Chapter 7 #2
She nodded eagerly. "Exactly. The constables focused on nobles and servants — logical, given the setting. But the guards? They were hardly questioned. And if someone needed to move unnoticed, they would be the ones to watch."
"Well done, my dear," Charles said, pride warming his voice. "I will go first thing tomorrow to speak with them."
Elizabeth hesitated. "I was hoping perhaps I might go in your place?"
His brows lifted. "Lizzie, you know the rules."
"It would not be official," she pressed. "If you send a letter notifying them that your associate will be conducting the inquiries, they will cooperate. I will be discreet."
Charles studied her, lips pursed. "You are getting too emotionally entangled in this case. Be careful. A good lawyer cannot afford sentiment."
She met his gaze without flinching. "Have I ever failed you?"
A beat of silence.
"No," he admitted. "You have not."
"I will be careful. I promise."
He sighed and gave a nod. "Very well. I will send the letter first thing in the morning. You may go in the afternoon."
A smile tugged at her lips. "Thank you."
"In the meantime," he added, moving to retrieve another file from the desk, "I will pay a visit to the constable. Clark, was it? The one who oversaw the initial questioning."
"Yes," she said, already turning toward the door. "We will compare notes afterward."
"Very well. Goodnight, Lizzie."
"Goodnight, Uncle."
She slipped from the room, her cloak swishing behind her as Charles poured the remaining brandy down the sink with a theatrical sigh.
◆◆◆
The morning sun filtered gently through the safe house windows, casting golden streaks across the wooden floorboards.
Elizabeth arrived just after breakfast, her gloves dusted with the dry summer dust of the London streets.
Damon greeted her at the door, already dressed, his shirt sleeves rolled and collar slightly undone.
"You are early," he remarked, stepping aside to let her in.
"There is much to do," she replied briskly, brushing past him and placing her satchel on the desk. "I will be working here until the afternoon. I have arranged to interview the estate guards afterward."
Damon leaned against the wall, arms folded. "And what exactly do you expect to uncover?"
"I do not expect," she corrected. "I prepare. And if even one man offers a version of the events that does not match the official account, we will have leverage."
He watched her for a moment, the corner of his mouth lifting. "I am certain, you will extract every ounce of truth from them."
Elizabeth blinked, her quill hovering just above the page. "I beg your pardon?"
He straightened, stepping forward with an amused glint in his eye.
"Truly. If you look at them the same way you look at me when you are dissecting my answers, they will confess everything you want.
Or they will propose marriage on the spot.
" He paused, as though the thought had only just arrived.
"Especially the young one — there is a guard at the gate who honestly ought to consider a different line of work entirely.
I cannot for the life of me recall his name.
If you happen upon him, send him my regards. "
And with a wink, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving Elizabeth standing frozen in place, her cheeks warming with sudden color.
She stared at the door for a moment, lips slightly parted, before huffing softly and turning back to the desk.
"Utterly insufferable," she muttered under her breath, though her smile betrayed her.
She sat down, opening her notebook with a quick flick of the wrist, and forced her mind back to the task at hand. There was no room for distraction — not now. She redrew her focus and began drafting the list of questions she intended to ask that afternoon, her hand steady, though her pulse was not.
Let him be charming, she thought. It will not change the facts.
But her blush lingered longer than she would have liked.
Elizabeth tried to concentrate. Her quill hovered above the parchment as she stared down at her carefully prepared notes. Questions for the guards. Observational discrepancies. Timelines. Motivations.
But the words blurred. Her thoughts slipped back to that maddening wink, the amused glint in his eyes, the way he had walked away so casually — as though he had not just unsettled her equilibrium entirely.
With a quiet groan, she dropped her quill and stood. Her footsteps echoed down the narrow corridor as she crossed into the adjoining room where Damon sat, half-reading a book, half-smirking to himself.
She did not wait for formality.
"Why did you say that?" she asked, arms folded tightly across her chest.
He looked up, feigning innocence. "Say what, exactly?"
She narrowed her eyes. "That they would propose to me. That nonsense about looking at people a certain way."
Damon set the book down, leaning forward. "It was a jest, Elizabeth. Teasing is an old habit — one I have used on half of London society to great effect." His voice softened. "But I did not think it would fluster you so thoroughly. For that, I apologize."
