Chapter Nineteen
“These figures cannot be correct, Your Grace.”
Adrian stood in his study with the estate ledgers spread across the mahogany desk, morning light illuminating discrepancies that shouldn’t exist. His steward, Mr Cumberbatch—a meticulous man of sixty with wire spectacles and ink-stained fingers—pointed to a column of numbers with barely concealed distress.
“The allocation for the eastern tenant cottages,” Cumberbatch continued, adjusting his spectacles. “Five hundred pounds approved for repairs three months past. Yet the cottages remain in disrepair, and the funds...” He trailed off meaningfully.
“Are unaccounted for.” Adrian’s voice was flat, controlled, though fury simmered beneath the surface like magma beneath ice. He traced the entry with one finger, noting the signature authorising the transfer. H. Ravenscar. “And here?”
“Staff wages for the London house, Your Grace. Two hundred pounds. The staff have been paid, naturally, but not from this account. The money was transferred elsewhere.” Cumberbatch’s discomfort was palpable. “I hesitate to suggest impropriety, but—”
“Don’t hesitate.” Adrian flipped through more pages, finding similar patterns. Funds approved, money redirected, explanations absent. All bearing Henry’s signature, Henry’s authority. “How long has this been occurring?”
“At least six months, Your Grace. Possibly longer.” Cumberbatch wrung his hands. “Your cousin managed certain investments and estate transfers whilst you were... preoccupied with other matters. I assumed everything was in order. He’s family, after all.”
Family. The word tasted like ash.
Adrian dismissed Cumberbatch with instructions to compile a comprehensive report, then stood alone in his study, staring at the evidence of betrayal rendered in neat columns and careful script.
The threatening notes, the scandal—those had been personal attacks.
But this? This was theft. Systematic, calculated theft from the very estates Adrian had spent years rebuilding.
He needed to hear Henry’s explanation. Needed to watch his cousin’s face when confronted with numbers that couldn’t lie.
Adrian found Henry in the drawing room that afternoon, lounging with the casual elegance of a man without conscience. Afternoon light slanted through tall windows, illuminating dust motes and the crystalline clarity of the brandy Henry was drinking despite the early hour.
“Adrian.” Henry raised his glass in mock salute. “You look positively murderous, cousin. Has your dear wife managed to envelop you in more fresh scandal?”
The casual prescience of it sent cold fury through his veins. Adrian closed the door with deliberate softness, the click of the latch unnaturally loud.
“I’m not here to discuss my wife, Henry.”
“Ah. Then, pray tell, what do we have the pleasure of—”
“I’ve been inspecting the estate accounts. I’ve found some discrepancies.”
“And?”
“And they all bore your signature, Henry.”
Henry didn’t say anything, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Five hundred pounds allocated for tenant cottage repairs, but no repairs were done. Where did it go?”
Henry’s expression didn’t flicker. “Private investment opportunity. Excellent returns expected by year’s end.” He swirled his brandy. “You’ve been rather distracted lately, cousin. Someone needed to ensure the estates continued generating income.”
“Without consulting me.” Adrian moved closer, hands clasped behind his back to hide their trembling with the effort of restraining violence. “Without documentation. Without explanation.”
“I left notes in the ledgers.”
“You left signatures. Not explanations.” Adrian’s voice dropped to something dangerous. “Two hundred pounds from staff wages. Three hundred from the stables fund. One hundred—”
“All investments, Adrian.” Henry stood with fluid grace, setting down his glass. “All perfectly legitimate. You’re welcome to review the contracts.”
“Then produce them.”
“They’re in my study. I’ll have them sent round.”
The smoothness of it. The utter lack of concern. Either Henry was innocent—which Adrian’s instincts screamed against—or he was an accomplished liar who’d prepared for this confrontation.
“Ensure you have it on my desk by tomorrow,” Adrian said softly. “Every contract, every explanation, every detail. Or I involve solicitors.”
Something flickered in Henry’s eyes. Gone too quickly to identify, but there. “Of course, cousin. Though I confess I’m wounded by this sudden lack of trust. We’re family.”
Adrian left before he could respond, before he did something irreversible. Before the ice cracked entirely and revealed the inferno beneath.
“Your Grace?”
Velma stood in his study doorway an hour later, her usually confident demeanour replaced by nervous uncertainty. The Scottish maid twisted her hands in her apron, clearly wrestling with some internal battle between loyalty and duty.
“Miss Thompson.” Adrian gestured to the chair opposite his desk. “Please, sit.”
She perched on the edge, back straight, eyes downcast. “I shouldnae be here, Your Grace. Lady Cecilia would be furious if she kent I’d come, but I cannae keep silent any longer. Nae when it might be… dangerous.”
Adrian’s entire body went still. “Dangerous?”
“The notes, Your Grace.” Velma reached into her apron pocket, withdrawing several folded papers.
“She’s been receivin’ them fer weeks. I found these hidden in her room—she made me promise not to tell ye, said she didnae want to worry ye with more scandal, but...
” Her voice cracked. “The last one threatened harm, Your Grace. I cannae protect her alone.”
Adrian took the papers with hands gone numb. Unfolded them one by one, reading threats rendered in that now-familiar script:
You don’t belong here.
Leave before you’re forced out.
He’ll never truly accept you. You’re nothing but a liar in borrowed silk.
The final note was the most recent, its ink barely dry:
Accidents happen in old houses. Fires start so easily. This is your last warning.
Adrian’s vision tunnelled, the study narrowing to these papers, these threats, this evidence of systematic psychological torture inflicted on his wife whilst he’d been too blind to see the full extent of it.
