Barrington stepped beside her. “No full names?”
“No,” Alex answered. “But Georgina brought a list yesterday. Names of men Rowland refused to do business with. All three of them had ties to coal, and their last name began with the letterD.”
Georgina nodded, lifting the manifest slightly. “Michael Dane. Charles Denholm. Jonathan Drexler.
She reached into her satchel and withdrew a folded journal page, smoothing it on the desk beside the manifest. “Last night, I compared Rowland’s list to several records, an old investment ledger, the port registry, and a merchant’s directory.” She tapped the annotations scrawled beside each name in her own hand.
“Dane is tied to Greyline Holdings through a silent partnership. No official record, but his solicitor has handled transactions on their behalf. Denholm funds customs infrastructure, though he’s pulled out of two major projects without explanation. Drexler’s name is attachedto three coal contracts and four legal complaints that disappeared quietly. All of them have patterns. All of them know how to hide behind someone else’s ink.”
Barrington gave a low grunt. “I’ve heard of Drexler. Denholm’s name came up once, when the East London port nearly collapsed.”
“And Michael Dane?” she asked.
He was silent a moment longer. Then: “He’s on Honoria’s guest list. I remember frowning at it.”
Alex’s brow furrowed. “So, we’ve got three names. One initial. And no solid direction yet.”
Georgina stepped closer to the desk and laid the paper down gently. “We don’t guess,” she said. “We narrow. TheDmay not be Dane. But all three deserve a closer look.”
Barrington crossed to the map pinned to the far wall, where pins and threads marked coastal activity. He marked the ports whereR.T.S.had surfaced, Portsmouth, Dover, and Lowestoft. Then he linked them. A triangle. A network.
“Same points,” Barrington muttered, retracing the threads with a pencil. “Same shape. Just tighter now.”
Alex followed the line with his eyes, then looked back at Georgina. There was no triumph in his gaze, only trust, deep and certain, the kind that was more intimate than any touch. “If Rowland flagged Mallory, and thisDis connected to the same shipment chain, then he was chasing something bigger than a forged invoice.”
“He was tracing it to its source,” Georgina said. “And someone knew it.”
The fire gave a soft pop, and no one moved to speak. Outside the window, the haze still hovered low, reluctant to fully clear.
“We verify the D,” Barrington said at last. “All three. Backgrounds, associates, shipping ties. Seaton can help with that.”
Alex nodded. “And once we know whoDis, we find out who gave him cover.”
After she left Sommer Chase, Georgina didn’t return to the docks or the merchant’s hall. She went home. There were papers she’d skimmed and set aside, notes she’d copied without context. Something had slipped past her attention, and she meant to find it.
The gate creaked softly behind her as Georgina stepped into the quiet of Ravenstock Manor. The air inside carried a slight chill, touched by the fog that had seeped in at dawn and never quite lifted. She didn’t call Mrs. Hemsley, nor did she remove her gloves. The quiet was different now. Once it had been loneliness; today it was expectancy, as though the walls themselves waited for her to bring something, or someone, back within them. Her steps carried her straight toward Rowland’s study.
The room smelled faintly of cedar and old ink, with a trace of sea air that always seemed to linger along the northern windows. Light filtered through the drawn curtains, and dust floated lazily in the shafts that cut across the desk. The folio still lay open where she’d left it, flanked by ledgers and folded notes, her world for the past several days.
She moved with quiet precision, checking each note again, as though expecting something new to appear now that the morning had reshaped her perspective. She reached into her coat pocket and drew out the folded slip of paper, the one she had found in the crate days ago and tucked away ever since.
Unfolding it slowly, she let her gaze settle on the handwriting. The same careful script she had once teased Rowland for was too neat, too measured, like a man afraid the ink might misbehave.
If you find this, you’ll know why I didn’t say more.
You were always better at following silence.
She didn’t smile. Something in her chest tightened, not from grief, but something quieter. A steadiness. A direction.
Rowland hadn’t written that for comfort. He had written it as aninstruction. And she’d been following it ever since, even without knowing it.
She turned to the corner desk where Rowland had kept his shipping records. Among the scattered receipts and marginal notes was the list she’d begun the night before. There were three initials, each containing the letterD. She’d written notes beside each one in a tight, slanted hand.
Michael Dane was linked to Greyline Holdings through a silent partnership. He had influence at court and was rarely seen at port.
Charles Denholm was an investor in East London’s customs yards. He was known for his abrupt withdrawals of funding.
Jonathan Drexler was a coal merchant with shifting addresses and three lawsuits buried under as many trade disputes.
