land agents, but unofficially, he kept the private ledgers. For a time, he knew everything: the bribes, the foreign accounts, the favors traded between minor northern lords.”
Alasdair narrowed his eyes. “Cray. Never heard of him.”
“You wouldn’t have. He vanished ten years ago. Right around the time your father was arrested.”
A cold chill swept over Alasdair’s skin. “Ye think that’s connected?”
“I don’t think,” Farnleigh said quietly. “I know. He was bought off, or frightened into silence. But he’s reappeared. A contact of mine saw him in South Shields, working under a different name. He’s older now, goes by Thomas Curren. I had someone verify it. Same face. Same handwriting.”
Alasdair picked up the newest note, his eyes scanning the tidy, slanted script.
“He was spotted only once?” he asked, voice low.
“Yes. He’s not hiding, but he’s cautious. Lives quiet. Works in a dockmaster’s office, doing clerical work. But if we move slowly, we’ll lose him again. He’s the sort of man who’ll vanish the moment he senses risk.”
Alasdair let out a breath. “Then I have to go after him.”
Farnleigh’s gaze flicked up. “I thought you might say that.”
“Ye said yerself, this is the first solid trail. I’ve been graspin’ at ghosts, fragments, whispered names. This Cray—Curren—he’s flesh and blood. A real man who might remember enough to bring Kittridge down.”
“Perhaps,” Farnleigh said cautiously. “But he’ll not talk easily. And if he’s bought off once, he may be again. Or he may still fear what Kittridge can do.”
“Then I’ll make him unafraid,” Alasdair replied. “Or too convinced by the promise of safety. I’ll speak to him. I’ll get what he knows.”
The older man leaned back. “You realize this will take you out of London. Perhaps far beyond.”
“Aye. And I’ll go.” Alasdair’s voice had steel in it now. “I cannae just sit here, wearin’ polished boots and smilin’ at lords who might’ve helped hang me faither. This is the best lead I’ve had in years.”
Farnleigh studied him. “I won’t stop you. But know this, Redmoor: once you step out of the ballroom and into the shadows, you’ll start to disappear in their eyes. The ton forgets fast. Power loves performance. Vanish too long, and they will not wait to crown you hero.”
Alasdair gave a grim smile. “Then I’ll not vanish. I’ll hunt in silence. And when I return, I’ll return with Cray’s truth.”
“And if he dies before he can speak?”
Alasdair paused. The idea hadn’t occurred to him until now, but it rang with awful plausibility.
“Then I’ll search deeper. And longer. But I’ll find another.”
Farnleigh folded his arms. “Very well. But be discreet. And take someone with you. Men like Kittridge have long memories and deeper pockets.”
“I’ve allies,” Alasdair said softly. “Some of them dinnae even realize they’re helpin’ me. But I’ll go carefully.”
A long moment passed in silence, broken only by the hiss of a fresh log catching flame.
“You’ve chosen a narrow road, Your Grace,” Farnleigh said at last. “And a cold one.”
Alasdair nodded once. “Aye. But it’s the only one that leads anywhere.”
And with that, he left, the weight of vengeance sharp and heavy in his hand.
Elizabeth knocked softly before entering Alasdair’s study. The door was unlocked, creaking as she pushed. Her entrance was quiet, with only her skirts rustling to announce her arrival right after the creak.
Alasdair stood by the window. His large silhouette was both comforting and formidable. The afternoon sunlight streamed in to illuminate his figure. His coat hung over a chair and the rest of him looked rumpled.
Elizabeth wouldn’t have worried much about it if not for the slumped shoulders. They made him look tired and weary.
It didn’t look good.
For the past few days, they had been enjoying time together, alone, or with their family and friends. So, today, the mood seemed to have changed completely, and it scared her a little.
“Did you send for me, Alasdair?” she asked tentatively.
She stopped only a few steps from the doorway, as if she was ready to leave anytime she needed to. That was not how she was with Alasdair. She could not get enough of him. However, she also didn’t want to hear any terrible news. Not from him. Not about them.
He turned around at the sound of her voice. He had a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Aye, I did. I wanted to tell ye somethin’ in person, Elizabeth. I thought it better ye hear it from me, an’ no from someone else,” he said, even as he strode toward her.
His words made her heart falter and her hands to clasp in front of her, as if to protect herself from what he was about to say.
“W-what is it, Alasdair?” she asked, even as he closed the distance. He stopped a pace or two away from her.
“I had a meetin’ this mornin’ with Lord Farnleigh, a man I dinnae trust at first. Apparently, he’s been shadowin’ Kittridge for a long time.
Years, even. I could hardly believe someone else shared the same obsession as me in investigatin’ the man.
Farnleigh reckons he finally has enough evidence tyin’ Kittridge to bribes and secret accounts.
There’s a link between him and some minor lords up north. ”
Elizabeth blinked. She was confused. All she knew was that whatever Alasdair was becoming involved with was growing to be more dangerous.
“What does that really mean?” Her voice came out like a squeak.
“It means we at least have a trail. It’s nae longer just us graspin’ at thin air. If we follow the lead, we might find nae just the truth but proof as well, and with any luck, that’ll lead to justice.”
Alasdair seemed so certain about this particular path that Elizabeth could not help but wonder if he was blindly following another man’s theory.
She hoped for the best for him. He’d been trying to earn justice for his father, and he just might successfully achieve it now.
Yet, the quickening of her pulse was not due to excitement but dread.
“A-are you trying to pursue this yourself? Can’t you send some men to do it for you?” she asked.