There was only one thing that made sense to her. Someone else had gained access to her matches—the research, the samples, the business case—and was passing it off as their own.
Confusion shifted, melded into fury. Whoever he was, he would not win. She had a week to identify the criminal and collect the evidence she needed to prove to Lord Chester that the matches were hers.
As they walked, her mind ran through all the people who could know enough about what she was working on to be able to execute a deception like this.
“Andrew, is there anyone you can think of back home who would want to sabotage this venture?”
“Sabotage? No, miss. Especially not after…”
Especially not after last year’s riot. Jeremy’s death had stunned their small village. It had brought them together rather than driven them apart. No. It wouldn’t be anyone from home.
She sidestepped a woman towing three kids in a line behind her. There was Sir Humphry. He was intelligent enough to see the true value of her work and would understand how it operated. But she couldn’t believe that a man of science would blatantly steal someone’s discovery. The theft of intellectual property was against their code. Besides, he wasn’t a Scotsman.
“What of His Grace’s staff? Could ye see any of them stealing my notes? Sharing them with others?”
Andrew shook his head. “They’re loyal folk, miss. Near worship the duke. Working against you would be seen as betraying the family.”
Family.Was that how the staff saw her? She wasn’t, though.
Family.An ice-cold shiver ran down her spine. A Scotsman with access to her work. Surely not. What possible reason could he have?
Money.Her father had been complaining about money for as long as she’d known him. Even when she’d pointed out ways in which their lives were rich, he’d been fixated on how poor they were. It was the sight of those lords and ladies in expensive carriages pulled by fine horses that had triggered his desire to start a riot last year.
Yet he hadn’t mentioned money once since arriving in London. Not even when he was surrounded by the extravagance of Edward’s home. That certainly should have set him ranting. And if he had been spending time with Tucker as she believed…
It wouldn’t have been the first time Alastair had chosen an illegal venture over her. It was why he left her back in Scotland, after all.
Ye’r a smart lassie. Ye kin come up wi’ some aught else.
She should have suspected then—the moment he’d shown such sudden interest in her and such little concern for what was happening.
“Andrew, has my da been around th’ house recently?”
“Not since you took him through your lab. Before, you know”—he gestured with his hands—“boom.”
Boom.
The fury already writhing through her veins began to boil. “Hail Swinton please, Andrew. We’re going to visit my father.” And she’d be damned before she walked to him again.
Chapter 25
The crumpled scrap of paper on which her father had scrawled his address was still in her bag, where she’d stuffed it in frustration after their last conversation.
Andrew’s face when he opened the carriage door to exit was hesitant and mildly alarmed. When she alighted and got a good look at the neighborhood her father had chosen to reside in, she could understand his reaction.
It was old. The street was narrow. More refuse than expected lined the gutters and the pavement. There was a sharp odor of urine and horse feces and rotting fruit. The buildings were covered in soot and the windows were dim, as though no one had bothered to clean them in decades.
She could hear angry shrieking from inside a building, but outside all was quiet save for the barking of dogs. The entire street had come to a halt, all eyes on Ed’s very fine ducal carriage and on her. Some of the expressions were benign—merely curious about the well-dressed lad who’d arrived. Other expressions were more speculative, and Fiona felt more vulnerable than she had since that long walk from Scotland.
“I’ll go with you, miss,” Andrew said.
“That’s not necessary.” After all, it was her father she was visiting. He was idiotic and selfish and ofttimes criminal, but he would not hurt her. Not intentionally. Not physically.
“Iwillgo with you, miss.” His hands were fisted by his side and a crease had formed between his brows. Behind him, Swinton bore a similar demeanor.
“Very well.”
The inside of the boardinghouse where Alastair was staying was dark, cold, and dingy. They climbed a set of narrow stairs, her gloves sticking to the banister until she released it and held her satchel with both hands.
