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Chapter Twelve

“ I t is kind of you to visit us, Your Grace,” Lord Heswall said as they strolled. “When you enquired about visiting Georgie, I was pleased. I don’t think I expressed my gratitude enough when you rescued him.”

Spencer found himself in the main village of Everdawn early that day, having left a message with a steward to alert his wife that he would be gone for the day.

Now, he was wandering the fields with the father of a family he had gotten to know very well since his return, having rescued their son when he had tumbled down an empty well several months ago.

Behind them, the family’s modest house grew smaller, and Spencer breathed in the warm air.

“You do not need to thank me,” he reassured, surveying the land around them. A farmer nearby was hacking away at stalks of wheat while another lugged a bale of fresh hay to the stables at the other end of the field. “Anyone who heard his cries for help would have helped.”

“Not many men in your position would have stopped, but you did. You saved Georgie’s life.”

Spencer was uncomfortable at the praise. Who would not have rescued someone in need? Still, the words lingered: not many men in your position would have stopped. It brought to mind his wife’s insistence that gardening was not beneath her.

He had been wrong.

“He’s recovering slowly, but he is alive,” Lord Heswall continued, smiling at him. “That is more than we could have hoped for that day when you pulled him out of the well. His broken leg hurts, but the doctors are still positive he will walk again.”

“Of course, do feel free to ask for help should you need it,” Spencer offered. “I know a great many physicians and have enough money to cover any costs, should you not be able?—”

“Oh, Your Grace, I could not.”

“Lord Heswall, when it comes to family, one must take any help they can get. And I wish to provide it.”

Lord Heswall nodded. “You are a good man, Your Grace.”

Spencer did not know what to do with the compliment, so he cleared his throat. “You go to London for business often, do you not?”

“I do, Your Grace. Why do you ask?”

“Lord Follet recently sent me a wedding gift but left no return address. I was wondering if you have seen him recently—I wish to thank him, you see.”

“Ah. I have not but—” Lord Heswall gestured to the man who was cutting the wheat. “This is Eddie. He has recently come to work for me, and I believe he was employed by Lord Follet before seeking the position here in the countryside. Eddie! Come over here for a moment.”

Without hesitation, the farmer approached them, his rugged face friendly and open. “What can I do for you, Lord Heswall?”

“This is His Grace, the Duke of Everdawn. He is enquiring about Lord Follet. I was just explaining that he was your former employer.”

Eddie straightened up and gave him a wary look. “He was, Your Grace,” he said carefully.

Spencer paused, studying him carefully. “And why did you leave his employ?”

Eddie hesitated, his eyes flicking to Lord Heswall before he spoke. “Begging your pardon, My Lord, but I don’t know how much I ought to say.”

Lord Heswall let out a quiet chuckle. “Come now, Eddie. His Grace is a man of honor; you can speak plainly with him. If there’s something worth hearing, he’ll know how to make use of it.”

That seemed to reassure Eddie. He gave a small nod.

“Wages, mostly,” he began. “His Lordship was often in town, attending meetings, scheming, making money hand over fist, but we stopped seeing much of it. I worked as a gardener at one of his London townhouses. I asked to be moved to his country estate, but he refused. Said it wasn’t in use enough to justify the expense.

Truth be told, folks say he’s got a hand in everything, always chasing some profit. ”

“I see. Anything else worth mentioning?”

Eddie scratched the back of his neck. “Not from me, but Thomas there”—he nodded toward the man lifting bales of hay—“he has a distant uncle who is some sort of accountant in London. Knows more about Lord Follet’s dealings than anyone.”

Moments later, Thomas joined them. He was younger, his blonde hair as bright as the wheat around them.

“Lord Follet?” he echoed, after being brought up to speed.

“Sure, I know of him. My uncle, Elias Larkin, keeps his books. Well, more so his shipping business with Lord Belgrave. Only minor ledgers, mind you, but… Well, my cousin is a private man. He does his work, goes home, and lives a quiet life. However, he mentioned that he’d received logging requests for larger transactions of late.

It’s all coded, he says, but it’s tied to the ports.

He believes that the gentlemen have come into something big.

Horses or something, and that’s what the codes are for. Maybe Italian steeds.”

“Elias Larkin, you said?” Spencer asked, committing the name to memory.

