Page 17

Chapter Seventeen

Daniel had barely slept. He’d held Elsa in his arms as she cried herself to sleep—her kin’s betrayal cutting to the bone—and spent hours staring at the ceiling, his mind awash with confusion.

Magnus had given Daniel no reason to doubt him. But what was his goal in this treacherous game? To prevent Elsa from marrying Denby? To silence Lord Grafton because Magnus had stolen money from his father through the fraudulent schemes?

None of it made sense.

Every answer led to more questions.

None explained why Magnus would want to shoot Elsa.

As if hearing his silent torment, her hand brushed his chest, the soft touch pulling him from his reverie. He drew her closer, her warmth easing the weight of his burden but not the nagging fear he might lose her.

“Did you manage to sleep?” she said, her voice husky.

“A little.”

She propped herself up on one elbow, her hair mussed and soft against her bare shoulder. “Hopefully, Mr Daventry will get the truth from Mr Charmers during today’s interrogation. He might have lied to us last night. Lied about Magnus, I mean.”

He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, unwilling to suggest she was being naive. “Yes, there’s a chance.”

“You sound doubtful.”

“Because we’re missing something vital: a motive for these heinous crimes. Until we discover the missing link, we don’t know who to trust.”

She cupped his cheek, forcing him to look at her. “But you do trust me? You don’t believe any of that nonsense at the perfumer’s or The Raven Hotel?”

“I trust you, Elsa. As I hope you trust me. But now you mention it, perhaps I should question the staff again.” This time, he would follow the men from work and confront them in a dank alley. Somewhere they’d be less inclined to lie.

“But not before we visit Islington and Harrow,” she said. “Every clue my mother left has a purpose. It’s the meaning behind them we’re missing.”

And questions still lingered about Finnegan and Mrs Tate, who had both vanished without a trace. It was another mystery they were no closer to solving.

“We could take Clara with us.” He couldn’t bear the thought of Clara sinking into melancholy. He wanted her to feel she was gaining a sister, not losing a friend.

“Clara is with the countess today, assisting with preparations for the masquerade ball. It’s good for her to have something to focus on.”

He agreed. Allowing Clara to stay at The Grange these last two years had been another mistake. Guilt gnawed at him, the scar on her face a constant reminder of that night her life took a harrowing turn. Earning her forgiveness would take more than a lifetime.

“I owe the countess a debt of gratitude,” he said. “She’s been a true friend to Clara while we’ve been running about town, chasing answers to a puzzle we can’t seem to solve.”

“While there may be confusion surrounding Mr Carver’s fate,” she replied, her fingers gently tracing his pectoral muscle, sending a silent message that she wanted to do more than talk in bed, “at least we’ve solved one small puzzle—we admitted we’re in love.”

“Deeply in love,” he breathed, a profound tenderness tightening his chest. With rising urgency, he rolled on top of her, settling between her soft thighs, the weight of his words and his body a quiet promise he intended to keep.

They kissed, his lips melding with hers. He knew the taste of her like he knew his own heartbeat. For years, he lived with the knowledge she would never be his. Even now, as he entered her slowly and they both moaned in ecstasy, he feared fate had other plans.

St Mary’s Church,

Upper Street, Islington

They arrived in Islington at noon. St Mary’s Church, a structure of grey stone with a towering spire, dominated the landscape. Beyond the iron railings, the graveyard stretched in solemn stillness—a sea of headstones, some epitaphs softened by time and covered in creeping moss.

“Hopefully, the vicar is inside the church.” Elsa scanned the road. Cynthia Wright’s home was only a minute’s walk away. “If not, we’ll try the vicarage. And if that fails, we’ll knock on doors along Upper Street and ask about the Wright family.”

It was her first time in Islington, yet everything felt strangely familiar, as though she had walked these streets before. Indeed, its quiet charm and quaint streets reminded Elsa of how her grandmother once described Oxford.

“The church door is open,” Daniel remarked, escorting her through the iron gate. “Is that not an invitation to enter?”

Inside, the vicar stood bent over the lectern, his fingers tracing the passages of the Bible in the quiet space filled with old oak pews. Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass window, casting a soft glow on the stone floor.

