The atmosphere in the small office grew decidedly uncomfortable. Norwich’s expression remained pleasant, though his eyes had cooled. He gathered his hat, his movements unhurried despite the tension. “I believe I should leave and give you some privacy,” he said smoothly. “Lady Hereford, please feel free to contact me should you have further questions.”
He turned to Hereford with a slight bow. “Your wife’s work shall make a genuine difference, my lord. You should be proud rather than suspicious.” His voice lowered slightly. “Unless, of course, your concern stems from something more personal than professional.”
Hereford’s jaw tightened visibly. “Be careful, Norwich.”
“Always,” the other man replied with a small smile. He turned back to Amelia. “Good day, Lady Hereford.”
After Norwich departed, Amelia closed the door quietly behind him and rounded on her husband.
“What was that?” she demanded. “You were unforgivably rude to a man who is helping me.”
“Helping?” Hereford’s voice was sharp. “Amelia, the man is manipulating you. His sudden interest in your work, his private meetings—it’s too convenient.”
“Based on what evidence? Vague suspicions and personal dislike?”
“Perhaps he’s covering his own guilt,” Hereford said quietly. “He may be attempting to distract you.”
“That is not evidence.”
Hereford’s expression darkened. “No, but I know men like Norwich. They present carefully crafted facades while hiding their true nature. Just be cautious. That’s all I ask.”
She gathered Norwich’s papers. “I won’t reject valuable information because you dislike the source.”
They stared at each other across an impasse neither could breach.
“Very well,” he said finally. “I can see your mind is made up.”
As he turned to go, she felt a twinge of regret. “Charles—I understand your concern. But perhaps you’re judging him unfairly.”
He paused. “Perhaps. Or perhaps you’re not judging him critically enough.”
*
The offices ofPhillips & Sons, Solicitors, occupied a narrow but respectable building on Fleet Street, just around the corner from the Inns of Court. Malcolm Phillips had been her brother Steven’s school friend and was now theReview’slegal advisor. His willingness to meet with her without a male escort was just one of many reasons she had valued their association.
“Lady Hereford,” Malcolm said, rising from behind his desk as she was shown in. “What a pleasant surprise. Though I suspect this isn’t a social call?”
“I’m afraid not,” Amelia replied, setting her portfolio on his desk. “I need to verify some information about factory ownerships before publication.”
Malcolm’s eyebrows rose slightly, but he merely nodded and examined the papers. “Penridge Works in Whitechapel… Harrison is listed as the owner here.”
“Yes, but I have reason to believe the actual ownership may be more complex,” Amelia said. “Is there any way to determine who trulycontrols these operations?”
Malcolm tapped his fingers on the desk, considering. “Not easily. Most manufacturing concerns are private arrangements, partnerships shielded by all manner of legal instruments. The information isn’t publicly available.”
“But not impossible to discover?” Amelia pressed.
A slight smile touched his lips. “For the sister of one of my oldest friends? I might have some resources.” He stood. “Give me a day or two. I’ll see what I can uncover about these particular factories.”
“I’d be most grateful,” Amelia said.
*
The clock hadjust struck midnight when Charles found Amelia still hunched over her desk in the small library, surrounded by stacks of documents related to Crown Street Textiles, some of which he’d obtained for her. The single lamp cast long shadows across her face as she made careful notes in the margins of what appeared to be factory inspection records.
“You should rest,” he said, setting down two glasses and a decanter of brandy. “These documents will still be here in the morning.”
Amelia looked up, blinking as if emerging from a trance. “I’ve found something,” she said, ignoring his suggestion entirely. “Look at these inspection dates.”
