Smuggling records, just like Aaron had said. Louise felt her heart sink.
George hasn’t just borrowed from criminals. He’s been keeping their books.
Aaron asked several more questions, but Pellam had nothing else useful.
“I assume that I can count on your discretion,” Aaron said at last, his words more a command than an assumption as he passed him even more money.
The man’s eyes shimmered with greed as he nodded. “But of course, sir. The utmost discretion.”
“You never saw us.”
“Saw whom?”
Aaron nodded back in response, and they left him counting his coins and descended back through the tavern’s chaos to their waiting carriage.
Louise’s mind churned through the implications. George had taken evidence of his criminal involvement with him. Either he planned to use it as leverage, or he was so deep in Wigram’s organization that he needed those records to survive.
“Come with me.”
Louise looked up, realizing they had arrived home, and Aaron was holding the carriage door open.
Instead of leading her to the main entrance, he guided her through a side door and up a private staircase she had never used before.
They emerged into his personal chambers. Louise had never been here, and despite her upset, she took in the space. Dark wood paneling, leather-bound books, a fire crackling in the grate. It smelled like him, she found.
He poured amber liquid into two glasses, pressing one into her hands. “Drink. You’re shaking.”
Louise hadn’t realized she was. The brandy burned, but it pushed back the cold that had settled in her bones.
“George is going to prison for a very long time, isn’t he?” she asked, her voice coming out in a squeak.
“Not if I can help it.” Aaron stood by the fire, his own glass untouched. “We’ll find him before Wigram does.”
Louise moved through the room, needing to occupy her hands, her mind, anything to avoid thinking about her brother’s likely fate.
A painting caught her attention. A portrait of a woman with dark hair and kind eyes.
“Your mother?”
“Yes.” Aaron’s voice softened. “Painted just before her wedding.”
Louise studied the delicate features, seeing Aaron’s bone structure beneath the feminine softness.
From the corner of her eye, she saw a leather-bound book sitting on a side table. Without thinking, she opened it.
Pages of sketches filled the book. Delicate drawings of flowers, birds, and everyday objects rendered with loving detail. But it was the last pages that made her breath catch. A drawing of a baby, perfectly rendered despite the artist never having seen her subject.
Below it, written in elegant script:
My darling child, I have not met you yet, but I love you beyond measure. May you grow strong, and kind, and know always that you were wanted, cherished, beloved.
“She died giving birth to me.” Aaron stood beside her now, looking down at his mother’s words. “I only found this after my father died.”
“He kept it from you?”
“He kept everything of hers locked away. Her rooms, her belongings, even her portraits. He was madly in love with her and wanted to keep her memory for himself.”
Louise traced the words with gentle fingers. “How terrible. To lose her and then be denied even her memory.”
