“You will not be alone,” Edmund said, because he could not help it.
Cook’s gaze snapped to him, her dislike of men evident in her gaze and posture.
Edmund checked himself and inclined his head. “If you hear anything or need anything, send Sophie.”
Cook grunted. “Aye. I can do that.”
Elise looked briefly at Edmund, and the smallest gratitude passed across her face before she schooled it away. It was enough to make him absurdly aware of himself—absurdly aware that he cared for her approval.
He did not like that realization. Elise led him away from the kitchen to a narrow cupboard beyond the pantry which contained spices, preserves and strong tea, among other items. She shut the door, and the hum of the kitchen dulled.
“My husband,” Elise began, “left unfinished work.”
Edmund came to attention instantly.
“After the war, he tracked stolen arms,” she said. “Not petty smuggling—betrayal.”
Edmund felt the name rise unbidden. “Singleton.”
Elise did not flinch—yet her shoulders tensed, and he knew he had struck a tender chord. The name did that to her becauseit belonged to the man her husband had hunted. The name did that to him because it belonged to his brother.
“Yes,” she said. “Charles pursued him. He knew Singleton had men along the coast: Men who worked in secret; traitors who sent stolen arms to enemies.” Her voice grew steadier as she spoke, as though the act of recounting facts permitted her to regain command.
Edmund listened without interruption. He forced himself not to reveal too much. He forced himself not to betray the personal stake that thickened his throat when she spoke the name again.
“They thought the organisation to be ended,” Elise continued. “After Singleton was killed, Charles’s cipher should have died with him but it appears someone is using it again. Blake saw it on a scrap of paper at the tavern.”
“They therefore believe you possess the key,” Edmund said quietly.
He watched her fingers clench, then relax. He could see her struggle with the question of whether or not to trust him.
“Where is it?” he asked.
Elise hesitated. Then, with a movement that Edmund deemed a concession made under protest, she moved some jars and opened a small hidden door nestled behind them. She reached for a plain metal canister within and unlatched it.
Inside the canister lay a packet wrapped in oilcloth.
Edmund held his breath. He had expected cunning; he had not expected the simple brilliance of hiding secrets in the one place no gentleman would dream of searching without being mocked.
She unwrapped the packet quickly. It contained letters, a small notebook, and a folded sheet of correspondences—symbols to any untrained eye, but to his, a map.
“The cipher,” he murmured, “which you can read—and Blake?”
Her silence confirmed it.
Edmund exhaled, slow and controlled. He felt an odd, unwilling admiration, not only for her courage but for her competence. She had not merely kept this cipher, but understood its value and its danger, and had guarded it well.
“We need a plan to find the ledger,” he said.
“Yes,” she replied, “but I will never hand over the cipher.”
“They will be back. They are not to be toyed with. They have already shown they are willing to kill for what they want. Nothing is worth your life, Elise.”
“Charles died for this.”
Edmund watched her and felt something twist within him. Not pity, precisely—he hated pity—but something akin to sympathy, perhaps. This was Charles’s hand lingering in her life; his voice, his legacy, and the last thing she possessed that had not been taken by sea or Crown.
He wanted to ask her if it was worth dying for, but he refrained. They stood in silence until a caller came knocking, which echoed through the house. They hurried to the front of a house, finding a post-boy at the door.