Hearing the echo of their footsteps, he looked up. “Good afternoon. What brings you to St Mary’s?”

“We seek the Lord’s help in solving a problem,” she said, coming to stand before the pulpit. “I hope you can spare the time to offer some insight.”

“Admitting to a problem is the first step on the path to redemption.” The creases around the older man’s eyes deepened as he smiled. “Let me climb down and we can find somewhere comfortable to talk.”

The vicar invited them to sit in a pew and joined them there, listening intently as they recounted their incredulous tale. Nevertheless, she only mentioned the shooting and not Mr Carver’s murder.

“And so you see, we have exhausted every avenue except for exploring the cryptic clues hidden within my mother’s ex-libris. I hope they’ll explain why someone desperately wants to hurt me.”

The vicar fell silent as if waiting for the Lord to whisper words of guidance. “Hmm. And you think you might find the answers in the church register? ”

“Why would my mother list both dates if they were not important? Why mention the church, Miss Wright, and an address on Upper Street?” There was a reason the clues centred around Islington.

“Indeed. Though I recall no parishioner with that name.”

“Do you have the register to hand?” Daniel asked.

“Well, yes. They’re in a stone vault below ground. If you give me a few minutes, I can locate the records for 1778.”

She released the breath she had held since her father said she had to marry Lord Denby. The day her heart broke in two. “We would be most grateful if you could.”

The vicar left them alone.

They sat in quiet reverence, the stillness a contrast to the chaos of their recent lives. Elsa’s mind drifted back to their wedding day. A ceremony with no guests, just two people bound by circumstance and a secret love in their hearts.

“This is the first time I’ve been to church since we married,” Daniel said, staring at the stained-glass window as if contemplating the meaning of life. “The Lord gave me the world in one hand, then snatched it from the other.”

She reached for him, twining her fingers with his. “Surely we have a reason to celebrate. I’m yours, Daniel. As it was always meant to be. And if it comes to it, perhaps we can offer Lord Denby restitution. A financial settlement to avoid further scandal.”

He hung his head. “Something tells me it won’t be that simple. What if your brother is to blame for our troubles? I’ll struggle to forgive his betrayal.”

She refused to believe Magnus was the villain. But he had to be involved somehow. At best, he was a dreadful coward.

“I have something for you.” She reached into her reticule and removed the gift she had put there two days earlier— when she had secretly eaten the chocolate truffles. Turning over his hand, she placed two shillings in his palm. “These are tokens: one for loyalty, one for trust. In giving these, I agree to stand beside you no matter what you decide.”

His eyes locked with hers as his fingers curled around the coins. “I shall cherish them always. I would die to protect you. Never forget that.”

She wanted to kiss him, to pour every ounce of love she felt for him into one intimate moment. Although they sat apart, her heart leaned into him, her eyes caressing his lips in a kiss they could not share in church.

The shuffle of footsteps and a man’s mumble saw the vicar return. Daniel rushed to help him carry a heavy tome.

“As luck would have it, I found an entry in the marriage register on the date mentioned. This is the ledger pertaining to that union, which includes names of those who married and any witnesses.”

Although too excited to sit still, Elsa gave the vicar her full attention. “Which of the two dates relates to a marriage?”

“The day in February.”

Daniel laid the tome on the pew and opened the book. It took the minister some time to find the relevant page.

“Ah, here it is. Miss Cynthia Jane Wright married Clarence Alaric Montague Denby on 9th February 1778.”

“Denby?” Elsa clasped her chest as her heart galloped. “Any relation to the current Lord Denby? Is there mention of an address in Mayfair?” This was more than she had hoped to discover.

The vicar peered at the elegant script. “They were married by special licence, though the groom was from the Parish of St George, Hanover Square. So, yes. He must have lived in Mayfair. ”

She contemplated the information. While she had met with Lady Denby and her son at Edenberry on many occasions, she knew very little about their family history. In her heart, she wanted to marry Daniel. What did Lord Denby’s background matter?

“I’m afraid the names of the witnesses shed little light on the groom’s relationship to a member of the aristocracy. Present at the ceremony were Miss Josephine Stenson and Mr Terence Parkes.”

