Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
Alasdair was no longer drunk in his study.
The fire that had once made his head spin now burned steady and focused. He’d thrown himself into the investigation with ruthless precision, filling notebooks with names, places, whispered connections.
There was no thrill in the work, only a sense of grim purpose. It was as intense as he had expected, and lonelier than he’d prepared for.
He’d met again with Farnleigh, and through him, been introduced to other men—lawyers, clerks, former military officers—who had either worked under Kittridge or under men who did. Every meeting was noted, every lie weighed, every truth pursued. His evenings were consumed by maps, lists, rumors.
And then came the invitation.
At a gentleman’s club tucked discreetly into a quiet side street, Alasdair found himself seated in a dim corner with Edward Ambersen, a senior politician whose name still carried weight in Parliament.
Ambersen was in his early fifties, sharp-eyed despite the deep lines on his face and the permanent dent between his brows that looked like it had been pressed there by a decade’s worth of headaches.
Alasdair hadn’t planned to linger at the club, but it would have raised suspicion to rush the meeting. Their brandy glasses sat untouched for the moment. The roast beef and vegetables before them were hardly noticed.
“How did ye come to be part of this?” Alasdair asked, his voice low.
Ambersen’s fingers tapped once on the armrest before answering.
“It is… a long story. I made too many compromises in my youth. I didn’t witness most of the wrongdoings directly, but I knew.
Men like me always know, if only in whispers.
But these past few years, the protests have grown louder.
And now, even the most loyal men, like Farnleigh, are beginning to speak openly. We’re sick of the rot.”
He paused, then met Alasdair’s eyes.
“I heard you were trying to clear your father’s name, Your Grace. That you’ve been hunting truth the way most men chase titles.”
“I have been,” Alasdair replied. “And I mean to see it through.”
Ambersen nodded slowly, as though he’d already expected that answer.
“You’re not wrong to be cautious. Kittridge’s name has surfaced in more than one investigation, but nothing ever sticks.
He’s too careful. Or he was.” The older man leaned in, lowering his voice.
“But I know someone who may be able to help. He’s not a nobleman, not even close. But he was once part of the machinery.”
Alasdair’s brows lifted. “What sort of man?”
Ambersen exhaled. “His name’s Thomas Cray, though sometimes he goes by Thomas Curren.
Depends on where he is, and who’s looking.
He used to run ‘errands’ for Kittridge’s allies.
Money drops, ledgers, documents that were never supposed to be copied.
He vanished a decade ago, just before an inquiry that should have landed three peers in ruin. We all thought he was dead.”
“But he’s alive. Farnleigh told me about him.”
“Indeed. Cray resurfaced quietly, just recently. He was previously in South Shields, but he was seen in London a few days ago. No one knows why, or what made him bold enough to come back. Maybe it’s guilt.
Or desperation. All I know is that he’s taken to frequenting a coffee house near Shoreditch. You’ll find the details here.”
Ambersen slid a folded card across the table.
Alasdair picked it up and unfolded it. A name and a location written in a careful hand.
The Hollow Lantern. Weekday evenings.
“Cray won’t be cheap,” Ambersen added. “And he won’t be patient. If you want him to talk, you’ll need to come prepared.”
“Money is nae an issue,” Alasdair said. “I’ve already paid the worst price.”
Ambersen hesitated, studying the younger man. “I don’t need payment either, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Alasdair looked up. “Then why?”
“Because I’m tired. My wife and I… we’ve decided we want out. No more politics. No more pretending. We’ve bought a small estate in Devon. Chickens. Gardens. A place where people don’t whisper through clenched teeth.”
Alasdair thought of Elizabeth. Her hands in the earth. Her laughter beside a lake. A life they might still reclaim—if he made it back.
“I thank ye, then,” he said quietly.
“Don’t thank me yet. If I’d known about your search sooner, maybe we’d be farther along.”
“I’m still new to this world,” Alasdair admitted. “At first, the ton wouldnae even look at me without sneerin’. Not ‘til I wed Elizabeth.”
“The Grisham girl?” Ambersen asked. “I heard. You’re both fortunate, you know.”
Alasdair didn’t reply. He’d believed that once. Still wanted to believe it. But belief and certainty were two very different things.
“I’ll meet with Thomas Cray,” he said at last, tucking the card into his coat. “Let’s hope he doesnae vanish again.”
Ambersen nodded. “Be careful. Cray may have answers, but he’s not the sort you turn your back on.”
“I’ll remember that.”
They finished their meals in silence. But Alasdair’s mind was already racing, mapping out his next move, one foot already stepping toward the fire.
Marianne had finally coaxed Elizabeth into leaving her room.
The sisters strolled through the garden, the gravel path crunching softly beneath their slippers.
At first, Elizabeth could barely lift her gaze from the ground. Her body moved as though pulled by invisible threads, obedient but hollow. It didn’t feel like she was walking so much as being walked. Each step was strange, as though her limbs had forgotten the rhythm of ordinary life.
And yet… the air helped. It swept over her in cool, fragrant waves, and she found herself drawing in a deep breath.
The breeze carried with it the faint mingled perfume of hyacinths, rosemary, and the last of the roses.
It filled her lungs in a way that almost hurt, as if her chest wasn’t ready to stretch so wide again.
The sun, however, felt relentless.
Its golden warmth pressed on her shoulders, her back, her face, as though it wanted to pry her open, burn away her grief, force her into brightness before she was ready.
Elizabeth winced at the heat, even though it was only a mild spring afternoon. She didn’t know if she were grateful or resentful of its insistence.
Still, she walked on.
Every time Marianne glanced over, Elizabeth straightened, as if by reflex. She drew her spine taut and added purpose to her step. It was instinct: don’t let them see.
