There it was. A line halfway down the page, a familiar format, a common enough entry, and a word that snagged her attention before she fully read it.
“There. It’s spelled ‘commision.’ Just like the other one.”
Alex leaned over the document for a better view. “The same mistake?”
“Commision,” she murmured, narrowing her eyes. “It’s spelled incorrectly.”
She paused, a small catch tightening in her throat. Rowland had once misspelled it, but after correcting himself, he became almost obsessive about getting it right, even overcorrecting others, especially his aunt. He’d circled her error three times in red ink, unforgivable, he wrote next to it, along with a silly sketch of a hangman’s noose in the margin. She’d thrown a cushion at his head.
No, he would never let that error stand.
“And,” Barrington looked over the document as well, “they almost got away with it. Twice.”
She nodded slowly. “The same spelling error. The exact same one as before. This isn’t a coincidence. It’s a pattern. Someone’s trying to make this look like Rowland’s doing and doing it badly.”
Barrington stepped in beside them. “That confirms it. Two separate documents with the same flaw? Either someone’s careless… or confident no one would notice.”
Georgina nodded. “He didn’t write this. But, if it wasn’t Rowland, then someone else wanted it to look as though he had.”
Alex glanced toward her then, the faintest trace of something softer beneath the discipline. “You see what others overlook.”
The quiet praise sent a warmth through her that had nothing to do with the fireless hearth.
A quiet knock interrupted them.
Kenworth stepped in, bearing a porcelain tray and an apologetic expression. “Forgive me, but Mrs. Bainbridge insisted I not let the tea grow cold.”
“Tea for four seemed insufficient,” Mrs. Bainbridge said as she swept into the room with a tilt of her head. “I assumed you’d be deep in something unpalatable. Forgery, was it?”
Georgina blinked, caught between admiration and exasperation. “You always arrive at the perfect moment.”
“I try,” Mrs. Bainbridge said smoothly. “And I brought lemon cake. No one thinks clearly on an empty stomach. Besides, I need your opinion about the cake.”
Barrington glanced at his bride-to-be. “More wedding cake tasting.”
“The baker sent this along and asked for our opinion. I couldn’t refuse.” Mrs. Bainbridge sliced the cake while Georgina poured the tea.
“Is Mr. Carver the traitor?” Mrs. Bainbridge asked as she held out a plate. “He appears so trustworthy.”
“It’s always the ones you trust that do the worst of it.” Barrington took a plate of lemon cake from Mrs. Bainbridge. “Like that major during the war, turned faster than Benedict Arnold.”
“Rowland used to say, He brings gloves to every handshake,” Georgina said, setting her cup down with care. “I always thought it was just one of his odd little sayings, clever, but harmless.”
Everyone paused and glanced at her.
“It meant they never showed their true skin,” she continued. “They always kept a layer between themselves and everyone else.”
She smiled faintly, a small tilt of her head. “He used it once at a dinner party, when a magistrate spent twenty minutes praising a bill he’d voted against only the week before. Rowland just nodded, then leaned toward me and whispered it, gloves on, even for handshakes. Ithought it was a comment on fashion. It took me a year to realize he was warning me.”
Mrs. Bainbridge finished stirring her tea, placed the spoon on the saucer, and raised her cup. “Then half the House of Lords must be suspects.” She sipped her tea while a soft chuckle filled the room.
“Even so,” Alex said, setting his cup aside, “I think we’d better keep an eye on the gloves.”
The warmth of the moment faded into thoughtful silence, and Georgina set her teacup down with care.
“Before I came to Sommer Chase,” she said softly, “I received a visit from one of the tradesmen’s wives.”
Everyone gave her their attention.
