The private roomsat White’s club offered quiet amid London’s bustle. Hereford sat surrounded by financial records while Steven Thornton studied banking figures by the window, his expression grim.
“The ownership structure is deliberately convoluted,” Hereford muttered. “Holding companies within holding companies, all leading nowhere.”
“By design,” Patrick replied. “To shield the true owners from liability.”
The door opened, admitting Carlisle, his normally cheerful countenance replaced by urgency. “This couldn’t wait,” he said, placing a portfolio on the table. “My bank discovered something significant about Crown Street Textiles.”
He opened the portfolio, revealing documents bearing the London Bank’s seal. “The quarterly profits have been consistently directed to a single beneficiary.” His finger tapped a name that made Hereford’s blood run cold: Robert Benson Brydges, Viscount Norwich.
“You’re certain?” Steven asked.
“Entirely. Norwich has been sole owner since 1829—six years before Lady Hereford’s accident.”
Hereford began to pace, cold fury building. “He’s been manipulating her. Feeding her information about other factories to distract from his own operations.”
“There’s more,” Carlisle continued. “He personally reviews all expenses above twenty pounds. An extended medical treatment would have crossed his desk.” He extracted another document. “And he’s been systematically acquiring competing textile operations—often after tragic accidents depress their share prices.”
“Building an empire from others’ misfortunes,” Steven said with disgust.
“We need to speak with someone who was there,” Hereford said. “The foreman—Peter Moore.”
“Then it’s time we paid him a visit,” Steven agreed.
As they gathered the damning evidence, Hereford felt something shift inside him. The careful distance he’d maintained from his wife’s crusade had burned away, replaced by a fierce and immediate need for justice.
