As they reached the edge of the warehouse row, Alex paused.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Warehouse two,” he said quietly. “A man in a grey coat. He’s been watching us since we arrived.”
Georgina didn’t turn. She adjusted her grip on the folio, pretending to straighten her glove. “Do you recognize him?”
“No. And he doesn’t mean to be recognized.”
They continued walking, unhurried. Georgina focused on each step, keeping her stride measured. Her thoughts were not as steady. Her pulse had quickened, and Alex’s hand had shifted slightly, as though prepared to catch hers at the slightest stumble.
Behind them, the gulls shrieked above the masts, and a cart rattled over a dock plank. She resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder. If the man followed, they’d know soon enough. If he didn’t, she wasn’t sure that it would be better.
They didn’t speak again until the harbor was behind them. The road ahead narrowed, and Georgina let the silence stretch a little longer, her mind mapping out what they had and what they still didn’t. The documents. The name. The false company. What they lacked was certainty. And time. A gust of wind tugged a strand of hair loose, and Georgina let it go, her mind still circling the names, the ink, and the dockmaster’s evasion.
“Rowland would’ve followed it quietly,” she said after a moment. “Without confrontation. But he wouldn’t have let it lie.”
Alex glanced her way. “You’re not following quietly.”
She shook her head. “There’s no time to remain quiet anymore. Not when names are being used like coin.”
He didn’t answer, but his gaze lingered on her face. And for the first time since they began this, she wondered if he was more worried for her welfare than the outcome.
“No,” she agreed. “I’m not following quietly.” She didn’t need protection. He knew that. But still, something in him braced against the path she’d chosen. Not to stop her. Just to walk beside her.
They walked in companionable silence, their steps falling into natural alignment, as if each pace forward steadied what the conversation had unsettled.
“If they’re trying to erase Mallory,” Georgina said, “they should have done a better job of forging his signature.”
Alex gave a low, thoughtful hum. “Then we follow the signature.”
Georgina nodded. “And every place it doesn’t belong.”
They didn’t speak again until the turn in the road, where the sea slipped out of view. But the tension it left behind remained, like coal dust caught beneath the skin. Between them, silence no longer created a distance. It had shape, and the unspoken promise of what neither dared name. Yet even that dark shadow couldn’t quite smother the spark between them, the kind that turned shared danger into trust.
Chapter Twenty
The fog hadbegun to lift by the time Georgina reached Sommer Chase. The grounds, still damp from the morning mist, glistened in patches along the gravel path, the hedgerows etched with dew. Her arrival was not expected, but she suspected it wouldn’t be a surprise either.
Kenworth opened the door with his usual poise, though his coat still clung with the sharp scent of the road and salt air. “They’re in the study,” he said, stepping aside. “Tea’s not yet on, but a situation is.” He offered her a dry look, but there was warmth beneath it. He’d always had a sense for when something serious was afoot, and when Georgina Ravenstock appeared before luncheon, it was rarely a social call.
The hall carried the familiar scent of hearth smoke and waxed pine. As Georgina passed through, she registered the low murmur of voices, the soft thud of footsteps overhead, and the ever-present rhythm of a house run efficiently, but alert.
Barrington was standing near the fire, a small stack of papers in one hand and a coal pencil in the other. Alex leaned over the desk, reviewing a page marked with Seaton’s tight, deliberate script. The tension in the room wasn’t explosive. It was coiled. The kind that made every sound more noticeable.
“Late morning post,” Barrington said, gesturing with the pages. “Kenworth rode out early to meet the courier halfway.”
Georgina removed her gloves and stepped beside them. “What didSeaton send?”
Alex looked up, meeting her eyes. His expression was serious, but it eased the moment she spoke. It was the smallest shift, a softening at the edges of a man who spent his life braced for impact. She hadn’t meant to become his reprieve, yet here he was, breathing easier because she stood beside him.
“More than expected,” he said, handing her the top page. “A manifest. Shipments flagged withR.T.S.”
The paper was slightly damp at the edge, but the names were clear. Cargo: timber, raw commodity, and coal. Her eyes traced the margins. Beside each entry, smaller than the cargo listings, was an initial, a single letter in this case: D.
Alex leaned closer, his sleeve brushing hers, and she caught the faint scent of rain still clinging to his coat. Focus demanded she look at the paper, not at him.
“It’s the same abbreviation,” she murmured. “And now… just the one initial.”
