Chapter 12 #2
She frowned, catching the edge of her lip between her teeth as she thought. “It has not been too long,” she said, slowly. “I am sure father took him on at the very same time as Sophie was engaged, so it must have been two years ago. Why do you ask?”
Isaac’s frown returned. “And he has only worked here, in London?”
“Yes, I think so.” Christina shifted in her seat so she could look at Isaac a little more directly. “Why do you ask about a footman? I thought that, since my mother is not present, we might – ”
“It seems very strange to me that the footman who would disappear from my household here in London would then appear at your father’s door,” Isaac interrupted, gently.
“That is what has captured my attention, Christina. When you and I were forming our connection two years ago, George was working as one of my footmen. He disappeared without explanation, and I could not find out where he had gone. None of the other servants knew, and my butler did inform me that it was best he had gone of his own accord, suggesting – without stating it, of course – that he was not a man of good character.”
Christina’s eyes flared. “And then he came directly to my father’s household?”
“Indeed. If you can recall when precisely it was, that might be of use to us.” He pressed her fingers. “Was it before or after we first received those letters?”
Closing her eyes, Christina pressed her mouth tightly, white showing around the pink of her lips.
Drawing in one steady breath, she released it quickly, opened her eyes, and nodded.
“Yes, I think it was before – although just before. I recall Sophie remarking on it, and I, at the time, was thinking to myself of just how little importance such things were.” Her expression softened.
“I had more wonderful things to consider.”
Isaac’s heart ached at the loss that they had both endured, a loss which had been so devastating given the overwhelming joy that they had shared. Could he allow himself to hope that, one day soon, they would return to that state of joy?
“Do you think this footman is of importance?”
Pulling himself away from his swirling, heated emotions, Isaac cleared his throat and shrugged. “It is difficult to say, but it is certainly unusual.”
“Should you like to speak with him?”
Nodding, Isaac rose to his feet. “Allow me to pull the bell for you.”
Her eyes twinkled. “How gentlemanly of you, Lord Coventry.”
“I would do anything to please you, my lady,” he responded, pulling the bell and then sweeping into a grand bow, which made her laugh, her face flushing.
“But in truth, Christina, that is just as my heart feels.” Coming to sit beside her again, he put his hand out and waited for her to take it.
The touch of her hand on his made his heart pound, the urge to take her in his arms returning with force.
“I wish that we could step back into what we shared before.”
“Mayhap all will be well,” she said, softly. “We must find out the truth about our previous difficulties and then – ”
The scratch at the door brought the conversation to a close as Isaac rose quickly and hurried to sit in his chair opposite Christina, just as she called the servant in.
“Ah, Thompson, there you are. I was hoping to speak with George. Might you send for him?”
The butler cleared his throat and frowned, inclining his head a fraction.
“My lady, I must apologize for my tardiness in coming to speak with you, but George was the cause of my delay, I am afraid. He returned below stairs only a few minutes ago and then, without warning, collected his few things from his rooms and has disappeared from the house.”
Isaac’s eyebrows lifted, shock hitting him as he rose to his feet. “You mean to say that your footman has quit the house without explanation?”
The butler closed his eyes briefly. “Forgive me, I did not mean to speak with such openness.”
“I will not speak of this to anyone, you have my promise,” Isaac said those words to Christina, making sure that the butler heard them and was reassured. “That is… curious indeed.”
“Thank you, Thompson.” Christina, too, rose to her feet. “Might you go to inform my mother of this happening?”
The butler nodded and quit the room at once, leaving Isaac and Christina alone again. They looked at one another for a long moment before Christina shook her head and sank back down into her chair.
“This is strange,” she said, as the door opened to permit the maid entry, coming to sit in the corner and bringing an end to their intimacy. “Whatever does it mean?”
Isaac spread out his hands, glancing at the maid and then lowering his voice as he spoke. “I could not say,” he replied, as quietly as he could. “But I think he may have some of the answers we are looking for, and that means, one way or another, we must find him again.”
