“Not tonight,” Robert muttered.
He crossed the room in long strides and crouched beside the desk. The bottom drawer was exactly where she’d said. It was sturdy, inset, and fitted with a lock far more modern than the one on the study door. So, he withdrew the hairpin again.
Behind him, he heard the faint rustle of Evelyn moving. Her bare feet were silent on the rug as the brush of her robe caught the edge of a chair. The tension coiled between them remained taut, unbroken. They were allies, yes, but something deeperthrummed beneath the shared danger, something that hadn’t dissipated since he’d touched her cheek.
The lock clicked open. Robert slid the drawer free, and a flood of letters spilled into view. His breath stilled.
There had to be dozens. Perhaps more. They lay there, stacked in precise bundles, tied with twine, each labeled by year in Brimwood’s meticulous hand. Every envelope bore seals, stamps, or crests. Some edges were frayed with age. Others, too crisp, appearing instead new and recent.
Evelyn was beside him now, kneeling. Her hair brushed his shoulder as she reached for one of the bundles marked1816.
“They’re organized,” she whispered, incredulous.
Robert lifted a packet marked1817. That was the year his family’s carriage had been ambushed. His fingers tightened around it.
“You think the answer’s in there?” she asked, and he could hear the trembling of her voice.
“I think if there’s any record of dealings with the wrong kind of men, it might be in these letters.”
They began to read. The silence was only broken by the occasional shuffle of parchment, the quiet exhale of breath, the faint shift of weight as they leaned toward the single candleEvelyn had insisted on lighting just one and shielded it from the window. Robert’s eyes scanned correspondence filled with diplomatic pleasantries, financial notes, updates on shipments of tea, wool, tobacco…
There was nothing yet.
Evelyn cursed softly beside him, barely a breath, but sharp. “He was buying a ridiculous amount of sugar in 1815. Twice the normal price. From someone in York I’ve never heard of.”
Robert grunted. “You think it’s a cover?”
“I don’t know anything yet,” she admitted.
The pile beside them grew. Robert’s back ached, his fingers were smudged with ink from envelopes handled a hundred times, but he kept digging.
Then, he froze. His thumb brushed a crest, an unusual one. A wax seal, crimson red and too heavy. Too theatrical. He slid the letter from the stack.
October 1817. Addressed to Viscount Brimwood. Sent from a private residence in Sussex.
He broke the seal. Read. Then read it again.
He didn’t realize Evelyn had stopped reading until her fingers closed gently around his wrist.
“What is it?” she whispered.
Robert swallowed. “It’s vague. Careful. But… there’s talk of a shipment being intercepted. Retaliation. Something about ‘removing obstacles.’”
Evelyn’s brows drew together. “Your parents?”
“I… don’t know,” he whispered, his eyes fixated on the letter which he kept reading, although his trembling fingers did a weak job of aiding his eyes in discovering more.
Chapter Twenty-One
“No, wait… he’s innocent,” Robert finally said, voice cutting through the dark like a blade.
Evelyn gasped. “What did you say?”
Robert didn’t answer immediately. He withdrew the letter again which was all creased now, with its edges softened from the press of his own fingers, and stared down at it as though it might change between blinks.
But his voice, when it came again, was steady. “Your father had no part in it. None.”
Evelyn’s mouth parted, but the words refused to come. She blinked against the shock, the confusion, the betrayal ofrelief.
