She unfolded the page, expecting to find the receipt she meant to send Mrs. Bainbridge for the silver tea service Rowland had ordered the winter before the accident. But instead, her eyes landed on the heading:Iron delivery—Hawkesbury account.
Her brow creased. That didn’t make sense. Rowland had dealings with the Hawkesbury accounts. But those transactions ended months before his death. This entry is dated after he passed away.
She traced the line with one finger, half-hoping the letters would blur or shift, offer some hint of a mistake. But the handwriting held steady. It was Rowland’s, or a copy so precise it made her skin crawl. She turned the sheet over but found nothing on the back but dust and a faint smudge near the corner.
She reached for the ledger and flipped through the brittle pages until she found another slip from the same supplier. This one was dated alarmingly close to the day Rowland died.
A chill slid down her spine, not sharp, just there. Creeping in. Steady. Like a draft through a closed door.
Her fingers tightened on the folio. Not fear. Not even surprise. Just a rising certainty that whatever innocence she’d once given Rowland, and the mine, was gone.
“This can’t be a coincidence,” she said under her breath, but part of her already knew the truth.
Her pulse quickened. She brushed the dust from the cover, as if it would clear her thoughts, too, and tucked the folio under one arm. Somewhere in the corridor, she heard Mrs. Hemsley’s voice, carried softly, part of the house’s quiet rhythm.
Georgina’s course was set. There would be no hesitation. She could have sent word and asked Weld to come to her, but no letter would convey the gravity of what she held. Or the unease curling in her chest. She needed to see him herself. Only then would she know whether her instincts had betrayed her.
The rain had begun in earnest by the time Georgina arrived at Hawkesbury. It spattered the carriage windows with a relentless rhythm that did little to calm her racing thoughts. Rain blurred the outlines of the manor, turning the stones to silver. Mist clung low to the ground, rising like breath over the earth. As the carriage slowed, a chill seeped through her gloves, and she tightened her hold on the folio, as though the damp might steal it from her grasp. She didn’t wait for the step to be lowered. Gathering her skirts, she descended on her own.
The stone was slick beneath her boots, the wind sharp for autumn. But her spine remained straight, her stride certain. She would not let the rain undo her resolve.
A footman hurried forward, surprise flickering over his face at the sight of an unexpected visitor. But before he could speak, Georgina did, her voice clear, steady, and edged with purpose.
“I must speak with Lord Hawkesbury at once. It is a matter ofsome importance.”
The footman hesitated only a fraction before bowing and hurrying inside.
Left alone on the doorstep, the rain needled her shoulders. Georgina’s thoughts tumbled ahead of her faster than her breath. Would Alex take her discovery seriously? Would he see the danger in it?
Several heartbeats later, Weld emerged from the great hall, his coat unfastened, and his brow furrowed in thought. He appeared, his expression sharpening with concern the moment he saw her.
“Lady Georgina,” he said, striding forward. “Are you alone?”
“I came at once,” she said. “There was no time to lose.” She held the folio toward him without further explanation. “I believe you’ll want to see this.”
He took it, his fingers brushing hers briefly before he opened the worn cover.
“We’re in the library. Come with me.”
She followed without hesitation.
Inside, the library was dim, the fire banked low. A scattering of maps and ledgers lay across the wide table. Barrington was already there. He looked up as they entered, setting aside his reading while Georgina crossed to the table. Alex handed her the folio without a word, and she opened it to the page she’d marked.
The scent of damp wool and old paper lingered in the air, but none of them noticed. All attention was focused on the open page.
“I found it this morning,” Georgina said, leaning in to point at the entry. “I was searching for something else entirely. Then I saw the date.”
Alex bent over the page, his eyes narrowing. He traced the line with his thumb, reading it twice. His jaw set.
Alex glanced at her. “This is dated after Rowland’s death.”
She nodded. “And the handwriting is Rowland’s. Or meant to be,” she added.
Barrington leaned closer. “Forged,” he said grimly. “A clever one, but still a forgery.”
“A deliberate falsification,” Alex agreed, his voice low with contained fury. “And likely not the only one.”
Georgina felt the flicker of grim satisfaction she’d been holding at bay. “Then it was worth bringing.”
