Page 50 of A Daring Pursuit

“I can see I’ve shocked your delicate sensibilities,” she teased. “I also write pamphlets forThe Chartist Movementand other activist groups. I’m paid for most, but some I do gratuitously. There is a grave injustice in how women are treated. Even for men who are not of significant means and I don’t know where to start when it comes to the children. So many.” The regular biases rippled through her. “I cannot and will not be silenced.”

“I’ve never heard the like,” he said slowly. “How does that work, exactly?”

“Like you mentioned, I must have a way to provide for myself. I do enjoy eating. Frocks and petticoats, while mandatory, are not my priority. I’m teasing, of course. The factof the matter is, someone must stand up and be heard. And, I warn you,” she said, smiling. “If you are faint of heart, I suggest we table the conversation.”

He returned her smile. “I don’t doubt it.” They walked on in silence for a time until he broke it. “Your passion makes me almost wish to believe our relation familial.”

She stopped. “I do believe that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me,” she said before a rustle from the trees alerted her instincts. Instincts she’d honed that had served her well in some of the most dire of London neighborhoods.

The glint of a shiny dagger sailed through the air with sharp precision—aiming straight for Julius’s heart.

*

Noah entered themorning room, where a fire blazed in the large hearth, tamping the chill. Even should a heatwave send the temperature to twenty-seven Celsius beyond the castle walls, inside the temperature would likely register at four—in the height of summer.

Winfield entered and oversaw the pouring of strong coffee by a maid he didn’t recognize, reminding him of the loss of Hicks. “Where is Julius?” Noah asked.

“On a walk with Miss Wimbley.”

Panic shot through him, sending his pulse in an erratic fury. “Surely not.” He spun back for the door. “There is a killer about. Have they forgotten and lost their bloody minds?”

“They immediately returned inside,” Winfield said in that stoic manner. “Then meandered through the halls and left by way of the door that faced the cliffs.” He finished mildly with, “I also sent Fletcher to follow. At a distance, of course.”

Noah stopped, his pulse immediately slowing. “Oh. Well, yes, er, my thanks.” He took his seat at the table and drummed his fingers on the heavy oak. “Um, how long have they been gone?”

“Fifteen minutes, perhaps.”

Noah hadn’t slept well through the night. Julius’s normally good-natured features, haunting Noah’s dreams with shock and hurt. There was an imperative need to talk. Confess, actually. Noah had difficult truths with which to enlighten his brother. Now that Father was gone, there was no one who knew the complete story of Julius’s beginnings. But he, Miss Wimbley, Mrs. Knagg, and perhaps Uncle Sander could piece the events together.

There was one thing in particular, however, that still required addressing: that small package that had fallen when Father had laid Julius in Noah’s lap. He preferred knowing exactly what secrets he was up against. One thing of which he was certain, whatever had been in that parcel was surely the ruby locket Miss Wimbley sought.

Unfortunately, he hadn’t seen it since the night Julius had entered their lives. He could only think of two places his father would have stashed it: the master chamber or the safe in the study.

It had been so long ago, Noah could hardly recall any details. His only glimpse had been the chain itself. He didn’t doubt her claim that she wanted it for its sentimentality. Gold was scarcely valued at four pounds per troy ounce on the open market.

He downed the entirety of his coffee. It burned down his throat. He pushed from the table and strode to the door. “Winfield, I’ll return to break my fast.”

This was likely his only opportunity to search the safe undisturbed. Fewer questions. Noah stalked to the study, straight to the portrait of his father and, ignoring the familiar smirk eyeing him, unlatched the painting from the wall. He tookthe key from the desk and, with much less struggle than before, opened the safe and pulled out all the contents, dropped them on the desk, then slipped on his spectacles.

Noah set aside the ledgers and the stacks of vowels then rifled through a few stacks of private correspondence. It was what he found beneath the sheaf of papers that stopped his breath. With light fingers, he lifted the wrapping he barely recognized from so long ago. A piece of aLondon Timesbroadsheet. He smoothed out the yellowed paper and read:23 January 1828– Duke of Wellington Forms New Tory Government.Noah had been too young at the time to understand the political implications. Three years later, when he’d finally left for Eton—trepidation notwithstanding, in having to leave Julius behind—there was little he recalled on discussions beyond those of cursed Latin lessons, cricket games, and horrid meals.

He glanced inside the wrapped paper and his shoulders fell.

Empty.

It was certainly the original paper. He’d never told a soul what he’d witnessed that night. Hell, the minute Father had set Julius across his knees and told him to name his brother, his focus had become single-minded. Julius had been the pet he’d always wanted.

What a little terror he’d been. A wry smile touched him at the thought. The times he’d badgered the wet nurse who’d turned out to be a sot, then terrifying the nursemaid until Verda had stepped in and put a stop to his juvenile bullying.

Father had never taken to Julius. But then, he’d never taken to any of them. His sporadic visits home had left Noah as both mama and papa to an infant and he would not have given up a single moment.

Noah dropped into the chair and pulled off his spectacles. He rubbed his eyes, then drummed his fingers on the desk. Whatcould have happened to the contents? And… when had they disappeared?

The logical answer was Father. Noah needed to search the master bedchamber.

The sound of uneven steps penetrated and Noah stood as the door crashed back, hitting the wall, rattling the nearest framed artwork.

Tears streamed down Isabelle’s face. “Oh, Noah, it’s horrible.”

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