“Some months ago,” Clegg recalled, thinking aloud, “a gentleman inquired about our invoice formats. Claimed he was auditing estate accounts.”
Barrington’s mouth pulled into a flat line. “Then we’ve confirmed at least one method of deception.”
Alex exhaled, low and steady, feeling the shape of the battle settling into place. “We widen our net,” he said firmly. “Barrington, reach out to the Brigade’s informants. Quietly. If someone is operating this deeply in our territory, they must have left a trail.”
Barrington gave a sharp nod. “I know the men for it.”
“And I’ll speak to Bexley,” Alex added, a clipped edge in his tone. “If there’s been talk among the suppliers, he may have heard it.”
Georgina closed her case of notes with deliberate care. Her thoughts had already turned to the seminary’s ledgers. She pictured Mrs. Bainbridge’s steady hand, her unerring eye for inconsistencies, and felt a spark of renewed purpose.
“I’ll return to Mrs. Bainbridge,” she said. “We’ll comb through every ledger, every slip of correspondence. If they’ve hidden the truth in the shadows, we’ll shine a light on them.”
There was no moment of doubt. No need for reassurance. She knew what had to be done. She no longer waited for permission to do it.
Alex caught the resolute line of her jaw, and something fierce twisted in his chest. Not fear. Not even worry. A fierce rush of admiration twisted in his chest. Undeniable, proud, and entirely his undoing.
By the time they stepped back into the yard, the rain had softened to a fine mist, delicate as silk thread and just as persistent. It beaded along the crate edges and pooled in shallow dips across the worncobblestones. The air hung heavy with the scent of wet stone and coal dust, the quiet hum of honest industry persisting around them.
Alex offered Georgina his hand as she stepped toward the carriage. Her gaze met his, steady, unreadable. For a moment, she hesitated, not from uncertainty, but from what had passed between them, unspoken. When her gloved fingers curled around his, her grip was sure, warm despite the chill.
The moment stretched, not quite lingering, but not hurried either. Not hesitation. A promise passed without words, quiet as breath, certain as dawn.
Barrington mounted behind them with the practiced ease of a man who had long ago mastered both horse and carriage. His expression remained unreadable beneath the brim of his hat, though Alex caught the slight tilt of his head. It signified approval, perhaps, or quiet expectation.
Alex settled opposite Georgina, the forged invoice secured once more within his coat. His eyes found hers across the narrow space, and for the first time that morning, he allowed himself a breath not steeped in urgency.
“Then we force them into the light,” he said, steel beneath his quiet voice.
The carriage rocked into motion, wheels splashing through the rain-polished yard, their course set into the oncoming storm.
Neither spoke, but both understood that there was no turning back.
Chapter Thirteen
Alex had seenBexley flustered before, but never with quite so much paper and perspiration competing for dominance.
He pushed open the door to the steward’s office without ceremony, his entrance muffled by the lingering damp in the air. Bexley, bent over a spread of ledgers, didn’t hear him at first. The steward’s lips moved in a silent tally as his finger chased figures down a page, utterly absorbed in his task.
Alex took the moment to observe, his gaze sweeping the room with a soldier’s precision. Disordered stacks of account books teetered precariously, some marked with hastily folded notes, others bearing the blots of spilled ink. Sheets of correspondence lay curled at the edges where they had been hastily dried by the hearth. It was not the chaos of deceit, Alex thought grimly, but of drowning.
Bexley turned a page too quickly, and the motion disturbed a loose slip of parchment. It slid free, fluttering toward the floor. He lunged to catch it, and in the same motion became aware of Alex’s presence. He startled, rising abruptly, his chair scraping back against the floorboards with a screech. His arm clipped the corner of an unsteady pile, sending it listing dangerously before he managed to right it with a flailing hand.
“My lord!” Bexley managed, cheeks flushing as he attempted a bow amidst the clutter.
Alex’s expression remained cool. He had entered prepared to confront a man complicit in deceit. Instead, he found chaos, honest, desperate chaos.
“Leave the courtesies, Bexley,” Alex said, his tone edged. “Tell me what you’ve found.”
“Yes, my lord,” Bexley rasped, tugging his sleeves down to his wrists as though it might restore some semblance of order to himself, if not the office. He shuffled through the nearest pile of ledgers and opened one to the marked page. His finger, slightly ink-stained, trailed the line of entries with nervous precision.
“I’ve been reviewing the suppliers’ accounts as you instructed. There are… there are gaps, my lord,” he admitted, his voice tight with strain. “Payments issued, but no matching delivery receipts. And,” he swallowed visibly, “some letters I had set aside for follow-up have gone missing.”
Alex narrowed his gaze. “Which letters?”
“Most notably, the correspondence from Mr. Tom Carver,” Bexley replied. He drew a shaking breath. “I had flagged them for irregularities, but when I returned to the file, they were gone.”
Alex’s jaw tightened. “When did you last see them?”
