Page 53 of Dukes All Night Long

The Search Begins

Evan

T he study resisted him at every turn. Midnight had come and gone, the clock on the mantel chiming with maddening regularity, marking each hour they failed to find anything that mattered. He flipped through yet another ledger, his shoulders aching.

“My uncle was meticulous to a fault,” he muttered, snapping the book shut. “Every receipt, every letter cataloged like a museum piece.”

Violet balanced on the ladder, fingers gliding over the upper shelves. “Men who keep perfect records often have perfect hiding places as well.”

Evan watched her reach for a dusty volume, the stretch of her body elegant even in concentration. Her hair had begun to loosen from its pins, a few wayward strands framing her face in the lamplight. Every movement she made seemed deliberate, economical—a woman accustomed to searching for secrets.

“You’ve done this before,” he observed.

She glanced down, a hint of amusement in her eyes. “Climbed ladders in ducal libraries? More often than you might think.”

“Found hidden things.”

She fell silent for a moment, her fingers pausing on the spine of a ledger. “Yes,” she admitted softly. “Though usually not with such personal stakes.”

He turned away, scanning the room again.

His uncle’s presence lingered in every corner—in the worn leather chair behind the desk, in the precise arrangement of quills, in the faint scent of tobacco that clung to the curtains.

This was a sanctuary where a man had worked, thought, and ultimately feared.

“He would have kept evidence close,” Evan murmured, more to himself than to Violet. “Something he could access quickly if needed.”

“But also hidden from casual observation,” she added, descending the ladder with silent grace. “Think, Evan. In the weeks before he left—did he spend time in any particular part of this room?”

Evan closed his eyes, reaching for memories. “The desk, of course. But also…” He opened his eyes, gaze drawn to the window seat. “He would often sit there in the evenings. Reading correspondence, looking out at the garden.”

They crossed to the window together. Evan ran his hands along the cushioned seat, feeling for irregularities, while Violet examined the paneling behind it.

“Nothing,” he said after a thorough inspection.

Violet frowned. “What about the floorboards?”

Evan crouched, fingers tracing the edge of the Persian rug. The weave was thick, the pattern intricate—blues and golds that his aunt had selected years ago. He rolled it back carefully, revealing polished oak planks beneath.

“These look seamless,” he said.

Violet knelt beside him, her skirts rustling as she joined him on the floor. The proximity made his heart quicken—her scent, her warmth, the intensity of her focus. She pressed each board methodically, moving systematically across the exposed floor.

“Nothing here either,” she said at last, sitting back on her heels. “Let’s try the desk again.”

They returned to the massive walnut desk. Evan had already emptied each drawer, examined the underside, and checked for false bottoms. Now he watched as Violet ran her fingers along the edges of the blotter, the corners of the drawers, the molding of the cabinetry.

“Your uncle wouldn’t have chosen somewhere obvious,” she said. “But he would have wanted quick access.”

Something about her words triggered a memory. Evan stared at the desk chair—his uncle’s chair—with its worn leather and carefully maintained brass tacks.

“He was always adjusting this chair,” he said slowly. “I thought it was his back troubling him, but…”

He circled the desk and knelt beside the chair, running his hands beneath the seat. His fingers brushed something—a small lever, carefully concealed by the upholstery. He pressed it.

A soft click sounded from the desk itself.

They both froze.

“What was that?” Violet whispered.

Evan moved to the desk again, examining it with renewed attention. His gaze caught on the right-hand drawer—one he’d already emptied and inspected. He pulled it open again, and this time noticed a slight gap at the back that hadn’t been there before.

“Here,” he breathed, pressing his fingers into the space. The false back gave way, revealing a narrow compartment.

Empty.

Frustration burned in his chest. “Nothing.”

Violet placed a steadying hand on his arm. “Maybe he moved whatever was here before he left.”

Evan rubbed the back of his neck. “What exactly are we hoping to find?”

She descended with practiced grace, boots silent on the rungs. “A document—maybe a letter or a manifest. Something that confirms he knew about the irregularities at Sableport East India. Something that explains why he contacted Sir Frederick. Why he was afraid.”

Evan exhaled, frustration burning in his chest. “And why he ended up dead.”

Her hand came to rest on his arm. Warm. Steady. His breath caught before he could stop it.

“We’ll find the truth,” she said.

