Page 41 of An Earl’s Sacrifice (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #3)

Lucius crossed to the desk, his pulse quickening. This was madness, he thought, his fingers hovering over the first ledger. But Thornfield was hiding something—and the duke appeared to be in on it up to his neck. No way in hell would he let them pull Meredith down with them.

He opened the ledger. The numbers swam before his eyes at first glance, but as he flipped through the pages, the irregularities began to emerge.

Large payments to unnamed contractors, odd notations in the margins—details Thornfield had either failed to obscure or didn’t care to disguise for whatever reason.

One entry in particular caught his attention: “Expenses—Special Handling,” followed by an exorbitant sum. Special handling? Of what?

His jaw tightened. He set the ledger aside and reached for a stack of letters pinned under a large bronze paperweight in the shape of a hawk.

A predatory bird that symbolized cunning and dominance.

Fitting. Its bluish oxidation gave credence to the length of Thornfield’s position.

Likely gifted by Rathbourne and his own father for a job well done.

Taking it by its head, Lucius set it aside and lifted the stack of correspondence.

One, written in elegant but hurried script, bore the seal of a prominent member of Parliament.

Thornfield—

The proposed revisions to the Mine Acts could spell trouble for your operation. I trust you’ll ensure compliance is not required, by whatever means necessary. The consequences of failure are yours to bear.

Lucius read the letter twice, the weight of its implications settling over him like a leaden cloak. He folded the paper and slipped it into his coat pocket, determined to examine it further later. Just as he began to replace the stack of missives, another caught his eye.

The familiar handwriting jarred him. What the devil was Noah writing to Thornfield about?

He swept it up, started to open it but his gaze stopped, falling on a locked cabinet tucked against the far wall he hadn’t noticed on his previous visit.

Lucius stuffed his brother’s letter in his coat pocket alongside the other note then strode quickly to the cabinet.

Locked.

The key was easy enough to find—in the top drawer of the desk, lying in plain sight.

Seconds later, the lock gave way with a faint click, and Lucius pulled the cabinet door back to reveal another small journal bound in cracked leather.

He flipped it open and skimmed the pages.

The handwriting varied, as if multiple authors had made entries over the course of many years, but the contents sent a chill down his spine.

Names. Dozens of names. Many he didn’t recognize, of course, but a few were undeniably familiar—former stewards of Perlsea, crossed out with curt notations:

A. Featherstone – resolved

J. Bancroft – relocated

C. Whittingham – relocated

F. Aldridge – removed

At the back of the journal, he found a crude map of the mine, marked with what appeared to be routes and locations. One area was circled, unmarked by any label. Lucius stared at it, unease pooling in his gut. He thought of the map he’d found on Ashcroft’s desk.

A crash outside the office startled him to his current circumstance.

Heart pounding, Lucius stuffed the journal in the pocket of his greatcoat and relocked the cabinet.

He arranged the desk as he’d found it and hurried to the windows.

Voices sounded outside the door. Anson had stopped Thornfield and Rathbourne though Lucius couldn’t make out what was being said.

But time had run out. He unlatched the window and jumped to the ground below, quickly pulling the window to but not quite shut.

Unable to resist the opportunity, he crouched and listened. The conversation was grim. Low and urgent. He strained to catch their words, snippets drifting through the crack in the window.

“The Mine Acts will ruin us if they take it upon themselves to enforce their ridiculous rules,” Rathbourne said, his voice tight with anger. “Ensure that doesn’t happen, Thornfield. No mistakes. And find Pender.”

Thornfield was silent, but Lucius pictured him nodding, his jaw clenched, his face pale, his hands twitching as he adjusted his coat. Then he said, “I’ll find him. Harper said he was hit. He should have been found by now.”

“If he had, the news would have been all over the village.” Something crashed against the wall.

Perhaps it was one of those ridiculous, uncomfortable chairs, he thought with a bite of sarcasm that would do his wife justice.

Rathbourne went on. “It’s obvious he was found, you fool, and that someone assisted him. ”

If they spoke more, Lucius couldn’t have repeated what they’d said for the blood rushing in his ears. Ashcroft had been right. The duke doled out those pesky tasks he didn’t wish to dirty his own hands with.

