“No,” Alex agreed, “but Edward might. If anyone has access to the financial webs behind these shadow firms, it’s the Home Office.”
Barrington crossed to the writing desk. “I’ll send word. I’ll phrase it carefully.”
Georgina leaned one hand on the edge of the table, watching themboth. “I want to do more than wait.”
“You will,” Alex said. “We’ll track the shipping from Seaton’s end. You’ll take the documents we flagged and dig through Greyline’s history. And we’ll meet again this evening.”
“This isn’t just courtesy, is it?” She said softly. “I’m not being allowed in—”
“No, you are not,” Alex said, his voice clear. “You are needed.”
His voice wasn’t commanding. It was collaborative. Inclusive. It landed in a way that made her straighten, not from pride, but from purpose.
Something unspoken sparked between them, a knowing that trust, once given, could be its own form of intimacy.
Barrington was already writing. Kenworth had disappeared to prepare the dispatch. The fire snapped behind them.
But it was Alex’s gaze that lingered a moment longer, silent and sure. He didn’t reach for her hand. He didn’t need to. The space between them didn’t feel empty. It was charged.
Ravenstock Manor stood in its quiet stillness, the afternoon light filtering through gauzy curtains that caught the breeze from the sea. Georgina stepped into the study and removed her gloves. The day had already folded around her like a set of instructions, and she had no intention of deviating from them.
She went straight to Rowland’s desk.
It had become a familiar dance, papers reshuffled, corners lifted, ledgers checked and checked again. But today her eye was drawn to the right-hand drawer, the one that stuck slightly when she pulled it. She opened it and withdrew a slim folder that she’d marked before but hadn’t read in full.
The pages were thin, lined with faint blue ink. Trade accounts. Holdings. Investments. And something else, an envelope tucked in the back.
She slid it free.
Inside, a note in a stranger’s hand. The penmanship was elegant, practiced, but unfamiliar. It bore no greeting, only a single sentence.
Greyline will cover the discrepancy. M.D. will see to it.
Georgina stilled. No signature. But those initials. A chill slid beneath her skin. Not just because of what it implied, but because of what itconfirmed. Rowland had known. He had tried to protect her. Even in silence. Michael Dane. It had to be. But why would Rowland involve the Viscount Albury?
She scanned the accompanying page. It was an inventory list with a notation beside a set of entries:R.T.S.– October 10– see enclosed.
She glanced at the envelope. So, this was the enclosed. She folded the paper carefully, returned the rest of the file to the drawer, and moved to the window. Beyond the hedge, the path to the lane was empty, the sky above shifting to amber with the first whisper of sunset.
She didn’t feel triumphant. She felt closer. And she was ready to return to Sommer Chase.
The lamps were just being lit when Georgina returned to Sommer Chase. The study glowed with firelight and low conversation, its corners touched by the softness of approaching evening. She stepped through the doorway and found Alex and Barrington where she’d left them, though both now stood at the hearth, their postures alert.
She didn’t need to announce her discovery. The folio was already open again, waiting.
“I found something,” she said quietly, holding out the letter.
Alex took it, scanned the line, and exhaled through his nose.M.D.
“Michael Dane,” Barrington said flatly.
“Not proof,” Georgina said. “But close.”
The letter was passed back and forth, studied, and compared to the manifest from Seaton. Notes were made. Plans considered. And then, the door creaked.
Kenworth entered without a tray for once. No tea, no sardonic remarks. Only a folded sheet of paper in his hand, sealed in wax.
“Another courier,” he said. “This one from Portsmouth. He arrived not five minutes ago. Said to put it directly into your hand.”