The following morning, Christina slipped from the house while her mother was still occupied with correspondence and took a hackney to Paternoster Row.
Isaac was waiting near the corner of the street, one shoulder against the stone wall of a bookseller's, his hat pulled low against the thin drizzle.
He straightened when he saw her and offered his arm without a word.
"You brought the letter?" she asked, as they walked.
He tapped his coat. "The paper sample, yes. And a note of the weight and texture you described — 'common stock, the sort a clerk might purchase.' Your words, as I recorded them."
She glanced at him sideways. "You wrote down my observations?"
"I write down everything you say about the letters." His tone was matter-of-fact, his eyes fixed ahead. "You notice things I miss. It seemed imprudent to rely on memory."
Christina pressed her lips together against the warmth that bloomed in her chest and focused her attention on the row of shops ahead.
They had discussed this plan the evening before, passing quiet words at the edge of the ballroom while Sophie stood guard nearby.
The paper Christina had identified during their letter comparison — cheap, slightly rough-edged, the kind used by clerks and men of business rather than gentlemen — was their most tangible clue.
If they could identify the stationer who sold it, they might narrow the field.
The shop they sought was halfway along the Row: Simmons & Hart, Stationers and Paper Merchants, established 1794.
The window displayed reams of writing paper in various grades, ordered bottles of ink, and an arrangement of quills fanned across a velvet board.
A bell chimed softly as Isaac pushed open the door.
Inside, the air smelled of linen pulp and beeswax. An older man in spectacles — Mr. Simmons himself, Christina presumed — looked up from a ledger behind the counter.
"Good morning, sir. Madam." He nodded to them both with the professional warmth of a man accustomed to serving the quality. "How may I assist?"
Isaac produced the paper sample and laid it on the counter with the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was looking for. "I am trying to identify the origin of this stock. I believe it may have been purchased from an establishment such as yours."
Mr. Simmons picked up the sheet, held it to the light, and turned it between his fingers. "Ah, yes. This is our standard correspondence grade — good quality but not premium. We sell a fair quantity of it." He set it down. "Might I ask why you are interested?"
"A matter of identifying a correspondent," Isaac said, carefully. "Nothing more."
The stationer nodded, apparently satisfied.
"We supply this grade to many households and offices.
It is popular with solicitors, secretaries, and gentlemen who prefer economy without sacrificing respectability.
" He glanced between them. "I am afraid I could not tell you precisely which customer purchased this particular sheet. We sell several reams a week."
Christina had been studying the ledger open on the counter — a delivery book, its columns filled with dates, addresses, and quantities in a neat, clerkish hand.
"Might we see your recent delivery records?
" she asked. "If this paper was purchased in quantity and delivered, rather than bought at the counter, there may be a record. "
Mr. Simmons hesitated. Isaac reached into his waistcoat and produced a card. "Viscount Coventry," he said, pleasantly. "I assure you, we are not pursuing anything improper. We simply wish to match the paper to a delivery."
The title did its work. Mr. Simmons inclined his head and turned the ledger toward them, opening it to the page covering the relevant months. "Two years ago, you say? I keep records going back five years. Let me find the entries."
They stood side by side, close enough that Christina could feel the warmth of Isaac's arm against hers, and scanned the columns together.
The deliveries were numerous — households, chambers of solicitors, government offices, and a handful of clubs.
Christina ran her finger down the address column, searching for anything familiar.
"There." Isaac's voice was low. His finger had stopped on an entry dated three days before the forged letters had been sent.
A delivery of two reams to a lodging house on Jermyn Street — not a gentleman's address, not a solicitor's office, but the kind of place where a man might conduct business he wished to keep separate from his own name.
"Do you know who resides at this address?" Christina asked the stationer.
Mr. Simmons consulted a separate notebook.
"The order was placed by a Mr. Hargrove.
Paid in coin, not on account." He frowned slightly.
"I recall the delivery boy mentioning something odd about it — the gentleman who received the paper was not the same man who had placed the order.
A younger fellow, he said. Dark-haired."