Page 32

“Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.”

—Benjamin Franklin, Poor Richard's Almanack

T he solicitor arrived promptly at half past nine, a leather case of papers tucked under one arm.

He was an unremarkable man, about Peregrine’s age, with a fondness for drab brown suits that matched the colour of his hair and the ability to vanish in any crowded room.

That was fine; Peregrine had no use for peacocks.

Lincoln Frank had first caught his attention back at Oxford, during a seminar.

He’d argued a tutor into a full retreat with line after line of obscure precedent and legal commentary delivered in a way that would make even absurdity sound irrefutable.

He wasn't merely pedantic. He was compulsively correct and not above digging through metaphorical—or literal—muck to arrive at the truth.

Peregrine waved him into the study from behind his desk, gesturing to the seat. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

“Your note left little room to do otherwise,” Lincoln remarked. His voice was mild, but the twitch of a wry smile softened the edge. “If I were in your shoes, I’d be dragging in a tribunal and a priest. Fortunately, I travel lighter.”

Peregrine cleared the desk, watching as Lincoln opened the case and began sorting its contents into neat, methodical piles.

Once satisfied with the arrangement, the solicitor lifted the first stack.

“As you requested, I have been reviewing your family's investments. Some proved straightforward—your interests in the mines and farmland, for example. It is this larger stack that has required the greater share of my attention.”

Peregrine regarded the papers. “What makes them unusual?”

“Primarily their scale. These are minor holdings. A trading company with no more than two ships, a lone warehouse near the docks. Despite that, they are producing substantial dividends on a monthly basis.”

Peregrine’s expression darkened. “That bears every mark of one of my mother's ventures.”

“Indeed,” Lincoln agreed. “With your approval, I will proceed with divesting your interest in those holdings. The final category is little more than names on paper, with no discernible assets beyond a long chain of subsidiaries beneath. The money passes through layer upon layer, making it nearly impossible to determine the true source of their earnings.”

Peregrine leaned back, gesturing for him to continue. “Nearly impossible for anyone except you , you mean.”

“I have sent inquiries to capital cities across the continent and am awaiting replies. These accounts are paying into various banks around London, which makes the process of uncovering them all the more difficult.” Lincoln selected a list from his pile and handed it across the desk.

Peregrine scanned the column of names, running his finger along the edge of the page until it stopped. “Hartwell & Goldbourne? I have two accounts at that bank?”

“The second account was opened three years ago. I discovered it only because I requested a full accounting of the primary one, and a clerk included a note regarding the newer entry. I followed up, but thus far, they have not replied.”

A second account at Goldbourne’s bank. As evidence, it was tenuous at best. For all Peregrine knew, both accounts could be entirely aboveboard. It was not enough to take to the Crown. Not yet.

He asked Lincoln to wait, then rang for Quinn. “Would you be so good as to fetch Mr Edmunds? I have found an opportunity for him to earn his keep.”

A night under the Fitzroy roof had done the old butler no favours. He looked no less haggard than he had the day before, the shadows beneath his eyes like bruises pressed into parchment. But he came at once, executing a polite bow before stepping into the study.

“You offered to assist me. Well, now is your chance. Look through this list of companies and tell me if anything stands out.”

Edmunds drew a quizzing glass from his coat pocket and affixed it to one eye. He read the first page, then the second, before returning them with a slight incline of his head. “There is one queer one—Florey & Sons. I suspect your mother had a hand in its creation.”

Peregrine narrowed his gaze. “And why is that?”

“Mrs Florey was your father’s housekeeper when he and her ladyship married. Your mother pensioned her off shortly before his lordship took ill. She kept a close eye on him, if you take my meaning, sir.”

It did not surprise him. His mother would have considered it a nuisance to share the household with a woman loyal to her husband, particularly one who might have noticed too much.

That she would then use the woman’s name for an illicit business venture—that sounded precisely like the sort of joke his mother found amusing.

The solicitor checked the name against another of his lists, then looked up. “Quarterly dividends into the new account at Hartwell & Goldbourne, my lord.”

Peregrine steepled his fingers together, thinking.