Elsa shivered like ghostly fingers had traced her spine. “I beg your pardon? Are you certain? May I see the entry?”

The vicar gestured for her to come closer. “Of course.”

Feeling somewhat apprehensive, she examined the entries in the register. The names of her grandparents were unmistakable, forever marked in ink. “Josephine married Terence months later. Though she was already with child when they made their vows.”

Daniel turned to her. “You know those people.”

She smiled. “Yes, they’re my maternal grandparents.”

While Daniel’s brow furrowed, the vicar asked, “Was your mother baptised here in St Mary’s?”

“I’m not quite sure. She was raised in Oxford, so it’s unlikely.”

“There is no record of any ceremony occurring here on the day your mother was born. I can search for her baptism record, though it would take half an hour to scan the ledgers.”

“There’s no need. We’ve troubled you enough.”

“Nonsense. Come back in half an hour. I’ll see what I can find. Most babes are baptised within the first week of birth.”

They left the vicar to his work and returned to the carriage.

“I’m not sure what to make of the information,” she said, settling into the coach seat. “We’re still no closer to understanding what my mother was trying to tell me.”

Daniel stroked his jaw while in thought. “Your grandparents must have known something about the Denby family. A secret Clarence mentioned. The couples must have been close friends.”

“My mother never mentioned them. Not once.” She had painted an idyllic picture of her life in Oxford. Sadly, Elsa’s grandparents were blessed with only one child. There was no other family to ask.

“Rothley is a walking edition of Debrett’s. He will know who Clarence Denby is. We’ll invite him to dine with us tomorrow. We should have received news about Charmers’ confession by then.”

“What shall we do while we wait for the vicar?” She let her gaze wander over her husband’s physique. He sat with his legs spread wide, the fabric of his trousers clinging to his strong thighs.

A twinkle of mischief lit his eyes. “I know what you’re thinking, but we have an hour’s ride to Harrow. Let’s save our energy for a more thorough exploration of what it means to be married.”

“What a shame we’re not travelling to Geneva.”

Would she ever tire of these amorous games?

Would she ever tire of him?

Never. Not if they shared a thousand lifetimes.

They put the time to good use, asking after the Wright family in the dispensary and haberdashery. No one recalled Miss Cynthia Wright. No one knew Elsa’s grandparents either.

Despite searching the baptism records, the vicar could find no evidence of a child born to Josephine and Terence Parkes.

“It’s possible my mother was baptised in Oxford.”

“Yes, though I did find a record of another baptism.” The vicar held a thinner ledger in his hands, open at the month of August 1778. “Cynthia and Clarence Denby had their daughter baptised here on the 12th August. They named their child Diana.”

Again, it meant nothing.

Then slivers of an old conversation drifted into her mind.

If I had my way, I would have called you Diana, but Grandmama insisted I call you Elsa .

Had there been a falling out between friends?

Her grandmother had insisted she learn the art of axe throwing, stating a lady should never forget her heritage. Had she anticipated Elsa would have to fight for her life one day?

They thanked the vicar for his help, with Daniel offering a generous donation to the church funds, and returned to the comfort of their carriage.

Rather than stare at the countryside through the window, Elsa spent most of the journey to Harrow with her skirts bunched at her waist while straddling Daniel’s impressive thighs.

He instinctively knew what she wanted, what she needed.

To lose herself in him, not thoughts of why her grandparents had never mentioned Clarence and Cynthia Denby … or what shocking secret her mother had kept … or what was so significant about a marriage recorded in a church register … or why any of it should matter to her.

Desperate to quieten her mind, she kissed him with a fervour reserved for the women of Shadowmere, a ravenous hunger driving her to clasp his cheeks and anchor her mouth to his.

But this was not lust in its most wicked form. It was pure passion and a love that sang from the depths of her soul.

He gripped her hips as she rode him with enough force to chase away the ghosts. Each stroke sent a pulse of pleasure to her toes, but it was the intensity of her love for him that undid her completely.

She wanted to stay in this perfect moment, where nothing existed but the two of them—no past, no pain, no threats, no creeping fear that their days together were numbered.

