“I cannot speak of such things, m’lord,” Tom murmured, his accent marking him as Yorkshire-born despite years in London service. “I have a position to maintain and a family to feed.”
“We are not here to cause you trouble,” Victoria said gently, settling onto a wooden bench nearby, deliberately placing herself at a less threatening angle. “We simply need to know the truth about a note you delivered to the Lyons’ Den last April.”
Tom’s face paled, the scar standing out even more starkly. His gaze darted between them like a trapped animal. “I do not know what you mean, m’lady.”
Rees withdrew a leather purse from his coat, setting it on the rough wooden table with a weight that suggested considerable contents. “There is enough here to set you up in your own business. A shop, perhaps, or a small inn outside London. Away from men like Sterling.”
The footman’s eyes fixed on the purse with longing, but fear held him rigid. “His lordship—Lord Sterling—he has influence. Connections. If he learned I had spoken—”
“Lord Sterling is ruined.” Rees’s voice carried certainty. “His debts have been called in, his engagement broken, and his social standing destroyed. He has no power to hurt you now, but we need proof of what he did to prevent him from hurting others.”
Tom’s shoulders sagged, the fight leaving him with visible relief. He rose, moving to a battered chest in the corner, and withdrew a piece of paper that had been folded and refolded so many times that the creases had worn soft.
“I kept it,” he said, handing it to Rees with shaking fingers. “Lord Sterling gave me written instructions. Very particular about the timing and such. I knew it was not right delivering a false message to a lady, but he paid well and I had debts of my own.”
Victoria watched Rees unfold the paper, her breath catching as she recognized Damian’s distinctive hand—the same aggressive strokes, the same flourishes. The instructions were clear: deliver the enclosed note to Lady Victoria Richmond at half past ten exactly, ensure she goes to the south garden alone, speak to no one about this arrangement. The promised amount for this service was noted at the bottom—enough to pay a footman’s wages for half a year.
“Would you testify to this?” Victoria asked, keeping her voice gentle, understanding the courage it took for a servant to speak against a gentleman. “If we could ensure your protection?”
Tom nodded slowly. “Aye, m’lady. What his lordship did... it was not right. I have daughters of my own.”
They left the Wexfords’ service entrance with Tom’s promise to remain available and Sterling’s instructions secured in Rees’s breast pocket. But their investigation was far from complete. Tom had mentioned that Sterling boasted about knowing a man who could “make any document look authentic.” The footman had overheard an address—a room above a gin shop in Whitechapel.
The carriage could not navigate the increasingly narrow streets as they moved deeper into London’s less savory districts. Victoria pulled her cloak tighter as they proceeded on foot, Rees’s hand protectively at her elbow as they picked their way through refuse and puddles. The gin shop squatted between a ragpicker’s and a pawnbroker’s, its windows so grimy they might have been painted black.
The stairs to the upper room groaned under their weight, and the door at the top stood slightly ajar, revealing a cramped space lit by a single oil lamp. The man within—thin, nervous, with ink-stained fingers—looked up with alarm as they entered.
“I-I run a legitimate copying service,” he stammered before they had even spoken, which told Victoria everything she needed to know about the legitimacy of his work.
Rees closed the door behind them softly. “Mr. Crane, is it? You recently completed a commission for Lord Sterling. Several letters, supposedly in a lady’s hand.”
Crane’s face went gray. “I do not know what you mean.”
“The Metropolitan Police might be very interested in your work,” Rees continued. “Forgery is a capital crime, after all.”
“It was just copying practice!” Crane burst out, sweat beading on his forehead. “His lordship provided samples and said he needed them replicated f-for a theatrical production.”
Victoria stepped forward. “We are not here to see you hanged, Mr. Crane. We simply need proof of who commissioned these forgeries.”
With shaking hands, Crane opened a ledger, pointing to entries from the previous week. Sterling’s name appeared clearly, along with detailed notes about the commission—five letters to be written in feminine hand, aged to appear six months old, content provided by the client. The payment amount was substantial, and Sterling had signed for receipt of the completed work.
“He was very particular,” Crane whispered. “Said they had to be perfect, had to fool even close examination. I used old paper, mixed ink to match the era, even added perfume like a lady might use.”
“You will swear to this?” Rees asked.
Crane nodded miserably. “If it keeps me from the gallows, I will swear to anything true.”
They left Whitechapel with their evidence secured—Sterling’s instructions to Tom, Crane’s ledger entries, and testimonies promised from both men. As their carriage wound back toward Mayfair, Victoria felt the first real hope she had experienced since those whispers at the opera. They had proof now, real evidence that Sterling had orchestrated both the original trap and the recent forgeries.
***
The carriage wheels rolled steadily over the cobblestones as they left Whitechapel behind. Victoria pressed her hand against Rees’s arm, feeling his warmth through the wool as she contemplated the battle ahead. The evidence they had gathered rested between them in Rees’s leather portfolio: papers that could destroy Sterling if presented at the right moment, in the right way, before the right audience.
“There is to be a ball next week,” she said, her voice steady despite the weight of her proposal. “Hosted by the Duke of Thornbridge. Everyone who matters will attend, the entire ton in one place.”
Rees glanced at her, understanding immediately where her thoughts led. “Including Sterling?”
“His arrogance will not let him hide. Absence would be seen as an admission of guilt.” Victoria tightened her grip on his sleeve. “If we are to expose him, it must be before witnesses whose word cannot be questioned. The Duke’s ball provides that opportunity.”
