The idea didn’t sound as gloomy as he’d expect. Not when it involved a certain chestnut-haired lady with eyes the color of a summer sky.
Beckworth and Winterhope stepped into the office but refrained from taking a seat.
Max struck a flint for some light and then closed the door behind him. “What is it?”
“The mistakes. The errors in the paper,” Beckworth said.
“What about them?” Had more slipped by that evening? Had he been too distracted by Caroline when he ought to have directed all his attention to his task?
Impossible.
Maybe a little possible.
“They aren’t errors. They’re code,” Winterhope added.
Max froze. Of course. Why bloody else would someone be so damned diligent in their sabotage? He went around his desk and withdrew the latest copies of mistake-ridden papers from the bottom drawer.
He moved the candle to the side and smoothed it open.
And there it was. How the devil had he missed something so obvious? How had any of them?
“It’s the first letter of each mistake. Backwards.”
“Fuck.” Max flipped to the previous edition. “This one is forwards.”
“They alternate.” Winterhope took a note from his jacket and laid it beside the paper. Lines of code, deciphered. “They signify locations. Times. And we think the last number is the price for each delivery.”
Tea. Gotten illegally, traded for opium.
Max did not appreciate being used. Especially when the efforts thwarted his own. He mentally ran through the employees Caroline had suspected.
“Who?” he asked.
“We don’t know yet.” Winterhope frowned. “I’m inclined to think it’s one of your compositors.”
“I’ve considered this.” Max rubbed his chin. “Changing out letters, let alone words, takes a good eye and a steady hand.”
Footsteps sounded somewhere else in the building. Mr. Jones, no doubt, and the delivery boys.
However, the footsteps weren’t random. They grew louder and louder and then…
Max’s door flew open.
“Where the hell is my sister?”
BREAKING MATILDA
Max held up a hand to keep the Earl of Standish from pouncing. But that wasn’t necessary. Because the earl wasn’t alone. Lady Standish grasped his arm, holding him back, doing what she could, Max assumed, to keep the man out of trouble.
“What makes you think I’ve done anything with her?” Max would come clean, when he asked for her hand. But he wasn’t about to discuss his private business openly.
“Because she wasn’t at the ball tonight.” Standish looked fit to be tied. “And when I delivered my mother home, Caroline’s maid said she wasn’t in her chamber—that she had come here—when I distinctly forbade her from working for you. What are you playing at, Black? None of this is proper—or safe.”
Bloody hell. The earl had every right to be upset.
Standish’s countess sent a wary glance in her husband’s direction, but then addressed Max. “She is here, isn’t she?”
“We were running late. I planned on escorting her to your mother’s house when we finished up.” And then he added. “She is… sleeping.”
