Chapter 12 #2
“Then I am doing something right,” he said as he led her towards the chalked dance floor, the crowd parting to let them pass.
Charlotte sighed, deciding a change of topic was in order. “Did you have the opportunity to speak with Miss Dawlish?” she asked quietly.
The teasing light vanished from his eyes. “She was gone.”
She frowned. “Gone? What do you mean gone?”
“The townhouse was boarded up,” he said grimly. “The furniture draped with sheets, as though no one had lived there for ages.” He hesitated, his jaw tightening. “But that isn’t the worst part.”
“What happened?”
He drew in a slow breath. “Mr. Griffin was murdered.”
Charlotte stopped short, her pulse leaping. “Murdered? By whom?”
“I don’t know,” Luca said through clenched teeth. “But I intend to find out.”
Before she could respond, they reached the dance floor and Luca turned to her, his gaze softening. He rested his hand gently at her waist, the warmth of his touch seeping through the muslin of her gown. With his other hand, he lifted hers into position.
Charlotte looked up at him, her irritation forgotten. Beneath the steady exterior, she saw the tension in his jaw, and the shadows in his eyes. He was trying to appear unshaken, but she could sense the turmoil beneath.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I will be.”
The honesty in his tone stirred something deep inside her. “How can I help you?” she asked.
He held her gaze, his expression unreadable. “Just dance with me.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then the music carried them forward, and Charlotte allowed herself to be swept into his arms. Their steps fell into rhythm, gliding across the floor as if the rest of the world had faded away.
Luca sat in his office at The London Gazette, the morning light spilling through the small, square windows and pooling across the cluttered surface of his desk.
The scent of ink and parchment hung heavy in the air—comforting, familiar—and yet his patience was fraying.
Before him lay the ledger Mr. Griffin had given him before his death.
He had been through the blasted thing a dozen times already, and still, it yielded nothing useful.
His fingers drummed against the edge of the desk as his eyes scanned the neat rows of figures and coded notations.
Line items marked A, B, and C mocked him.
He knew instinctively they mattered—but for the life of him, he couldn’t decipher what they represented.
Shipments? Bribes? Names disguised as letters? Every theory led him in circles.
A knock came at the door, sharp and unwelcome.
Without looking up, he said, “Enter.”
The door creaked open. “Sorry for the intrusion,” came his secretary’s brisk voice, “but Hillstead wants a moment of your time. I told him you were busy, but he refused to listen.”
Luca sighed and rubbed his temple. “Send him in.”
“Sir, you are busy,” Mr. Wright persisted. “And Hillstead is a nuisance. I am sure he will just—”
A louder voice cut him off. “Go back to your secretary duties and let the men—who do the real work—talk.”
Now Luca looked up.
Mr. Wright’s cheeks reddened. “You are a ninnyhammer, Hillstead.”
Hillstead grinned broadly as he plopped into the chair across from Luca. “I have been called worse. Just this morning, in fact.”
“That is not surprising,” Wright muttered under his breath. “Do try not to annoy Lord Luca.”
Luca closed the ledger with a soft thud. “That will be all, Mr. Wright. Thank you.”
His secretary gave a stiff bow, shooting Hillstead a look of profound disapproval before withdrawing and closing the door rather forcefully behind him.
As silence settled again, Hillstead leaned back and said, “If you require a new secretary, I could find you one.”
“Mr. Wright is quite proficient,” Luca replied.
“Yes, but he does it with a condescending attitude.”
“Only with you,” Luca said, allowing a faint smile. “You two have never managed to get along.”
“That is because he hates me.”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t antagonize him.”
Hillstead sobered, his humor fading. “I heard about Mr. Griffin.”
The smile left Luca’s lips. The loss still sat uneasily with him. “Yes. Most unfortunate. And now Miss Dawlish has vanished into thin air.”
Hillstead’s gaze flickered to the closed ledger. “Were you able to glean any leads from that?”
“Nothing new,” Luca admitted, pushing the worn, leather-bound book across the desk. “Perhaps you might have better luck. My eyes are beginning to cross.”
Hillstead accepted it carefully, flipping through the pages. “This might take some time,” he murmured. “I’ll review it at my desk, see if anything stands out.”
“I would appreciate that,” Luca said. “I’ve stared at it for far too long and deciphered nothing.”
Closing the ledger, Hillstead straightened. “I do have some good news.”
“I could use some.”
“I looked into Miss Dawlish. It appears she has a son who runs a factory near the docks.”
Luca’s brows drew together. “Miss Dawlish has a son?”
“That she does. An illegitimate one,” Hillstead replied. “A Mr. Roger Dawlish. He was educated at boarding schools and kept well away from her social circle.”
“How did you uncover this?”
“When Miss Dawlish fled, she dismissed her household staff. I managed to track down one of her former maids,” Hillstead said, with a smug note of pride. “The girl was all too happy to speak ill of her mistress since Miss Dawlish refused to give her a reference.”
“Did she reveal anything else of value?”
Hillstead shook his head. “Only that Miss Dawlish detests lavender. It gives her a dreadful headache.”
“That is not remotely useful.”
“I agree,” Hillstead said, producing a small folded slip of paper from his pocket. “But this might be. Here is the address of the factory that Mr. Dawlish runs, and you will never guess who owns it.”
Luca accepted the note. “Who?”
A smirk tugged at Hillstead’s lips. “The Ravenhurst Trading Company.”
“Botheration,” Luca muttered under his breath.
“I thought you might enjoy that,” Hillstead said with a grin as he rose. “Shall I accompany you when you go to call on Mr. Dawlish?”
“No, that won’t be necessary,” Luca said. “Good work.”
Hillstead turned towards the door, puffed up with satisfaction. “Did you hear that, Wright?” he called as he threw the door open. “The boss said good work! When was the last time he said that to you?”
Luca chuckled quietly, shaking his head as he looked down at the address again. Beneath his amusement, determination flared.
Ravenhurst Trading Company had just led him to another door, and this time, he intended to pry it open. He would pay a visit to Mr. Roger Dawlish at once. And perhaps, he thought grimly, it would be wise to bring Lord Rupert along.