“I’ve reminded the staff that such questions are not to be answered,” Mrs. Aldridge added.
Mary-Ann met her gaze. “Thank you. Please continue to do so.”
She stepped out into the corridor again, her pace slower now, her thoughts sharper.
Intercepted letters. Watching eyes. And now a desk lock that Lydia had no business wondering about.
Whatever Rodney Wilkinson was planning, he hadn’t expected her to be paying attention. And that was his first mistake.
*
By early afternoon,Mary-Ann found herself once again inside the Seaton offices near the quay. She had claimed a need to fetch archived documents for wedding accounting, a believable excuse that kept Lydia at bay.
The office smelled of ink and dust, the windows thrown open to the salt-heavy breeze. Ledgers stretched across the back wall in orderly rows, a familiar rhythm from childhood days when she’d curled beside her father to practice sums and sea routes. But now, there was little comfort in the neat columns.
She set down her reticule and reached for the shipping records dated two weeks prior. The pages were crisply folded, too crisp. New parchment tucked into old bindings.
Her finger traced the entry for theMaribel. The cargo weight was listed as standard. So was the destination. But the departure port… had changed.
She flipped backward through earlier entries. TheMaribelhad always departed from Branscombe Dock. But now it claimed Northgate Port.
Mary-Ann frowned. Northgate was nearly forty miles inland. No one with any knowledge of tides and drafts would send a vessel of theMaribel’ssize there.
A sound behind her made her still. Boots on stone. Not heavy enough to be her father. Not light enough to be Kenworth.
She turned, ledger still open in her hands.
A junior clerk she didn’t recognize offered a quick bow. “Apologies, miss. I didn’t know anyone was in here.”
She forced a smile. “Just reviewing accounts. My father asked me to double-check a few details.”
“Of course. Please let me know if you need anything.”
He ducked out again.
Mary-Ann didn’t move. Her pulse remained high, her thoughts running faster than her breath. Another pair of eyes. Another coincidence that didn’t feel like one.
She returned the ledger to its shelf and took another, scanning the recent arrivals.Branford Belle. Argent Wind. Fallowmoor.
She traced a line to a cargo number she recognized. It was listed under the name “R. W. Holdings.” Wilkinson’s initials.
Her jaw tightened. She copied the line onto a slip of paper and tucked it into her sleeve. She wasn’t done yet. But she was getting close.
*
Mary-Ann returned homejust before sunset, her skirts tugged by the breeze and the faint scent of salt clinging to her gloves. The house was oddly quiet, the usual hum of staff movements subdued. She had just handed her shawl to Hollis when she heard a knock at the front door.
Hollis opened it. “Captain Hollingsworth, sir.”
Mary-Ann’s breath caught, not in shock, but in something softer, something unsettled. She stepped forward before she could think better of it.
Quinton stood in the entry, travel-worn but composed, his hair wind-ruffled and boots still dusty. He looked at her like he’d been hoping to for days.
“I’ve just come from Scarborough,” he said. “There’s news.”
She stepped aside to let him in, nodding once. “Come into the drawing room.”
The fire was low, barely more than embers, but she didn’t call for more coals.