“How many?” His voice emerged rough, abraded.
“Eight that I ken of, Your Grace. Perhaps more she’s already destroyed.” Velma leaned forward. “She’s been terrified, though she hides it well. Jumps at shadows. Barely sleeps. And after the ball, after everythin’...” She trailed off meaningfully.
Adrian carefully, precisely set the notes beside the letter from Lady Denholm and the financial records. Three different types of evidence, all pointing to the same source. The handwriting matched. The access required matched. The timing matched.
Henry.
“Thank you, Miss Thompson.” Adrian’s voice was controlled, measured, though everything inside him screamed for immediate action. “You were right to bring these to me. And you needn’t worry—Lady Cecilia will come to no harm. I’ll see to that personally.”
After Velma left, Adrian sat in the gathering dusk, surrounded by evidence of his cousin’s systematic campaign of destruction. Not just against Cecilia, but against Adrian himself—undermining his authority, stealing from his estates, terrorising his wife, orchestrating scandal.
Cassian’s message arrived by courier as darkness fell:
Found your investigator. Discreet, experienced, trustworthy. Meet him at the Hound and Fox tonight, nine o’clock. He’ll be waiting in the private room. —C
The Hound and Fox was a respectable but unremarkable tavern frequented by merchants and minor gentry—the sort of place where a duke could meet someone without attracting undue attention.
Adrian arrived precisely at nine, cloaked and hatted, slipping into the private room where a lean man in his forties waited.
“Your Grace.” The investigator—who introduced himself only as Barrett—had the sharp, assessing eyes of someone accustomed to seeing through deception. “Lord Duskbourne explained the situation. You suspect someone in your household of theft and intimidation.”
“I suspect my cousin,” Adrian corrected bluntly. “I need proof.”
Barrett pulled out a worn notebook. “Tell me everything.”
Adrian laid out the evidence methodically: the financial discrepancies, the threatening notes, the scandal sheet letter, the timeline of events. Barrett listened without interruption, occasionally jotting notes, his expression professionally neutral.
“The handwriting matches across all documents?” Barrett asked when Adrian finished.
“Identically.”
“And your cousin has access to the private family wing?”
“Unrestricted.” The admission tasted bitter.
Barrett nodded slowly. “Then we start with his study. Personal papers, correspondence, financial records—anything that might reveal motive or confirm the pattern. I can arrange a thorough search, or—” He paused meaningfully.
“You can conduct it yourself tonight whilst he’s out.
I’m told he frequents a certain gentlemen’s club on Thursday evenings. ”
Today was Thursday.
Adrian’s jaw tightened. “If I find nothing?”
“Then we expand the investigation. But Your Grace?” Barrett met his eyes. “Men who steal and threaten rarely stop at one target. If your cousin is guilty, there will be evidence. The question is whether you’re prepared for what finding it might mean.”
“I’m prepared to protect my wife,” Adrian said quietly. “Whatever it costs.”
The townhouse was quiet when Adrian returned near midnight. Henry had indeed gone out—Adrian had confirmed his departure through a footman—leaving his study unguarded and accessible.
Adrian stood outside the door in the dimly lit hallway, a single candle illuminating brass fixtures and polished wood.
Beyond this threshold lay either confirmation of betrayal or innocent explanations.
Either proof of Henry’s guilt or Adrian’s own paranoid suspicions given false weight by circumstance.
His hand closed around the door handle.
Inside, shadows pooled in corners where candlelight couldn’t reach. Henry’s desk dominated the room—neat, organised, meticulously maintained. Just like Henry himself. Just like the fa?ade he’d carefully constructed whilst systematically destroying everything Adrian valued.
Adrian set down his candle and approached the desk with controlled purpose.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.” Adrian’s whisper echoed through Henry’s study, frustration threading through each syllable as he rifled through the third drawer.
Moonlight spilt through the window, casting silver across ledgers that revealed nothing concrete—only suspicions, half-formed questions, and the maddening absence of proof.
His fingers traced the edge of a ledger, noting discrepancies in the columns—amounts that didn’t quite align, dates that overlapped impossibly. Suspicious, yes. Evidence? Maybe.
He closed the ledger with more force than intended. The sound seemed thunderous in the silence.
He moved to the escritoire by the window, pulling open the small drawers with methodical care. Letters of introduction. Invitations to various clubs. A receipt from a tailor. Nothing incriminating. Nothing that screamed guilt.
Adrian took several anyway, to match Henry’s handwriting to the threatening notes.
Then, tucked beneath a stack of correspondence, Adrian found it—a single sheet of paper, folded once. His pulse quickened as he unfolded it, recognising the familiar script immediately.
You don’t belong here.
One of the threatening notes. A copy, perhaps? Or the original before delivery? Adrian held it up to the candlelight, studying the handwriting with renewed intensity. The slant of the letters, the pressure of the pen, the distinctive curl of the ‘g’—all matched the notes Velma had brought him.
But having a copy wasn’t proof Henry had written it. It merely proved he’d had access to it.
“Clever bastard,” Adrian breathed, carefully folding the paper and slipping it into his coat pocket. If nothing else, it gave him something tangible to work with.
He searched for another twenty minutes, finding only more frustrating near-evidence.
Papers slightly out of place, as though someone had reviewed them hastily.
A drawer that stuck oddly, suggesting a false bottom, Adrian couldn’t access without tools.
Ledgers with entries that raised questions but provided no answers.
By the time he left Henry’s study, dawn was threatening the horizon, and Adrian felt no closer to the truth than when he’d begun.