She drew in a sharp breath. "Do not do it again."
A beat passed. Then he smiled faintly. "I cannot in good conscience promise you that. Not until you have secured my freedom. After that, I make no promises either."
Elizabeth scoffed, turning half away in irritation. "How can you be so relaxed? So certain?"
His voice was steady. "Because I believe in you."
She turned back to him, frown faltering.
He stood now, his tone shifting. "And allow me to clarify what I said earlier.
Beauty, Elizabeth, is a weapon. Society may underestimate it, but that does not change the truth.
You possess it undeniably. Paired with a mind like yours, it becomes unassailable.
Use it when you must. It is no different from wit or strategy. "
Her lips parted slightly, taken aback not by the words, but by the earnestness in them.
"I see," she said after a moment. "Well then. Thank you. For the advice."
He inclined his head, gentlemanlike. "Anytime."
With a curt nod, she turned and returned to the study. The blush had faded, replaced by a cool calm that steadied her hands. She sat again, picked up her quill, and resumed writing.
This time, her focus did not falter.
But in the quiet corner of her mind, his words echoed — soft, confident, and impossible to forget.
◆◆◆
The wind carried the dry warmth of late summer as the carriage turned off the main road and climbed the long gravel drive toward Broadmoor House.
Elizabeth sat upright, her gloved hands clutching the envelope bearing her uncle's seal — a letter granting her the authority to question the estate's guards on behalf of the firm.
It was not a warrant, but in these circles, Charles Whitaker's signature carried weight.
She recognized the manor. She had passed it before during errands and court visits — an austere, sprawling estate perched like a watchful hawk over the countryside.
But now, as the carriage drew to a halt before its imposing iron and ivory doors, Elizabeth felt something cold stir in her bones despite the heat of the afternoon.
There was something unnatural in the stillness, something she could not quite name.
The footman opened the carriage door, and Elizabeth stepped down, casting a wary glance at the trimmed hedges and marble columns. Before she could take three steps forward, two uniformed guards emerged from either side of the walkway — silent, sudden, like figures conjured from the heat itself.
"State your business," one barked, eyes narrowing.
Elizabeth raised her chin and extended the letter. "From Mr. Charles Whitaker. I am his legal associate and niece. Here on firm business."
The guard took the envelope, read it with a practiced eye, then grunted. "You are the one who has been poking into the Duke's case."
"Correct," Elizabeth replied evenly.
"Strange he did not come himself," the second guard muttered. "Does he not normally chaperone his protégée?"
Elizabeth opened her mouth to deliver the explanation Charles had prepared for such moments — something about an urgent matter in London — when a new voice interrupted.
"She is with me."
A man stepped into view, his presence slicing cleanly through the tension. His uniform bore a senior insignia, his manner assured. He had a narrow face, shoulder-length dark brown hair, and the kind of sharp eyes that did not miss much.
"Miss Whitaker, I presume?" he said.
"I am," she replied, adjusting her shawl. "Charles's niece and assistant."
He nodded once. "Devlin Harris. Head of security. Come with me."
The two younger guards stepped back without a word, melting into the hedges as though they had never appeared. Elizabeth followed Devlin toward a modest stone structure adjoining the manor — the guardhouse. She had seen it once before but had never been inside.
Devlin led her through the main hall and gestured to a side room with a closed door.
"This way. We will not be disturbed." He opened it, waited for her to enter, then shut it firmly behind them. The click of the lock echoed faintly. Elizabeth noticed the subtle shift in his posture — less formal now, more human.
"My apologies for the greeting," he said. "They are new. And twitchy."
"I understand," Elizabeth said, offering a small smile. "Thank you for stepping in."
Devlin extended a hand. "As I said — Devlin Harris."
"Elizabeth Whitaker. Pleased."
He motioned for her to sit. "When your uncle's letter arrived, I was glad to see it. I have no great love for how the Duke has been treated."
Elizabeth leaned forward, intent. "You believe in his innocence?"
"I do," Devlin said without hesitation. "I do not claim to know the whole story, but the venom I have seen from Sarah's family and certain members of the peerage — it felt orchestrated. Manufactured."
"That is why I am here," Elizabeth said. "To dig beneath the presentation. I believe there is more, and I hope you might help us find it."