Eleanor’s stomach clenched at that phrasing. The same cold certainty she’d heard in every stamped order.
“You are the blank,” Graham said, voice flat.
Halford did not flinch. “C2,” he mused. “Your Miss Hargrove is clever. But cleverness is not immunity.”
Eleanor rose from behind the barrels before her courage could hesitate. She stepped into the lane, catalogue in hand.
Mordaunt’s mouth curved. “There she is. I knew she was nearby.”
Halford’s pale eyes fixed on Eleanor as if she were a line item. “Miss Hargrove. You have been most inconvenient.”
Eleanor lifted the catalogue. “So have you,” she said. “Right up until you put your own handwriting on my father’s work.”
Halford’s expression did not change, but irritation flickered small and telling. “It was never your father’s,” he said. “He was a keeper of records. That is all.”
“And you are a thief of people,” Eleanor replied.
Mordaunt clicked her tongue. “Such melodrama. He is a patriot.”
Eleanor’s gaze cut to her. “You host traitors for entertainment.”
Mordaunt smiled, unbothered. “I host everyone. It is what keeps me amused and safe.”
A new set of footsteps sounded on the planks.
Halford’s head turned.
From the fog behind him, a man emerged with easy grace, as though he had been born in lamplight. Colin Westcliff, Lord Highwood held a sheaf of papers in one hand and a pistol in the other, the latter hanging loosely at his side as if he’d prefer not to mention it.
“Undersecretary,” Colin said pleasantly, “you are trespassing in rather the wrong sort of warehouse.”
Halford’s jaw tightened. “Highwood.”
Colin lifted the papers. “Warrants. Proper seals. Proper signatures. A tedious amount of paperwork, really. But you do love paperwork.”
Behind Colin, two men fanned out—quiet, competent—taking positions that turned the wharf into a net.
Mordaunt’s gaze sharpened. “You brought soldiers.”
“Clerks, mostly,” Colin replied. “I find they do the job with less blood and more accuracy.”
Halford’s composure held, but his eyes flicked once to the river.
Graham moved before he could. He stepped in close, satchel held up. “It is over.”
Halford’s lips pressed thin. “You think because you have the satchel you have the story.”
“No,” Eleanor said, and surprised herself by how steady her voice was. “We have the pattern. And patterns do not lie.”
Colin’s smile widened by a fraction. “Miss Hargrove, I could kiss you for that sentence.”
Graham’s glare was immediate.
Colin’s brows lifted. “An expression, Sinclair.” He gestured, and his men moved in.
Halford did not struggle. He simply straightened his cuffs as though preparing for a committee meeting.
Mordaunt, however, stepped back in one small, calculating retreat.
