Chapter 7 - The Ledger of Secrets
The rain returned by Thursday, drumming a relentless, dreary rhythm against the slate roof of Wexley House. In the magnificent study on the second floor, the Duke of Wexley sat at his mahogany desk, staring at an empty cup of tea that had grown cold hours ago.
The engagement dinner had been a triumph of glittering silverware and polite laughter, but Nathaniel felt hollowed out.
The memory of Clara standing on the marble floor with blood on her hand and defiance in her eyes kept pulling at the edges of his concentration. He knew every servant who had walked the halls of Wexley House for the past decade. Clara Higgins was not a thief. She was fiercely proud, painfully honest, and entirely devoted to her work.
So why had she taken the blame? Why had she looked at Isabella with that strange, terrifying mix of warning and protection?
A sharp knock broke the silence of the study.
"Enter," Nathaniel said without looking up.
The door swung open, and Julian Vance stepped inside, closing it carefully behind him. He looked travel-worn, his boots caked with Southwark mud, his overcoat damp from the storm.
Nathaniel looked up, narrowing his eyes. "You’ve been gone three days, Vance. I sent you to investigate a dismissed housemaid's background, not to tour the slums."
"I found things in the slums, Your Grace," Julian said quietly, walking over to the desk and laying a single sheet of cheap, ink-stained paper down on the polished wood.
Nathaniel glanced down at it. "What is this?"
"A registry record from the parish of St. Jude-by-the-Dock, dated six years ago," Julian said. "And beside it, a hotel bill paid in cash on Tuesday night."
The Duke picked up the papers. His eyes scanned the names, the dates, the signatures. As the meaning of the documents settled into his mind, the room seemed to drop ten degrees. The blood drained from his face, leaving his sharp features carved in pale stone.
"This is impossible," Nathaniel whispered, his voice dropping into a dangerous register. "Isabella's father had her first marriage settlement annulled upon the death of her previous suitor. She was unattached."
"Her first suitor didn't die, Your Grace," Julian replied evenly. "He grew heavily in debt, fled the country for the colonies to escape debtors' prison, and was legally declared dead only because his family paid a corrupt magistrate to look the other way to protect their social standing. But he came back. Two nights ago."
Nathaniel stood up so violently his heavy oak chair scraped loudly against the floorboards. The controlled, unshakable Duke of Wexley was gone, replaced by a man whose fury was absolute and terrifying.
"Isabella knew," Nathaniel said, every word clipped and sharp. "When she accused Clara of stealing the brooch... she wasn't just hiding a missing jewel. She was buying her silence."
"Worse than that," Julian added. "She framed an innocent girl, had her thrown out into the streets, and threatened her with violence to ensure she stayed quiet."
Nathaniel walked slowly to the tall Gothic window, staring out at the grey London rain. He didn't speak for a long time. When he finally turned back to his investigator, his expression was completely unreadable.
"Where is Clara now?"
"She's in Southwark," Julian said. "And she knows everything."
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The Duke reached out, picking up his pocket watch and snapping it shut with a sharp click. "Get your coat, Vance. We are going to pay a visit to Southwark."
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