Roderick glanced at him. “I did.”
James shot him a look. “You woke me.”
“Yes,” Roderick replied without apology. “Because you were finally asleep and I had just found something that would not wait.”
James exhaled through his nose. “You enjoy this far too much.”
“I enjoy not watching you destroy yourself,” Roderick said evenly. “When I saw the payment ledger, I knew we were done circling.”
James frowned. “The ledger from Harrowby’s steward?”
“From the man above him,” Roderick said. “Someone who prefers properties no one claims and debts no one traces.”
James’s gaze lifted toward the house ahead, the silhouette jagged against the sky. “So you followed the money.”
“I followed fear,” Roderick replied. “This address appeared twice in accounts that should never have intersected.”
James’s jaw tightened. “And you were certain enough to drag me out of bed.”
Roderick nodded. “Certain enough to risk your temper.”
James was silent for a moment, then said quietly, “If you are wrong.”
“I am not,” Roderick said.
James’s eyes remained fixed on the estate. “Then whoever is inside has been waiting.”
“And so have we,” Roderick replied.
“Andthisis the place?” James kept his voice low.
Bare hedges pressed close on either side, the branches reaching like fingers toward the road. The sky was the color of pewter, and the wind carried the damp chill.
Roderick rode beside him, cloak pulled tight. “As certain as I can be without dragging the owner into the open.”
James glanced at the sagging gate ahead. “This is not an estate. This is a ruin.”
“That is why it is useful,” Roderick replied. “No one watches what they assume is already dead.”
James dismounted before the gate and studied the property beyond it. The house sat back from the lane, dark and oddly still, ivy choking sections of stone. Several windowpanes were broken. The grounds had not been tended in years.
And yet.
James’s eyes narrowed. “There are tracks.”
Roderick followed his gaze to the muddy slope near the side drive. “Carriage wheels. Recent.”
James pushed the gate. It complained loudly, but it moved. He stepped through, boots sinking into soft earth.
“Who owns this?” he asked.
“Technically,” Roderick said, “a distant cousin of a baronet who died without heirs. It has been tied up in disputes for years. No one lives here.”
James looked toward the house. “Someone is living here.”
They approached in silence, the crunch of gravel underfoot unnaturally loud. James kept one hand near his coat pocket, where he had concealed a small pistol. He did not want to use it. He had begun carrying it anyway.
Roderick glanced at him once. “Do you intend to shoot someone today?”
