The metal was cool and solid as he turned it in his palm, the glass faintly smudged from use. Flicking open the lid, he watched the needle quiver before settling. The craftsmanship was fine, though unremarkable, nothing to explain why Olivia had guarded it so carefully.
There was no maker’s mark, no telling inscription.
Tilting the compass towards the window, he tested it against his own sense of direction. Beyond the pane stretched manicured gardens and an elaborate fountain. North lay that way, yet the needle wavered, refusing to align.
A fault in the mechanism?
He took a silver letter opener from the desk drawer and worked the blade beneath the back plate until it lifted with a faint click. Inside, nestled beneath the inner workings, lay a small silver disc no larger than a shilling. He eased it free with the point of the knife. A swallow was engraved upon the metal, wings outstretched in flight.
“Interesting.”
Swallows symbolised family and fidelity and were said to mate for life. Yet hidden inside the device, it became an emblem of distrust.
He slipped the disc into his waistcoat pocket, then reassembled the compass and returned it to the bag.
One item remained.
One that might alter the course of his fate.
He hesitated, though the pull of curiosity was stronger than caution, and he reached inside to remove a tiny oak box. Even with his vivid imagination, he had not expected this.
A single gold button.
Not any button; one nestled in red silk and bearing his family crest, a dragon. Beside it lay a sprig of pressed white heather, its petals faded to cream. A token of faith and hope. A folded slip of paper contained a handwritten note.
Judge not the hand that bears the mark,
for it guards thee unawares.
He froze. Chilled fingers closed around his heart. Miss Woolf—Miss Hawkins, or whatever the hell her name was—had deliberately sought him out. Their shared love of poetrymeant nothing. His intelligence hadn’t impressed her, nor his so-called masculine prowess. She had not heard destiny calling.
So that was the truth of it?
Her father had guided her to Gabriel’s door.
And he had married her based on a lie.
Fury burned cold in his veins.
He wanted to hurl the button across the room and curse his rotten luck, but the impulse faded as quickly as it came. Anger was a fool’s indulgence.
Indeed, the memory of their chaste kiss intruded. She had tasted soft and warm, like a lover, not a mere friend. In that fleeting moment, she had trusted him completely. And he could not bring himself to believe it had all been feigned.
He drew a slow breath, forcing his thoughts to order.
She had meant to run, leave London behind and take her troubles far from his door. Deceit had not been part of her plan, only survival. The move to World’s End and her refusal to accept his help confirmed as much.
He rose abruptly, thumbing the dragon impressed into gold. Faith and hope were empty words, yet he clung to them like a lifeline.
He gathered the items and returned them to the valise. Daventry would want to examine everything. They needed a man with his knowledge of devious devils, one not so invested he might lose his damn mind.
In the corridor, he nearly collided with Mrs Boswell. Worry pinched her features, along with the pitying smile that said nothing in his life ever went to plan.
“I saw Lady Rothley leave with Mr Daventry,” she whispered, glancing about to be sure they were alone. “I hear she’s wanted for questioning at Bow Street.”
Hellfire. Olivia must have told her. “Is this where you tell me I should have heeded your advice and waited before summoning the vicar?” he said curtly.
“No, my lord. It’s where I say you were right to act in haste.”