“I could spend my life journeying from town to town,” he uttered, his throaty groans drowning out the noise in her mind, “having you every mile in between.”

His hands moved over her body with a frantic reverence, from her hips to her bottom, up her back, before plunging into her hair.

“I hope we never reach Harrow,” she panted.

“Perhaps we should watch for the milestone.”

“No. Don’t stop, Daniel.”

Never stop loving me.

Harrow on the Hill

Middlesex

After making enquiries, they found the Reverend Preston-Jones at home in a stone cottage with a thatched roof, tucked behind a line of hawthorn trees where the village gave way to open pasture.

Despite his ninety years, the reverend stood tall, his spine as straight as the trees beyond his garden. A shock of white hair framed a face lined with wisdom rather than weariness .

Daniel introduced them. “This may sound odd, but we’re here to discuss Josephine Parkes, née Stenson. She was my wife’s grandmother and a witness to the marriage of Clarence and Cynthia Denby over fifty years ago.”

The gentleman smiled like the Lord had blessed him. He clapped his hands together in prayer as tears welled in his eyes. “I knew you would come before I met my maker. I told Mrs Trotter, I won’t leave this earth until a terrible injustice is set right.”

“Mrs Trotter?” Elsa inwardly sighed. Not someone else they needed to question. Her mother had gone to extraordinary lengths to hide one wicked secret.

“The kind woman who delivers my evening meals.” The reverend opened the door wide and beckoned them over the threshold. “Finally, after all these years. I’m not afraid to admit I had almost given up hope. But the Lord rewards the meek.”

The cottage was modest but welcoming, the faint, musty scent battling with that of dried lavender. Between the worn armchairs in the parlour was a table cluttered with letters and three pairs of spectacles.

“You must call me Thomas,” the fellow said, inviting them to sit in the only two chairs. “Mind the cat. He tends to jump onto the arm, although mainly when I’m reading.”

Daniel waited for her to sit but insisted on standing. “Who told you to expect us? You must have been informed fairly recently.”

“I was given the box, along with instructions, three years ago. As for Clarence Denby, I last saw him before he left London to live in Geneva.”

“In Port Noir?” she surmised.

“Yes, that’s right.” The man’s expression grew solemn. “ Little did I know it would be the last time we would speak on this earthly plane.”

Questions swirled in her mind but she kept her composure, knowing it was important to absorb every piece of information. “Did you know Clarence Denby well?”

Thomas put his hand on his heart. “Like a son. He placed his faith in me. Trust is a treasure not easily given, and harder to restore once broken.”

She heard Daniel’s heavy sigh before he put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “The secret Clarence told you has caused us no end of trouble. I pray there’s a good reason for this elaborate plot to hide the truth.”

“Your wife is alive because Josephine and Terence kept the secret.”

“You knew my grandparents?”

“I knew all four people involved,” he said, a glimmer of pity in his eyes. “Josephine and Terence sacrificed much in the name of friendship. I met them numerous times, but for everyone’s safety, we agreed never to meet again.”

Tired of vague references and cryptic messages, Daniel said with evident frustration, “Forgive me if I sound blunt, but we have been battling for the truth for months. Two men are dead. My wife was shot. We’ve followed a trail of random clues when all we needed was your name and address.”

Elsa gave an apologetic smile. “What my husband is trying to say is: Can you tell us why Clarence Denby’s life should matter to us?”

Thomas raised his hands in mock surrender. “Of course. It’s all so overwhelming that it’s difficult to know where to begin. Perhaps start with your story, and I’ll answer questions as we go.”

Suspecting this was part of a test, Elsa told him about her father’s journal, Lord Denby’s loan and the contract her father signed. “It’s all quite strange. Lord Denby seemed in no rush to marry me. He was happy to wait while I mourned the death of my parents, who died a little over two years apart.”

“Because as long as you were bound by the contract, he knew there was no hope of you marrying anyone else. That’s an important point to remember.”

“But Elsa did marry someone else,” Daniel said before giving a slightly altered version of what happened with Mr Carver. “She was found unconscious in the man’s cottage.” He mentioned the lies at the perfumer and hotel. “Was the motive to ruin my wife’s reputation so she had no hope of marrying anyone but Lord Denby?”

