Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Do you have information for me?”
Anthony paused, his hand frozen mid-air as he reached for a decanter on the sideboard. He turned slowly, holding an unlit cigar in his other hand, staring at William as though he had suddenly lost his mind.
“Come on, William,” Anthony said, letting out a disbelief-filled chuckle.
“It is your wedding morning. In less than an hour we have to leave for St. George’s.
Your carriage is being prepared downstairs, your butler looks like he is on the verge of an apoplexy, and you are standing there looking like a tax auditor.
Why, in heaven’s name, are we talking about work? ”
William did not so much as blink. Standing by the desk, he adjusted the lace at his wrists, his eyebrows drawn together. “Go straight to the point, Anthony. Do you have any information for me or not? I did not invite you into my home this morning to keep me company, did I?”
“Would that be such a bad thing? To keep you company?”
“Has the Duke of Glenhaven nothing better to do than haunt my study, or has running your own estate grown so dull that my affairs have become interesting to you?”
Anthony set the unlit cigar on the tray and shook his head in exasperation.
William had been close friends with him since their university days, a bond forged over late-night debates and survived despite their wildly contrasting natures.
Where William was all rigid, Anthony navigated life like it was his playground.
But beneath that breezy surface lay a sharp mind, which was precisely why William trusted him with matters he would never dare breathe to another living soul.
“You are absolute murder on the nerves, do you know that?” Anthony sighed, pouring himself a splash of brandy despite the early hour.
“Most men on their wedding morning are worrying about their vows, or their boots, or whether their bride will like the morning gift. You look like you are preparing to lay siege to a fortress.”
William paid the complaint no mind whatsoever.
His entire focus was fixed on a single objective: finding the origin of those letters.
Over the past several days, he had dragged Anthony into this mess under the guise of an urgent, highly confidential estate matter, and William had very specific, very calculated reasons for pushing so relentlessly.
On one hand, there was the matter of Seraphina... or rather, the practical, highly unorthodox bargain he had struck with her. She had agreed to help him manage the situation with Alice. It was a trade. His protection and investigation in exchange for her intellect and assistance.
Alice was a problem William was utterly ill-equipped to solve.
The girl’s frequent, agonizing nightmares were turning the halls of his estate into constant battlefields.
It was a massive house... dozens of rooms, multiple floors, thick stone walls, and a small army of servants, yet somehow, every outburst, every episode, every crisis involving Alice always managed to find its way directly back to him.
He could not escape it. He could not simply sit here in his study and focus on his affairs, his ledgers, or his parliamentary duties when the entire household was thrown into chaos because a child was screaming in the dark.
It was a massive, exhausting burden. This was entirely new territory for him.
He loathed disruptions. He despised unpredictable, emotional variables interrupting the orderly, logical flow of his life.
He did not he possess the gentle nature such a role required. But Seraphina... Seraphina was different. From the moment she had interacted with Alice, she hadn’t just... figured it out. She was the only person who had managed to make any real progress with the girl.
So, she that made her indispensable.
But when William looked at Seraphina, he didn’t see a sweet, ever-yielding lady of the ton.
He saw an operational necessity. Marrying her was, above all else, a masterclass in practicality.
It solved two monumental problems at once.
It gave Seraphina the safety and cover she needed from her unknown enemy, and it brought her directly into his household to manage Alice, effectively saving him an endless amount of trouble.
With Seraphina taking the helm of the chaos, he would finally be free to focus entirely on his work without constant, nerve-wracking interruptions.
Solving this blackmail mystery was his part of the contract, his ticket to securing her complete, unreserved cooperation.
On the other hand, the entire affair was deeply, personally irritating to him as a matter of principle.
The mere thought that someone out there was using his family’s name was an insult he could not stomach.
It was an intrusion into his domain. From what he had gathered during his discussions with Seraphina, the blackmailer had been clever enough not to press a recognizable wax seal onto the letters, doing so would have been an immediate, foolish giveaway.
