Biting her lip, she focused on the papers before her, her eyes traveling over his words. His penmanship was bold and slanted, surprisingly well-formed for a man who seemed determined to drown himself in drink and other excesses. She extracted a cipher wheel from her skirts, examining the content of the letters.
The bulk of the letters seemed to be innocent communication concerning his various estates. With a practiced eye, she searched the nuances of his words and found nothing to suggest he was sending hidden messages to his correspondents.
She checked the time every quarter hour without fail, via a man’s timepiece in her hidden pocket, staying attuned to her surroundings. The drawers on Whitley’s desk were all unlocked, save one. The only evidence she unearthed in the drawers was proof the duke did not possess as black a heart as she had supposed.
A packet of envelopes bound together by a neatly tied ribbon revealed that Whitley was corresponding with the Marquess of Searle’s dowager mother. And as much as Jacinda would have been pleased to discover otherwise, the letters suggested the duke was a caring and concerned friend. A man who, in spite of his eccentricities and undeniable darkness and licentiousness, nevertheless cared enough about his dead comrade to contact Searle’s mother.
Five letters in, she realized not only was Whitley communicating with the dowager Marchioness of Searle, but he was also sending her funds.
It was an interesting and somewhat sobering development.
One she wouldn’t have expected, for it was far easier to imagine the duke as a cold, calculated despoiler of innocents and avaricious murderer of a national hero. Far easier to imagine him as a villain than a man who oversaw the comfort of his dead friend’s mother.
Jacinda read each letter thrice before returning them to their original envelopes and binding them with the ribbon once more. A cursory examination of the remainder of his papers yielded nothing but his efforts to raise his sisters, settle his brother’s debts, and look after those most important to him.
She made certain she set Whitley’s study back to rights before dousing her candle and slipping back into the darkness of the hall. Clearly, she would need to do some more searching if she wished to unearth the Duke of Whitley’s guilt.
Chapter Six
Fortunately, the Dukeof Whitley’s absence from his townhome, coupled with his somewhat disorganized, lackadaisical household, allowed for Jacinda to escape at dawn the next day. By early morning light, she had arrived as promised at her father’s home, half expecting the earl to be in attendance and yet still hoping he would not be.
Naturally, the earl was there, sharpening his talons, eager for the scent of blood. But she could not help him on that score.
“I have found nothing to implicate the Duke of Whitley,” she reported. “Not a single letter is out of place, and there is not a thing to indicate he is guilty of anything.”
Aside from being an arrogant reprobate, that was, she added silently.
“Nothing?” Kilross repeated, his tone as harsh as his countenance. He stood by the fireplace in Father’s study, hands clasped behind his back, the picture of outrage. “Do you mean to suggest you have been ensconced in Whitley House for an entire week and have yet to read any of the duke’s papers, Mrs. Turnbow?”
Jacinda blinked, taking a moment to recover from both the earl’s raw, unabated ire and the newness of being referred to as Mrs. Turnbow once more. Just a fortnight ago, she had stood in this same study, terrified that the man before her would take Father’s position from him and rob him of the one thing that brought him joy. Now, she wondered what the earl would do if the proof he sought against the duke never emerged. Each foray she made into Whitley’s study rendered that notion more and more likely.
“What I am telling you, Lord Kilross,” she explained coolly, “is that I have been acting as governess at your behest. I have also scoured the duke’s correspondence, ledgers, and any scrap of paper I could find that is not kept behind lock and key. Not one letter is enciphered or written in French.”
“That is absurd.” The earl slammed his fist into the mantelpiece, giving Jacinda a start. “Not only absurd but impossible. The man has been consorting with the French. I have it on good authority he continues to receive and send ciphers.”
“I invite you to weed through His Grace’s correspondence in my place,” she said before she could still her tongue. She knew to be on her best behavior. Kilross was unpredictable and cruel at best and Machiavellian at worst. “I have done everything asked of me, and the evidence you seek is simply not there. Short of inventing it, I have nothing to give you.”
Kilross made a rude sound of displeasure in his throat. “You are a woman who does not know her place, Mrs. Turnbow. Clearly, you are not looking hard enough, else you would have something to show for your efforts.”
Her own anger soared then, and she could not contain it. She had done everything asked of her. She had played the governess for a week. She lied to everyone about who and what she was. She deceived the duke and sifted through his correspondence. She betrayed his sisters by abetting Kilross in taking the one family member they had left. A persistent ache struck her heart each time she wondered how Lady Constance and Lady Honora would survive should the duke be taken from them as well.
And yet, the earl would dare to tell her she did not know her place. The thin strand of her patience snapped like a worn thread on an overly laundered chemise.
“My place is here with my father, Lord Kilross,” she hissed, “and you have taken me from where I belong to perpetuate some misguided notion of justice. What manner of man forces a lady to do his bidding, my lord? Pray, tell me, because I cannot help but think the only villain in this tragedy is you.”
Kilross sneered. “Mayhap you would be better served to lay that question to dearest Papa, who has been only too content to allow you to do work better left to a man.”
She turned to her father, who had been watching her exchange with the earl in grim silence. His was pale. He raked his fingers through his thinned white hair, leaving it standing on end, and removed his double spectacles to polish them with a cloth.
Jacinda recognized avoidance when she saw it. She knew him too well. “What is Lord Kilross speaking of, Father?”
“You still have not revealed the truth to your beloved daughter, have you?” Kilross’s voice was snide. “Or have you forgotten, since your mind is so frail that it cannot even comprehend the notion of wagering more than you possess?”
Wagering? Father had been spending many nights at his club in recent months, but she had thought it a boon. An excellent means for him to socialize with his peers. For much of her life, he had worked all hours of the day and night, candles burning until the early morning, solving ciphers and creating new ones that could be used by the government, armies, and navies. That he had finally slowed his pace and allowed her to shoulder some of the burden of his work had pleased her greatly on two counts, for it had given him some much-needed rest and it also meant he had deemed her work proficient enough to rival his.
As Father continued to avoid her gaze, icy tendrils of fear clutched at her. What if the nights at his club had not been harmless suppers and reminiscences with old friends? What if instead he had been gambling?
Once, she would not have believed him capable of such a vice. But given the changes in him she had witnessed over the last year, she could not discount the possibility.
