Page 87 of Surrender Your Grace
“She said Elizabeth wasn’t worth the worry. Between the unpaid bill and the scandal, she’s no longer a valued patron.”
Cici rubbed her forehead. “So we have motive, lack of character, and hearsay—but no proof.”
“Maybe not,” Maggie said, reaching into the stack and pulling out a crumpled, ink-smeared paper. “Look at this. Is the handwriting familiar?”
Cici’s breath caught. “My father had this at the ball. How did you get it?”
“I found it in a drawer in Andrew’s desk.”
“You searched his desk?”
“I needed paper,” she replied without a hint of remorse. Then, hastily redirecting, she held the page out. “Is this your sister’s handwriting?”
Cici studied the curling loops and long strokes. “The E might be hers, but Elizabeth rarely wrote letters. In eighteen years, she sent me only three.”
Maggie perked up. “Do you still have them?”
“Regrettably not. I was so incensed after reading them, I threw them in the fire.”
“Confound it.” Maggie flopped back dramatically. “We need a sample to compare.”
“I’ll get one,” Cici said with sudden resolve.
“How?”
“I’ll arrange tea with my mother when I know Elizabeth is out. Then I’ll find a reason to slip upstairs and search her room.”
“Will Andrew let you go?”
“To visit my mother? Probably, but not without my battalion of commissionaires.”
Maggie nodded, sobering. “I know how hard it is being restricted, but in your case, I agree—it’s warranted.”
Part pain, part steel, Cici declared, “If Elizabeth is behind this, I want to know everything.”
Her dear friend gripped her hand. “And then?”
“She’ll answer for it.”
***
The poorly sprung hackney jolted rather than rolled to a stop on the lane above the docks. The street clamored with the clatter of hooves, the creak of vendor carts, and the shrill cry of gulls overhead. Far from Mayfair’s civility, the world here was raw, loud, and unapologetically grimy.
Andrew drew aside the worn leather curtain and scanned the row of waterfront taverns. The buildings leaned like ships caught in a gale, their shingles curling, shutters long since rotted away.The Devil’s Hatch,their destination, boasted a broken sign swinging from a single rusted chain. Beneath it, a door banged open and shut as patrons came and went—many staggering out.
He checked his pocket watch. Two minutes to four.
Across from him, Duncan drummed his fingers on his knee in a slow, deliberate rhythm.
Henry hadn’t provided much detail in his message—only that he’d found the twitchy bastard and that Andrew was to arrive at the dockside tavern by four o’clock today.
Andrew leaned back in the seat, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the tavern door. His thoughts drifted to the last time he’d met with Henry.
After the bookshop incident, Andrew had expected the man to resign in disgrace. Instead, Henry arrived at Sommerville House the next morning, hat in hand.
“I know I failed you. Your duchess, even more so,” he’d said. “But I’ll work for nothing. Just let me prove I can do better. I will keep her safe.”
Andrew hadn’t answered right away. He’d studied the man—stoic, broad-shouldered, eyes shadowed with remorse—and weighed instinct against reason. Henry was too observant, too quietly cunning, to waste as a simple guard. On a hunch that he was more of a bloodhound than a shield, Andrew had given him a second chance.
