Inside, their first encounter was less than encouraging. A young lieutenant waved them toward a desk.
“My lord,” he said, while eyes were skimming through the documents with practiced disinterest. “I’m afraid we have no time for matters of … historical interest. That incident is long past. The men involved have moved on or passed. There is nothing to be done.”
Owen’s jaw tightened, and his blue eyes flashed with resolve. “Then we will remain,” he told him calmly. “We will sit here, all day and all night, if necessary, until someone with authority has reviewed this evidence. We will not leave. We will be seen, and we will present what we have.”
A tense silence filled the office. The clerk blinked, unaccustomed to such unyielding determination. Finally, a door opened further down the corridor, and a senior officer, broad-shouldered and authoritative, beckoned them forward.
“Bring your evidence,” he urged.
They laid out everything: the statements, letters, journals, and the accounts of witnesses, each meticulously compiled and sworn to truth. Owen watched as the officer’s eyes widened, as disbelief softened into astonishment.
“I had heard whispers,” the officer murmured, with his fingers brushing over one of the statements. “That Langley’s conduct was … questionable. But we were assured, repeatedly, that he was an upstanding officer. And yet, this … this is substantial.”
Owen felt Aurelia’s hand brush against his sleeve. They would see this through together, no shortcuts and no compromises.
The authorities suggested they act when Langley arrived officially in London, but Owen’s eyes hardened.
“No,” he refused firmly. “We have labored too long and too carefully to allow the matter to be settled before it reaches its rightful conclusion. We will assure that this matter is brought to a satisfactory end.”
Half an hour later, their carriage followed the military horses, toward the destination revealed by Charlotte Langley. As they drew up before his house, Owen saw at once that the windows were lit, but not with the composed glow of an ordinary evening. Shadows moved too quickly behind the glass. The front door stood open and a footman lingered near the steps with an uncertain expression.
The officer in command stepped down first.
“Secure the front. You two, round to the mews.”
Owen was out of the carriage before the command had finished. Thomas followed, with Carter close behind him.
Inside, the house had the disordered air of an interrupted flight. A trunk lay open in the hall. Gloves, papers and a traveling cloak had been flung over a chair. In the drawing room beyond, the grate burned high, and blackened scraps of paper curled and collapsed among the coals.
Aurelia saw them the same moment Owen did.
“My father’s notes,” she gasped, bending down to pick one of them up, the one which still had traces of handwriting.
They could have been copies of letters and accounts, or some other record of a truth Langley had tried to bury.
“Where is General Langley?” Owen demanded of the nearest servant.
The man’s eyes flickered toward the rear of the house. That was answer enough.
Owen crossed the hall toward the narrow passage that led to the back stairs. The rear door stood open. Cold evening air struck his face. Beyond it, in the lantern-lit yard, General Langley was climbing into a traveling carriage.
Their eyes locked. Langley’s expression didn’t show surprise. That confirmed the truth. He had been warned. And still, until this final instant, he believed himself untouchable enough to escape.
“You are not leaving, General Langley,” Owen demanded.
Langley froze with his hand on the carriage door.
“Westbridge,” he grinned. “I wondered how long it would take you to become troublesome.”
The officers came into the yard behind Owen. Langley’s gaze moved over them. Then, his eyes found Carter.
“You,” he hissed.
Carter took one step back, while Owen moved forward, placing himself between them.
“You will speak to me,” Owen demanded.
Langley’s eyes flashed at him. “You? A boy who once mistook obedience for honor?”