Whatever was afoot, it was worse than Lucius had imagined. Yet, his worst fear was Meredith being caught in the middle of whatever nefarious machinations were in the works.

He leaned against the building, the cold stone seeping through his coat, chagrined to admit, needing to speak with Ashcroft now more than ever.

With a shaky exhale and the weight of not only the journal but Noah’s letter.

Both burned in his pocket as he made his way around the back of the property and onto the path toward town, keeping from sight, his thoughts churning.

There was more to uncover, and he’d need to tread carefully if he hoped to untangle the web of deceit without ensnaring himself—or Meredith—in its traps.

*

Meredith’s anger no longer flared as if stoked by the fiercest midsummer heat. It only simmered now after losing herself the last couple of hours through the words of a man who’d belonged in Bedlam. She leaned back in her chair with the open journal on her lap.

Truly, Aylesbury was an interesting character.

Almost fiction-like. Especially having written lines like “In shadowed halls where vintages sleep, truths long buried whisper their secrets to those who seek.” Such passages had sounded introspective at times, sensitive.

Other times, so ruthless her skin raised in prickles.

The August passage kept drawing her back. There was something poignant about its phrasing. “ The dead bear witness in silence,” and “ Guilt lies heavier than stone.”

She flexed her fingers, numb from the room’s chill, thinking. A mantra. From all accounts, Aylesbury spoke of hiding something under said mantra. Yet, what? And, where?

The most logical and the worst logical place was the hidden room she and Lucius had inadvertently exposed. It was also the most dangerous. It struck her as the most—too—obvious place to hide something of import.

Wherever the aging marquess had chosen to “hide” whatever “items” he referred to, Meredith was certain she would find those words hanging over said location.

A yearning to share her thoughts with Lucius swelled within her until extinguished in a surge of resentment as a vision rose unbidden of Miss Hale’s arms clasped around his neck.

Meredith had a vision of her own—one of her hands squeezing the breath from him.

She blinked away the hurt and came to her feet.

“I wish you every delight,” she said to the cold room.

Bitterness compressed her chest. Stewing over the images would do her no good.

This quest she was on belonged to her, didn’t it?

What need had she of a husband who showed her such lack of respect?

She’d signed the annulment agreement. He could have his precious Docia.

Her stomach emitted an unladylike growl but she ignored it, snapping the journal shut and tossing it on the table.

She stretched her limbs and rubbed her hands over her arms then spent the next hour touring the forgotten tower.

An unfruitful endeavor. There was no going around it; the hidden library required searching.

Lamp in hand, she stalked down the hall and around the corner to the old library where the dust and dampness hit her with a bitter cold.

She steered clear of the fallen bookcase and poked at papers that had scattered to the edges of the table and onto the floor.

There was nothing of interest at first glance, only a collection of faded folios and crumbling tomes.

But no arch separated the two chambers and no inscription appeared painted or imprinted on the beams overhead.

Finally, the hunger gnawed at her, leaving her too lightheaded to linger over the ancient scripts and take the time to decipher their timeworn glosses.

Perhaps a search would fare better on a full belly.

Just the thought of eating sounded like a better plan at the moment.

And with no desire to see her husband—she was still too angry—she would have plenty of time on her hands, as sleep was likely to elude her in the coming nights.

Meredith took the lamp. In the hall she turned in the opposite direction from which she’d originally entered the tower to the servant’s stairwell.

Three flights down and she exited near Mr. Ashcroft’s office.

It was dark, indicating he was still in the village teaching the children.

Truly, he’d been her best find since arriving in Cornwall.

“Ah. Lady Pender, ye look famished,” Mrs. Verity said.

“How did you know?”

The question was rhetorical since her stomach let out another growl of protest.

Grinning, Mrs. Verity didn’t respond to that, only saying, “Take a seat in the dining room, milady. I’m just waitin’ on a maid to return from the wine cellar.” She scowled. “The duke’s quite particular in his choice of spirits.”