I braced to hit limbs and gain a mouth of dirt, but Patience grabbed my good arm and pulled me into the window.
Holding her tight, I refused to let go. That loud heart of mine roared. It might not be in my chest anymore.
“All is well. Look at me, Jemina. All is well.”
My lungs sounded like whistles. “Thank you.”
“I’m sorry, Jemina. A better friend would find an easier way into the building and not force you to face your fears.”
“Not scared of all high places, just ones where we can’t use stairs.”
I squeezed her tight, like she’d awakened me from a nightmare. “You’re the best. The sooner we retrieve Mrs. Cultony’s custody papers, the sooner we can return to His Grace and enjoy hot tea on the ground.”
“Oh, please don’t let Busick discover we’re . . . well, you know . . . we’re ah . . . um at the Lincoln’s Inn without an invitation.”
Moonbeams boring through the fog highlighted Patience’s tawny eyes. She knew this was a burglary even if all we took was paper.
From her pocket, she pulled out two candles and lit one for me, one for her.
I caressed the silky column. The scent of honey from the burning beeswax reminded me of innocence, but what was innocent about fire? We were guilty of doing wrong to make things right.
Patience shrugged. “We’ll have to check all the desks for Widow Cultony’s prosecuting barrister.”
Four desks.
Two were cluttered with books and notes bound with scarlet ribbons.
Another was piled with papers falling into a chair.
The last, by a hazelnut-brown-colored sofa, drew me. Neat, orderly, it would be a fast search. The precision of the center pile alone, how it sat equidistant from the edges was mesmerizing. What type of man would take such care?
With my candle, I admired this barrister’s clever hand, his humored questions of a witness’s testimony in the margins.
The handwriting, it looked familiar.
This was Barrister Thackery’s script. This was his desk.
My pulse exploded. He noticed everything. This felt worse than burglary, like a violation. My stomach soured as it had with the burnt caramel.
“Patience, why would Lady Shrewsbury have us enter an office where her nephew worked? Couldn’t he get the paperwork?”
“Maybe she doesn’t want him involved anymore. That’s one less desk to search. He’d never take a case against a cheated widow.”
She was right.
The man was honorable as much as he was ornery. “Let me put things back, so he’ll find no fault.”
I brushed at the stack, patting the edges, risking paper cuts. The pages wouldn’t behave. They shifted and poked out.
Breathe. I’d have to take my time and lay the pages down. One after the other, I organized them. Then I saw my surname, St. Maur. I looked again and read my whole name—Jemina Monroe St. Maur.
It felt strange looking at my name, the one I had to relearn these past two years. It held no life—no memories I could grasp.
“Jemina, did you find something?”
“My marriage contract, Jemina Monroe to wed Cecil St. Maur. What type of name is Cecil? Why not something with passion, like Caesar?”
Patience came and lifted the paper. “Jemina St. Maur. Could there be another Jemina St. Maur?”