But they had not banked on the fact that Seraphina would discover the blind-stamped mark embedded directly into the fabric of the paper itself.
Why would anyone use material so explicitly tied to the Norwyn estate?
Was it a calculated risk? An attempt to throw suspicion onto his household?
Or was it an arrogant message directed specifically at him?
William did not care what the motive was, he only cared about the resolution.
He wanted to unearth whoever was responsible, tear down their little scheme, and make them thoroughly regret ever touching his family’s name.
Anthony leaned back against the edge of the desk, holding his glass, interrupting William’s thoughts.
“If you must know, I took the paper straight to the finest paper merchants and stationers in London,” Anthony began.
“Whatman’s Mill is the sole manufacturer of that specific type of paper, as you know.
We cross-referenced their distribution records over the past three years to see if any unauthorized reams were sold or delivered to secondary vendors. ”
“And?” William prompted, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“Nothing, and that is precisely the trouble,” Anthony admitted, taking a small sip of brandy.
“I visited every stationer of note in Mayfair, the ones who handle custom trimming, hot-pressing, and watermarking for the nobility, and not one of them had ever produced or sold a mark like it. No ledger of yours or your father’s mentions such a thing either.
Whatever this blind stamp is, William, it was not made by any manufacturer I can find.
I asked if anyone had brought in loose sheets of fine stock to be cut, prepared, or bound by hand instead. ”
“Did anyone?”
“No,” Anthony replied simply. “No clerk remembered handling that paper for an outside customer. Which brings us to the third step. This very house.”
William’s jaw tightened. “The estate.”
“Precisely,” Anthony said, setting his glass down.
“If the paper did not come from a merchant or a secondary stationer, then it was acquired directly from your inventory. Something perhaps tested, but never put to proper use. Which means we must examine your own household. We need to look through the estate records, check the physical storerooms downstairs, audit the stock, and question anyone who has ever had access to your private study or the supply vaults. And we ought to check for any record of who might possess your family’s crest besides yourself.
A signet, a seal, anything bearing the mark that was ever gifted, lost, or otherwise let out of your father’s hands. ”
Anthony paused, giving William a long, calculating look before speaking again, his voice dropping slightly as if the walls themselves might hear. “Which leads me to a rather delicate question, William. What if this involves one of your father’s... many exploits?”
William’s eyes narrowed, but he did not immediately cut him off.
“Think about it,” Anthony continued smoothly.
“The late Duke was, to put it mildly, a man of extensive personal freedom. Even long after his marriage, he was not what anyone would call a respectful or faithful husband. He entertained half the women in the country; he was a frequent patron of low-born taverns, gambling hells, and every notorious haunt London had to offer. He was notoriously, overly generous to the wrong people. He gave away jewelry, land, allowances...”
William let out a low, grim breath, turning toward the window that looked out over the morning street.
He knew his father’s reputation better than anyone.
The late Duke had been a rogue of the highest order, a man who lived entirely for his own pleasures and left behind a tangled web of past affairs, disgruntled Lords... and lovers.
“I cannot rule it out,” William admitted coldly. “My father left plenty of loose ends scattered across England. It is entirely possible that someone retained access to his private stock, or stole a crest years ago, waiting for an opportunity to cause trouble.”
“Then that is where we direct our search next,” Anthony said, nodding in agreement. “We start digging into the old estate archives, the financial ledgers, and the list of people who passed through your father’s life during those final years.”
Silence settled over the study for a brief moment.
“Well,” Anthony said, pushing off the desk. “Now that we have managed to discuss blackmail, stolen crests or paper, and your father’s colorful past on the morning of your wedding... can we perhaps turn our attention to the actual event? The carriage will be around in twenty minutes.”
William adjusted his cuff links again, keeping his eyes fixed on the street below. “It is a simple ceremony. A business arrangement formalized by the church.”