He covered her hand with his own, their fingers intertwining as easily as if no time had passed at all. “For your mission?”

“That too,” she said—then, more softly, “I’m here for the mission, yes, but I’m also here for you, Evan. You won’t go through this alone.”

The simple declaration unraveled something tight in his chest, a knot of isolation he’d carried since the news of the shipwreck. He hadn’t realized how deeply he’d needed to hear those words until they were spoken.

Before he could respond, his foot shifted. A sharp creak echoed beneath the carpet.

They both froze.

His heart stuttered. “That floorboard shouldn’t creak. Not in this house. Not with the way my uncle’s staff cared for it.”

Together, they shoved the rug aside. The wood beneath looked like any other—smooth, seamless oak. Still, he crouched and ran his fingers along the boards, pressing gently.

A soft click.

He rocked back on his heels as the hidden panel gave way. Inside, a slim leather portfolio rested beneath the floorboards, stamped with the Sableport East India Trading Company seal.

“He was cleverer than they anticipated,” Violet murmured.

Evan lifted it reverently, like it might break apart in his hands. He brought it to the desk and unfastened the clasp. Pages spilled out—shipping manifests, ledgers. Not the official ones. These were his uncle’s personal copies. Notes crammed in the margins, rows of figures underlined.

Maybe his uncle had sensed that the Sableport ledgers would never be scrutinized by outsiders—that only board members would have the authority to demand answers.

So he’d drawn his own copies, annotated every inconsistency, tucked them away so he could eventually share them with someone—perhaps Sir Frederick.

Evidence, not prophecy, a trail of numbers and notations that could arm Evan with purpose instead of grief.

“These are in his hand,” Evan said. His voice sounded distant to his own ears. “Weights that don’t match declared goods. Destinations changed mid-voyage. And this—unregistered passengers. More than once.”

“People?” Violet leaned in. “Agents? Smuggled victims?”

He turned to the next page and stopped. A small, hand-drawn image stared up at him. A black rose. A raven perched on its stem.

His stomach dropped. “The Black Rose Society.”

Violet’s breath hitched. “Sir Frederick always suspected they had ties to Sableport. But he never had proof.”

Evan thumbed through the rest, hands trembling until he found a folded letter. It was addressed only: To Whom It May Concern.

He unfolded it and began to read.

“If you are reading this, I fear my suspicions have proven correct. For months, I have observed irregularities in Sableport East India’s operations…

I confronted Chairman Norwood and received thinly veiled threats.

This morning, I found a black rose on my desk—here, inside my home.

I have arranged passage on the Meridian to deliver the original documents to contacts in Gibraltar and am leaving these copies for safekeeping.

Should anything happen, let it be known I believe Sableport has been infiltrated by an organization known as The Black Rose Society, led by one who signs only as ‘the Raven.’”

The final line blurred slightly as Evan lowered the page.

“He knew,” he said quietly. “He knew, and they killed him before he could expose them.”

Violet’s voice came low, urgent. “We need to find out what they’re moving. See where it leads us.”

Evan spread the pages across the desk. “Unscheduled port stops. Heavy cargo outbound. They were smuggling something.”

“Weapons. Secrets. People. Or worse,” she said.

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The weight of it pressed against his chest—his uncle’s suspicions, the careful concealment, the decision to sail knowing what might happen.

They leaned closer, heads nearly touching as they studied the documents. She smelled of winter and something floral—familiar, haunting. When he glanced up, her face was inches from his. And when their eyes met, she didn’t pull away.

“I’ve missed you,” he said.

“Despite everything,” she whispered, “I’ve missed you too.”

The kiss wasn’t accidental. It wasn’t a slip. It was deliberate, inevitable. He moved in, and she met him with equal force. His hand found her cheek, then her hair. Her fingers gripped his lapel.

When they parted, breathless, it was Violet who spoke first.

“This complicates everything.”

“Everything was already complicated,” he said, forehead resting against hers.

A gust of wind scraped across the windowpanes, heralding a change in the weather, and reality came rushing back.

She pulled away, gaze falling once more to the documents. “We should finish going through these.”

He nodded, throat thick. “Yes. We should.”

They turned back to the desk—closer now than they’d been in years, shoulder to shoulder, searching for the truth in shadows left behind. Whatever came next, they would face it together.

And this time, he wouldn’t walk away.