Alex didn’t respond. Next to him, Georgina watched with the calm of a woman who had already made her choice and dared anyone to question it.
Alex’s gaze tracked the passing landscape, though the blur of the rain gave him little to study but the tightening knot of his own thoughts. The countryside blurred beneath the gray hush of dawn, hedges and fields washed in pale light, puddles rippling beneath the carriage wheels. He had ridden into battle beneath clearer skies than these, and yet, nothing had felt so uncertain. His jaw worked, tight with the unspoken tension that had coiled since Georgina first declared she would join them. He had half a mind to argue further, but he knew when a battle was already lost.
Georgina sat poised, her hands folded atop a leather case of notes, her expression steady despite the chill seeping through the air. She had not come as a bystander. She had come as a participant, an investigator in her own right, and the quiet strength in her bearing left no room for doubt. He hadn’t wavered once in her determination to accompany them, no matter that he had advised against it. No matter that his concern for her had knotted in his chest like a tightened noose. She would stand beside him, come what may, and her quiet strength only fueled the conflicting churn of pride and worry rising in him.
The carriage jolted over a rut in the road, and her shoulderbrushed his. She did not pull away. Neither did he. The warmth of that brief contact lingered longer than it ought.
She stole a glance across the dim interior. He looked out the window, quiet but alert, and something in his stillness steadied her. They had once exchanged confidences over coffee and ink-stained maps. Now they shared silence, and somehow, it meant more.
The tension between them simmered, quiet, steady, and alive. A current beneath still waters, waiting. He felt it, keen and insistent, as if the very air between them carried its own charge.
The city crept closer, the rhythm of hooves muffled in the wet road. Smoke from nearby chimneys threaded the damp air as they pulled into the yard of Trentham & Clegg. The coal merchants’ yard bustled with the usual grim efficiency. Laborers hauled crates, clerks hurried between deliveries, their arms cradling ledgers and correspondence beneath their coats to shield them from the drizzle. Wagons rattled across the cobblestones, iron rims flashing dull in the watery light. Rain dripped steadily from the eaves of the main office, tapping an almost impatient rhythm.
Georgina’s gaze swept the yard as they stepped down from the carriage. She marked the hurried steps of the clerks, the soot smudged across crates, the pale slip of paper that fluttered free from a stack and was snatched back before it could fall to the wet ground. Nothing seemed amiss, yet a chill crawled along the base of her spine, not from the weather, but from the knowledge that appearances were too easily arranged.
Crates lined the yard, stamped with destinations across the region and stacked like quiet sentinels to industry. It all appeared orderly enough, but beneath the surface of legitimate trade, someone had twisted these familiar names into tools of deceit, shields behind which the real work was done. The unease in Alex’s chest came not from the merchants at work, but from the shadowy figures hidden behind their ledgers. The person who had forged the invoice had made a wisechoice. A reputable firm would attract less suspicion.
Mr. Clegg, a stout man with an efficient manner, looked up from his ledger as they approached. He wiped a damp hand against his waistcoat and offered a courteous nod, though his brow lifted in mild surprise at the sight of their party. His eyes, alert despite the early hour, flicked from Alex to Barrington and Georgina with a businessman’s practiced curiosity, assessing, not alarmed. His uncapped pen bled a small pool of ink onto the corner of the ledger, forgotten in his moment of observation.
“My lord,” Clegg said, addressing Alex directly. “What brings you out in this weather?”
Alex stepped forward, rain beading on his coat. “Mr. Clegg, a moment of your time. We’ve come regarding a recent payment made to you.”
Clegg’s frown deepened. “Of course, my lord. Please, come inside.”
He led them through to a cramped office that smelled of damp stone and ink, motioning toward the chairs near the desk. His movements were brisk, practiced. He was clearly a man who spent his mornings poring over figures and receipts.
“May I see the invoice in question?” Clegg asked, settling behind his desk and gesturing to the cleared space before him.
Alex withdrew the folded document from the inner pocket of his coat and placed it between them. The paper, softened from handling, showed faint smudges where his thumb had pressed the corner. He left it untouched on the polished desk.
Clegg unfolded it with professional ease. His brow furrowed as he read, deepening into lines of unease. He lifted the page to the rain-streaked window, angling it toward the light to catch the watermark’s faint impression.
His lips compressed to a line. “If anyone else were sitting across from me,” he said at last, his voice low and flat, “I’d take this for a poorjoke.”
Barrington’s gaze sharpened. “Joke, Mr. Clegg?”
Clegg didn’t answer immediately. He rose, crossed to a shelf lined with bound volumes, and ran his fingers along the cracked spines. Selecting one, he flipped through with efficient precision until he found the proper section. His finger stopped on a line of numbers.
“You’ll note our numbering system,” he said, turning the book for their view. “Sequential, without exception. TC-1198, TC-1199, TC-1200…” He gestured to the forged invoice. “This one, TC-0381, is a full series behind. That sequence passed through our books last year.”
He held the forgery to the light again. “And our watermark, a crossed hammer and pick, should be deeply pressed into the parchment. This mark is faint. Almost stamped rather than embossed.”
Clegg returned the document with quiet finality. “My lord, this is not my invoice. The name is ours, yes, but the document is not.”
Alex’s mouth tightened. “Then it’s a forgery.”
He turned to Georgina, his gaze steady. “Do you see anything further, my lady?”
Georgina accepted the document and turned it in her hands, her fingers grazing the rough edge where the false seal had been pressed.
“The seal,” she said softly, running her fingertip over the embossed mark. “On your proper invoices, Mr. Clegg, the press leaves a deeper impression. Whoever forged this worked quickly, but not well.”
Clegg inclined his head, a glimmer of grim appreciation flickering in his eyes. “You have a keen eye, my lady.”
“They’re using reputable names to mask their trail,” Barrington said, still studying the forgery as if he might extract more truth by sheer will. “Clever enough to pass a cursory inspection, but not clever enough to withstand a close look.”
“A rushed forgery,” Alex agreed, sliding the document back into the inner pocket of his coat. Already, his thoughts turned to the necessary steps, a campaign not waged with cannon or sword, butwith ledgers and quiet shadows. The Brigade would need to move. Not with force, but with precision. Questions asked in the right places, by the right men.
