She glanced at him sideways. "You wrote down my observations?"
"I write down everything you say about the letters." His tone was matter-of-fact, his eyes fixed ahead. "You notice things I miss. It seemed imprudent to rely on memory."
Christina pressed her lips together against the warmth that bloomed in her chest and focused her attention on the row of shops ahead. They had discussed this plan the evening before, passing quiet words at the edge of the ballroom while Sophie stood guard nearby. The paper Christina had identified duringtheir letter comparison — cheap, slightly rough-edged, the kind used by clerks and men of business rather than gentlemen — was their most tangible clue. If they could identify the stationer who sold it, they might narrow the field.
The shop they sought was halfway along the Row: Simmons & Hart, Stationers and Paper Merchants, established 1794. The window displayed reams of writing paper in various grades, ordered bottles of ink, and an arrangement of quills fanned across a velvet board. A bell chimed softly as Isaac pushed open the door.
Inside, the air smelled of linen pulp and beeswax. An older man in spectacles — Mr. Simmons himself, Christina presumed — looked up from a ledger behind the counter.
"Good morning, sir. Madam." He nodded to them both with the professional warmth of a man accustomed to serving the quality. "How may I assist?"
Isaac produced the paper sample and laid it on the counter with the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was looking for. "I am trying to identify the origin of this stock. I believe it may have been purchased from an establishment such as yours."
Mr. Simmons picked up the sheet, held it to the light, and turned it between his fingers. "Ah, yes. This is our standard correspondence grade — good quality but not premium. We sell a fair quantity of it." He set it down. "Might I ask why you are interested?"
"A matter of identifying a correspondent," Isaac said, carefully. "Nothing more."
The stationer nodded, apparently satisfied. "We supply this grade to many households and offices. It is popular with solicitors, secretaries, and gentlemen who prefer economy without sacrificing respectability." He glanced between them."I am afraid I could not tell you precisely which customer purchased this particular sheet. We sell several reams a week."
Christina had been studying the ledger open on the counter — a delivery book, its columns filled with dates, addresses, and quantities in a neat, clerkish hand. "Might we see your recent delivery records?" she asked. "If this paper was purchased in quantity and delivered, rather than bought at the counter, there may be a record."
Mr. Simmons hesitated. Isaac reached into his waistcoat and produced a card. "Viscount Coventry," he said, pleasantly. "I assure you, we are not pursuing anything improper. We simply wish to match the paper to a delivery."
The title did its work. Mr. Simmons inclined his head and turned the ledger toward them, opening it to the page covering the relevant months. "Two years ago, you say? I keep records going back five years. Let me find the entries."
They stood side by side, close enough that Christina could feel the warmth of Isaac's arm against hers, and scanned the columns together. The deliveries were numerous — households, chambers of solicitors, government offices, and a handful of clubs. Christina ran her finger down the address column, searching for anything familiar.
"There." Isaac's voice was low. His finger had stopped on an entry dated three days before the forged letters had been sent. A delivery of two reams to a lodging house on Jermyn Street — not a gentleman's address, not a solicitor's office, but the kind of place where a man might conduct business he wished to keep separate from his own name.
"Do you know who resides at this address?" Christina asked the stationer.
Mr. Simmons consulted a separate notebook. "The order was placed by a Mr. Hargrove. Paid in coin, not on account." He frowned slightly. "I recall the delivery boy mentioningsomething odd about it — the gentleman who received the paper was not the same man who had placed the order. A younger fellow, he said. Dark-haired."
Christina and Isaac exchanged a glance. A younger, dark-haired man — it could be anyone, but the use of a lodging house and a false name suggested someone who wished to remain hidden. Someone acting on another's behalf.
"I thank you for your time, Mr. Simmons." Isaac laid a coin on the counter — generous, by the stationer's widened eyes. "You have been most helpful."
Outside, the drizzle had thickened to proper rain. Isaac hailed a hackney and handed Christina in before climbing after her. The cab lurched forward, and they sat in the dim interior, the rain drumming on the roof.
"Jermyn Street," Christina said. "That is not far from Lord Pennington's usual lodgings."
"No, it is not." Isaac leaned back, his expression careful. "But we must be cautious. A lodging house on Jermyn Street could belong to anyone. A date, an address, and a false name will not hang a man — nor even shame him, if he chooses to brazen it out."
Christina nodded slowly, the same taut thread of excitement she had felt during the letter comparison cooling into something steadier. "Circumstantial, every piece of it. We may return to it, if the other threads fail. But what we truly need is a witness. A confession. Someone who will speak."
"Preferably both." Isaac's voice was quiet. "Until we have that, Pennington's name stays off every page we commit to writing."
For a moment something else rose into Christina's throat — a thing her father had made her promise to keep close. The settlement waiting on her marriage. The sort of motive a cold-minded man might bend himself to shape a future around.Tellno one who does not need to know, my dear.Her father's voice in the last weeks of his illness, thin but exact. She had given her word, and she had kept it — she had told Bedford only days before; Sophie had guessed long ago. Isaac did not know. She would tell him, she was certain of that now. But not here, not in a hackney three streets from a stationer's, with so much still unsettled between them. She let the moment pass.
Isaac looked at her. The grey light from the rain-streaked window fell across his face, softening the hard line of his jaw, and something shifted in his expression — admiration, she thought, or perhaps recognition.
"You are extraordinary at this," he said, quietly.
"I pay attention to details," she replied, echoing her own words from their letter comparison. The corner of her mouth lifted. "You have mentioned this before."
"And I shall mention it again." His voice was warmer now, the tension of the investigation giving way to something gentler. "When this is over, Christina — when we have our answers and our path is clear — I would very much like the opportunity to pay attention to nothing but you."
She looked at him, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks and the answering pull in her chest. "I should like that also," she whispered.