Even Marianne, who had held her hand through their mother’s funeral, wasn’t allowed to see the full weight of her despair.
But Marianne knew anyway.
“It’s all right, Lizzie,” Marianne said softly, her voice like a steady hand. “You must let yourself feel what you need to feel.”
Elizabeth only nodded, unable to trust her voice to speak the truth.
That night, she sat before her sketchbook by the pale glow of a candle, the room heavy and still around her. The pencil felt awkward between her fingers, as though it belonged to someone else. She had avoided drawing since everything had shattered.
Her hand moved uncertainly at first, drawing tentative, trembling lines which scratched the paper without form or purpose.
Then, as if the pencil had a will of its own, it began to sketch a figure: a fragile woman seated alone on a cold bench beneath a skeletal tree stripped bare of leaves. Her shoulders were hunched, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Shadows clung to her like a shroud.
The branches above curled and reached out like gnarled fingers, threatening and unforgiving. The ground beneath was cracked and barren, strewn with fallen petals turned brown and brittle.
Elizabeth’s breath hitched as the drawing unfolded, her own sadness etched in every desperate line.
The woman’s face was hidden, turned away, but her loneliness screamed in the curve of her neck and the stiffness of her posture.
The pencil slipped from Elizabeth’s fingers. Her hands trembled as tears blurred the edges of the page.
She pressed her forehead against the cool wood of the desk and whispered into the silence, “This is where I am. This is what I feel.”
For the first time in days, she allowed herself to mourn fully.
It was not a hopeful drawing. It was not meant to be.
It was pain made visible. And, somehow, that made it real.
There was no point in waiting any longer. Alasdair had delayed justice for too many years, and now that a path had finally opened, he meant to walk it—whatever the cost.
The following evening, he went alone to The Hollow Lantern, a shadowed coffee house tucked near the edges of Shoreditch, known for its inconsistent hours and clientele who kept their hats low and questions to themselves.
Rain misted from the sky in fits and starts, slicking the cobblestones outside and making the gaslight reflections shimmer like oil on water. Alasdair wore his darkest coat, collar up, shoulders squared.
Beneath his left sleeve, a blade rested snug against his wrist, not for show, but because he trusted no one tonight.
Seth had offered to come, but Alasdair refused. There was no need to put his friend in danger.
The Hollow Lantern smelled of bitter coffee and old stone. Few patrons lingered tonight, and those who did kept their conversations hushed.
A man stood at a far table by the fogged-up window: tallish, wiry, with a face that looked like it had once been handsome before time, regret, and drink carved lines into it.
His eyes were sharp beneath a broad-brimmed hat, and his well-worn coat was tailored enough to suggest he hadn’t always belonged to shadows.
“You Redmoor?” the man asked without standing.
“Aye,” Alasdair answered simply.
“Then I reckon I’m Thomas Cray,” the man replied, tilting his head toward the bench opposite. “Have a seat. We don’t need to be theatrical about it.”
Alasdair sat, but he didn’t remove his gloves. Or take his eyes off the man.
Cray didn’t bother with preambles. “I’ve got what Ambersen told you about. Though I doubt he mentioned the price.”
“Two hundred pounds,” Alasdair replied, already withdrawing a folded stack of notes from his coat.
Cray blinked. “I expected a negotiation.”
“I daenae haggle over truth.”
Cray accepted the money and tucked it into an inner pocket, then reached beneath his coat and pulled out a slim oilskin envelope. He set it down on the table between them and slid it across with two fingers.
“You’ll want to open that somewhere private.”
“What’s in it?”
“A copy of the letter used to damn your father. And the name of the man who forged it.”
Alasdair’s throat tightened. He reached out slowly, the tips of his gloved fingers brushing the damp envelope. “Yer certain?”
“I wouldn’t risk crawling out of the gutter for anything less,” Cray said.
His tone wasn’t sentimental; it was flat, matter-of-fact.
“That letter passed through more hands than I care to count. I handled it myself once. I even saw the seal—faked it clean as anything. The forger’s name is in there too.
He was a clerk who wanted out. Poor bastard didn’t last long. ”
Alasdair stared at the envelope in his hands. It was light. It didn’t feel like it should be heavy enough to hold the weight of a ruined legacy. And yet, his pulse pounded as if he were holding a burning coal.
“What made ye come back?” he asked suddenly, glancing up.
Cray looked startled. Then he shrugged. “Men like me don’t sleep easy. Thought maybe I could pass this to someone who still had teeth. You’ve got teeth, Redmoor. And a cause. That’s a rare thing these days.”
Alasdair studied him. “Ye ken this will nae end quietly.”
“No. It won’t.” Cray’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “But at least it’ll end.”
A pause passed between them. Neither man touched the cooling coffee on the table.
Alasdair stood first. “If I never see ye again, I hope it’s because ye’re someplace safe.”
Cray didn’t answer, only gave him a short nod and turned back to the fogged window like a man already retreating into shadow.
Outside, the air smelled like smoke and wet stone. Alasdair walked briskly, keeping the envelope pressed close to his side until he reached his waiting carriage.
Inside, in the privacy of that small, velvet-lined compartment, he slit the envelope open.
There it was.
The forged letter that had condemned his father.
And the name scrawled below it, the signature of a man long dead, the clerk who had faked the missive that accused his father of treason.
Gregory Vale. A name that meant little on its own, but now, in context, was a smoking gun.
Alasdair read the letter once, then again, his eyes tracking every word, every phrase designed to mislead. The fire in his chest roared higher with each pass.
He might be tired.
He might have lost the woman he loved.
But he would not rest until Kittridge was brought down, and when that day came, perhaps, just perhaps, he could ask Elizabeth to look at him again.
Not as a husband lost to vengeance, but as a man who had finally made things right.