“Calm down, Whitmore,” Ryleigh intervened. “Do you really believe I would allow you around my sister if I suspected you of treason?”
“Go on,” he bit out through a clenched jaw.
Tatton took up the explanation. “We’ve reason to believe your manager is the culprit smuggling contraband bound for a liberal uprising. If I’m wrong, then please,enlightenme. If I’m right, then you’ll see I only wish to learn the source.”
The instinct to defend Faulk, to deny Tatton’s assertions, surged through Emerson. But the better route would be to prove the man wrong. He inclined his head almost grudgingly. “All right.”
But Tatton was not finished in that well-modulated voice of his. “Or perhaps you’re deeper in this mire than you care to admit.”
Emerson’s fists grew tighter. Before he could land a punch, Tatton turned to the table behind him and opened a small leather folio, unfastening the strap with quick precision. “I don’t deal in rumors alone, Mr. Whitmore, as Ryleigh can attest.” He drew out a slim file of papers—ledgers, copies of manifests, receipts with notations in his neat hand. His spectacles caught the light as he tapped the top sheet.
“These bills of lading, for example. The official records declare a shipment of woolens bound for Lisbon.” He slid another sheet atop it. “Yet the duplicate, intercepted from a clerk with loose morals, lists the same ship and date—only here it carries silks and brandy. Contraband, sir. And this warehouse is the recorded point of origin.”
He let the words sink in before turning another page.
“Here is a lease agreement. On paper, Whitmore’s Wholesale Warehouse is yours, sir. Yet a secondary tenant pays in coin, no name, no signature, passed by hand in dockside taverns. Never the same one.” He lifted his eyes to Emerson’s. “Of course, there are a myriad amount to choose from. You see my difficulty.”
Oh, he did indeed.
Tatton tapped his fingers atop the folio, eyes narrowing behind his spectacles. “Tell me, Mr. Whitmore—can you denyMr. Haber has access to such damning information? Shipping ledgers, duplicate manifests, rent receipts…all flowing fromyourwarehouse.”
Red clouded his vision. Was it true? Was Emerson keeping company with traitors?
Tatton did not flinch. “I am suggesting you consider the men closest to your operations before digging in your heels, sir.”
Emerson gave a short, incredulous laugh. There was only one person he trusted enough with hisoperations. He just couldn’t fathom that Tatton was implicating him.
He slid the first paper forward. “Perhaps you can explain this signature, authorizing a delivery that never arrived.” Another sheet followed, neat columns inked in Faulk’s own hand. “And here, where the tonnage of the cargo is altered between the original record and the copy held at customhouse.”
Emerson’s throat went dry. He skimmed the documents, recognizing his warehouse seal, the familiar scrawl of Faulk’s name. He shook his head sharply. “There must be an error, some clerk’s mischief, a forgery—”
“Possible,” Tatton allowed, his voice cool, “but unlikely. The patterns repeat. Always through this warehouse. Always underyourmanager’s watch.” His gaze lifted, steady and unyielding. “So, Mr. Whitmore, if not you, then who?”
Tatton closed the file with deliberate care, binding the strap once more.
“You see my quandary, sir. The evidence points here—your warehouse, your seal, your man. And yet”—his eyes narrowed behind the glint of his spectacles—“your words ring with conviction. Either you are a liar of rare skill, Mr. Whitmore, or you have been betrayed beneath your very nose.”
Emerson’s teeth ground. “But Faulk would not—”
“Then prove it,” Tatton cut in, his voice as precise as the click of a gavel. “You know your men, your ledgers, your warehousebetter than anyone. I know how such schemes are constructed, how the Crown will test and break them. Together, we may discover whether your loyalty has been misplaced—or whether another hand forges your manager’s name.”
Yet Emerson knew Faulk’s signature as well as his own.
The duke, silent until now, inclined his head. “It seems to me you have little choice, Whitmore. If you are innocent, this is the only path to clear your name…and to my sister.”
Emerson’s pulse jumped at the mention of Rose, anger and determination tangling sharp in his chest. That they should dare use her as leverage—but blast it, they were right. For her sake as much as his own, he could not walk away.
Tatton adjusted his spectacles. “I propose we allow the next false shipment to proceed. With your cooperation, Mr. Whitmore, we will trace the hand that authorizes it, and see who truly profits when the cargo disappears.”
“Oh, yes,” Emerson bit out, tempted to storm the two blocks to his own warehouse and confront Faulk head-on. “Indeed, we shall proceed with my full cooperation. In fact, I’ll head over right—”
“One moment, Mr. Whitmore. I must insist allowing the Crown to do their deed,” Tatton said.
Ryleigh cleared his throat. “Mr. Whitmore and I were on our way to Canterbury, Tatton. No need to worry over him.” He speared Emerson with a daring look. “That is correct, isn’t it?”
One fist flexed and squeezed a couple of times before Emerson gritted out again, certain his teeth were peril of cracking, “Yes.”
Two days. That was all he would allot them.