He thought back to what Eleanor had said—something about women being crammed onto a ship.

Women… horses…

Could it be the lead he had been looking for?

Thomas nodded. “That’s the one. His office is on Garnet Street if you’re looking to bet on horses.”

Spencer only smiled tightly. He nodded his farewell to both servants and resumed his walk with Lord Heswall, ensuring that he did not end the conversation too quickly, too suspiciously.

Lord Heswall mentioned his eldest daughter’s upcoming betrothal to a neighbor’s son and invited him for a small celebratory dinner being held later that week.

“It would be an opportunity to meet Her Grace,” he said.

Although Spencer loathed the idea of parading themselves as a couple in front of strangers and furthering the pretense, he nodded as though he was eager.

“Indeed. I am sure she will be thrilled.”

And knowing the Duchess, she would be.

Elias Larkin was a young accountant who looked timid yet intelligent behind round spectacles as he greeted Spencer later that day.

The journey had been long, but Spencer had refused to stop, not wanting to rouse Eleanor’s suspicions; it would only mean more questions.

“I have heard you are the man to visit when discussing potential bets,” Spencer said, making himself comfortable on the chair opposite. “And business.”

“I am, Your Grace. Are you looking to open an account for betting solely?”

Spencer considered for a moment before nodding. “My finances are healthy, but I wish to keep such activity more discreet. Perhaps under a false name. Do you offer such services?”

Elias swallowed and nodded. “I do. All very quietly, of course.”

“Of course.” Spencer nodded, playing along. “I would hate to be caught losing a bet, you see. It would be horrid for my reputation.”

He pretended to pick his nails, nothing but a young duke wanting to avoid the humiliation of losing anything.

“You can choose an alias,” Elias assured him. “But first let me serve you some tea, Your Grace. While I prepare it, please feel free to think of a name you would like to use.”

He left quickly, not wanting to keep a duke waiting.

Spencer wasted no time at all, hurrying to the other side of the desk and sifting through papers.

Thomas had said that the transactions were recent.

Surely Elias would still be sorting through those records.

He scanned the entries, one ear strained for the heavy tread of the accountant’s footsteps.

He skimmed over several names he recognized, but they were all clean accounts. Nothing but business.

He growled in frustration, not wanting to leave with a dead end behind him. Surely there had to be?—

Ah.

He stopped, marking a spot in the open ledger before him.

He—r—Lewis—llet.

It must have been a full name, but it had been partially scratched out. The name was matched to a transaction marked as medical supplies coming into London . The shipment was routed to a minor dockyard that Spencer knew was more secluded than most. Southgate Dockyard.

He committed it all to memory and was back in his chair by the time Elias came in with a cup of tea and set it before him.

“Did you think of a name, Your Grace?”

“Yes,” he said.

His mind briefly wandered to the library at Everdawn, where he had been surprised by a wild, brown-eyed woman who had risked so much to warn her friend. A woman who could not think fast enough on her feet.

Spencer felt a smile curve his mouth.

“Open an account in the name of Lord Oakwood.”

When the Duke still had not returned by the late afternoon, Eleanor looked for another way to keep herself busy. As she entered her room, she found Frances preparing her gown for dinner that evening.

“It does not look as though His Grace will return for dinner,” she noted, a hint of frustration in her voice. “Does he often disappear for so long without a word?”

“His Grace remains unpredictable and unquestioned, Your Grace,” Frances said cleverly.

They might not be able to question it, but Eleanor could—and would .

“I wish to venture into Everdawn Village. The estate is beautiful, and the sun is not so harsh today. Will you accompany me?”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Frances was on her feet in an instant.

Before long, Eleanor’s stomach was fluttering with nerves as she rode in the carriage toward the heart of Everdawn.

She did not know why she was so nervous. Perhaps she worried that the villagers would gossip about her like the ton did in London. They must have heard the rumors at some point, and she did not want to be judged by that.

When she ventured into the village, several heads turned to stare at her, but not in disgust or judgment. No, she was met with curious, interested looks. She met their eyes, receiving curtsies and bows once they realized who she was.

Everdawn Village looked like something out of an old fairytale. It had quaint buildings, and the shops crowded around a small fountain where children chased one another. A fiddler danced as he played, and older children laughed, following him, skipping in time with the tune.