Thomas stood with his hands clasped behind his back, nodding while contemplating the question. “Without a doubt.”

“What makes you so sure?” Daniel asked.

“Clarence came to see me a week before he married Cynthia. He was in love with her, though she had no dowry, and his parents demanded he marry for money.”

“He married Cynthia in Islington.” Elsa thought it sounded rather romantic. Perhaps family pressure led to them living in Geneva. “We’ve seen evidence of their marriage and the birth of their child.”

“Yes, a clandestine arrangement to ensure no one knew they had wed. Well, no one other than their closest friends.”

“Because his family would have tried to prevent the marriage?” Elsa recalled her mother saying members of the peerage could be quite brutal when it came to getting their own way.

“Indeed. But Cynthia was with child. They left England for Geneva a month after their daughter was born. Their friends lived with them near Port Noir.”

Elsa straightened. “Their friends lived with them in Geneva?”

“Yes, for a little over a year.”

That was impossible. “You must be mistaken. My mother was raised in Oxford. I believe she was born there in the same year.”

Thomas shifted his feet. “Brace yourself for shocking news, my dear. News that will explain why you find yourself in this terrible predicament.”

Nerves tightened her chest. Perhaps it was better not to know. To leave this house and flee to Geneva themselves.

But the reverend didn’t deliver the news as though telling a fable—there was no softening of the truth, no gentle moral at the end. “Your mother was the daughter of Clarence and Cynthia Denby, raised by their friends after the couple were slain in their beds.”

Time stopped for a moment.

The world seemed to hold its breath.

A vision of the gruesome scene formed in her mind, except the picture shifted. Suddenly, it was her and Mr Carver, not a couple so desperately in love.

“But that cannot be,” she said, almost laughing at the absurdity of it all. And yet, in her heart, she knew it was true.

“The tragic events of that night are documented in the letters. Clarence had been expecting an attack. No one in Port Noir knew the identity of their friends and presumed they were servants. It’s how they managed to escape with the child.”

She sat in quiet contemplation, past meetings with her grandparents flitting through her mind. The glorious summers spent in Oxford. The day her mother visited Grandmama Josephine’s sickbed but left looking as shocked as she was distraught.

“Your mother came to see me some years ago,” Thomas continued, “after hearing Josephine’s dying confession. She knew if the truth came to light, your life might be in jeopardy. She considered visiting the authorities but knew no one would take her claims seriously.”

“Claims?”

“That Clarence and Cynthia were killed by men hired by his father. She lacked the funds and social standing needed to tackle a powerful family, and prayed the truth remained buried.”

Yet something had changed.

Something that had shifted the tides of fate.

“And so you think someone tried to kill my wife because of these old letters you mentioned? To rid themselves of the problem altogether?”

“Possibly, but I believe I’m the only person who knows about the letters.” The reverend excused himself to take a sip of his boiled water. “My throat gets so dry these days. And where are my manners? I forgot to ask if you would like tea.”

Elsa declined the offer. Her hands were trembling so severely from the shock she’d probably scald her fingers.

“Then let me fetch the box.”

When the reverend left to fetch the mysterious box, Daniel crouched beside her and asked, “Are you all right? The news must have shaken you deeply.”

She nodded, though she was still trying to catch her breath. “I’m almost too stunned for words. It’s the last thing I would have expected. On the bright side, I’m glad we’re making progress. ”

“I confess it was no small revelation,” he agreed. “But I’m still confused as to why your life would be in danger. There was no mention of Magnus. Why would your parents keep the truth from him? If anything happens to Denby, he could have a claim to the barony.”

“Hopefully we will find the answers in the letters,” she said with a deep sigh.

The reverend returned, moving with the ease of someone half his age and carrying a mahogany box. He brushed dust off the lid before handing it to Elsa.

“I pray you find some peace,” he said, his smile warm and sincere. “I pray the past is finally put to rest. However, I feel compelled to offer a warning.”

Elsa swallowed hard. “Yes?”

“Guard the contents with your life.”