Chapter Eight The Duplicate Ledger #4
Sebastian’s hand found her arm, not gripping hard, only guiding her behind the narrow shelving built into the side wall. He moved between her and the door by instinct, then shifted, leaving her space to see.
That, too, she noticed.
Not in front to blind her. Near enough to shield, not enough to command.
They stood in the dark, close enough that Marianne could hear his breathing.
The storage room smelled of dust, leather and extinguished flame.
A line of light from the corridor cut across the floor.
Her shoulder almost touched his chest. His hand remained near her sleeve, not holding.
The air between them was charged with danger and something more treacherous because it had no useful name.
The footsteps came nearer.
A figure entered the room.
Young. Thin. Moving quickly.
The intruder went straight to the opened box.
Sebastian stepped out of the shadows.
The young man made a small strangled sound and tried to bolt, but Tom filled the doorway behind him like righteous indignation given boots.
“Not that way,” Tom said.
The intruder froze.
Marianne stepped from behind the shelving, her pulse still unsteady, her skin still aware of Sebastian’s nearness.
“Mr Pryce,” she said.
The young clerk from Mordaunt and Bell looked as though he might faint for the second time in their acquaintance.
Sebastian’s voice was cold. “You followed us.”
“No, Your Grace. I swear. I was sent.”
“By whom?”
Mr Pryce looked from Sebastian to Marianne to Tom and back. “I cannot.”
Sebastian took one step forward.
Mr Pryce flinched.
Marianne said, “Your Grace.”
Sebastian stopped, but only just.
Marianne approached the young clerk carefully. “Mr Pryce, you were paid to come here?”
His eyes filled with panic. “I was told to retrieve a book. Only a book. They said it belonged to Mr Mordaunt and had been stolen years ago. They said if I did not, I would be named as having burned papers at the office. I didn’t burn them. I only put the ashes in after.”
“After who burned them?” Marianne asked.
“I don’t know. A man. Not Lord Ashmont. Not the other gentleman from the club. A clerk, perhaps. Older than me. I swear I don’t know.”
“Who sent you today?”
He swallowed.
Sebastian’s silence pressed from behind her, dangerous but contained.
Mr Pryce whispered, “Mr Cale.”
Marianne stilled. “Jasper Cale?”
His eyes darted. “You know him?”
Sebastian answered. “Financier. Connected to the Corinthian Rooms.”
Mr Pryce nodded miserably. “Mr Bell owes him. Half the men in Chancery owe him or fear him. He said the duplicate must be returned before Halgrave found it. I did not know His Grace would be here. I did not know you would be here.”
“When were you sent?” Marianne asked.
“This morning.”
“How did Cale know to send you here?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
The young man looked close to tears. “A message came to the office. I heard Mr Bell say the woman from Lantern House had found the old receipt. I don’t know how he knew. I swear it.”
Marianne looked at Sebastian.
The informant was closer than Mordaunt’s office. The knowledge had moved from Lantern House to Bell or Cale within hours.
Sebastian said, “Where is Bell?”
“Gone. Truly gone. I think he means to flee.”
“And Cale?”
“At the Corinthian Rooms most evenings, or his house in Half Moon Street. But no one sees Mr Cale unless Mr Cale wishes it.”
Sebastian took the ledger from the box and held it up. “Did Cale ask for this?”
Mr Pryce nodded.
“Did he mention Blackwood?”
The young man’s face went grey.
That was answer enough.
Sebastian looked as if every restraint in him had been hammered into place one by one. “You will come with us.”
“No!” Mr Pryce recoiled. “If Cale knows I spoke—”
“He may already know,” Marianne said.
The young clerk looked at her with terror so naked she felt pity despite herself.
She softened her voice. “You have a choice. Not a safe one, I am afraid. None of the choices men like Cale leave people are safe. But if you go back to him, you go back alone with failure. If you come with us, your statement is witnessed, and His Grace can protect you better than Mr Bell can.”
Mr Pryce looked at Sebastian.
“You would protect me?” he whispered.
Sebastian’s expression remained severe. “I dislike being forced into generosity by criminals. But yes.”
Marianne nearly smiled at the dreadful phrasing.
Mr Pryce, oddly, seemed reassured by it.
In the end, they did not take him openly to Lantern House.
That would have been too visible. Sebastian sent Tom with Mr Pryce in a hired hackney to a safe room over a bookshop owned by one of Helena’s trusted contacts, where the clerk would remain until arrangements could be made.
Mr Hobb, pale and deeply regretting all professional choices, resealed Room Twelve under Sebastian’s and Marianne’s written witness.
The ledger itself could not safely remain; after fierce debate and with Mr Hobb’s grudging written acknowledgement, Sebastian removed it temporarily as evidence connected to Halgrave family property and possible fraud, leaving a signed receipt, a copy of Lady Theodosia’s storage document, and a promise of formal authority before any court could object.
Marianne suspected several courts would object anyway.
She also suspected the ledger would not survive a night if left behind.
When they stepped out into Crane Court, the afternoon had darkened toward evening.
Rain threatened again but did not fall. The city smelled of wet stone, smoke and river air.
Sebastian helped her into the carriage, and this time neither of them spoke of the fact that he asked with his hand before touching.
The ledger lay wrapped between them.
For a long while, neither spoke.
At last Sebastian said, “You defended my father.”
“No.”
“You defended the possibility that he was not wholly corrupt.”
“Yes.”
“I do not know that he deserves that distinction.”
“Nor do I.”
“Then why grant it?”
Marianne looked at the wrapped ledger. “Because Lady Evangeline was destroyed by people who collapsed distinction when it suited them. Reckless became mad. Private letters became scandal. Distress became proof. A forged signature became consent. If we use the same carelessness against those we suspect, then truth becomes merely another weapon.”