“Thank you, Lincoln. That will be all for today,” he said after a moment. “Quinn, see Mr Edmunds returned to his quarters, and ask Hodges to bring the carriage around. I find myself in need of some pocket change.”

Hartwell & Goldbourne gave no outward impression of impropriety.

Quite the opposite, in fact. Located in a respectable part of the city, the bank spoke of its clientele in restrained displays of wealth.

The carpets were thick enough to muffle footsteps, and the wood panelling had the soft, matte gleam of careful maintenance.

It was the sort of establishment where clients arrived by private conveyance and spoke only to clerks who already knew their name. As Peregrine stepped down from the carriage, he noted the narrow frontage. A deliberate choice, he suspected, to keep casual foot traffic out.

Hodges had the same thought. “Front ain’t no spot to linger. Circle ‘round or wait?” he asked. “There’s a wider street just ahead.”

“Go ahead to the next block,” Peregrine told him. “I do not expect to take long.”

Peregrine stepped through the double doors alone. The air smelled of old paper, sealing wax, and beeswax polish. Behind the counter, clerks bent over ledgers in silence. A bank porter glanced up, offered a shallow nod, and returned to polishing the brass handle.

A younger man approached deferentially from a side desk. Ink stains marked his cuffs, and his eyes flicked over Peregrine’s coat, gloves, and bearing with practised subtlety. “Good afternoon,” the man greeted him. “Have you an appointment, sir, or shall I direct you to one of the senior clerks?”

Peregrine gave him a polite, empty smile.

“There is no need to trouble anyone who may be engaged.

I am conducting a small inquiry. While reviewing some of my late father's ledgers, I came across a reference to this bank. It seems there may be one or two accounts here held in my name, or loosely connected to it. I should like to confirm the particulars, if you would be so good.”

“I would be delighted to assist! It is no trouble at all. What is your name, sir?”

“Peregrine Fitzroy.”

The clerk’s eyes widened fractionally. “ Lord Fitzroy? Oh, dear.”

“Is there a problem with my request?” Peregrine asked mildly. “I ought to have sent word ahead, perhaps?”

“Oh, no trouble, my lord. None at all,” the man said quickly, though his fingers twitched against the edge of his ledger. “It is simply that—well, we were not informed you would be attending in person. Most gentlemen of your rank handle such matters through their solicitors.”

Peregrine’s gaze narrowed. The man was unsettled, and the awkward explanation only deepened his suspicion. Perhaps the clerk had some inkling of the account’s true nature. Or if not the specific irregularities, then at least that it was not meant to draw attention.

Certainly not this kind of attention. Not until the businesses feeding the investment had been quietly folded, sold off, and erased .

A pulse of fierce satisfaction rose in him. For once, he was no longer three steps behind his mother’s creature. He had caught the scent, closed the distance, and now stood near enough to watch one of her accomplices begin to sweat.

He kept his expression carefully neutral, offering a small nod as if the excuse had sufficed.

“I take it, then, that the accounts do exist. Especially given that you recognise my name. That was the larger part of my curiosity, really. And I thought, since I happened to be in the area, I might take the opportunity to see the bank and inquire,” he lied smoothly.

“I understand if Mr Goldbourne is unavailable, as I did not make an appointment?—”

That seemed to reassure the clerk. His shoulders eased, though his chin took on a faintly grim set. “Yes, Mr Goldbourne is not in at the moment,” he said regretfully. “But his partner, Mr Hartwell, will be happy to spare you a few minutes, I am certain.”

Peregrine did not particularly want to meet Mr Hartwell, a man who most likely had nothing to do with anything Goldbourne was up to. But he nodded politely.

“This way, sir.”

The clerk led him past the front counter and into a narrow hallway lined with filing cabinets and closed doors. They passed a stairwell leading upward, but the clerk continued past it, stopping instead at a side door near the rear.

The moment the door opened, Peregrine knew something was wrong.

The light changed first—dim and grey, with the washed-out cast of an overcast afternoon. Then came the smell: coal smoke, sour refuse, the acrid tang of damp brick. Beyond the threshold lay a narrow passage, barely wide enough for two men abreast, wedged between the bank and the building beside it.

This was no office. It was an alley. A way to eject him quickly from the premises while Goldbourne slipped out the front ?