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“I learned he made a deal with the magistrate to give information, and it seems as if those he named got wind of it.”
“So they were going to silence him by making it look like an accident at the London Tower,” Joan deduced.
“Exactly, which would likely have worked, had you not discovered the forgery of the sentencing papers.”
“I wonder…” Joan opened the second letter. With a gasp, she read through the sentencing paper, so much like the first, but like it a forgery. “They are wanting the prisoner moved.”
“From house arrest… Makes sense. It’s easy to have an ‘accident’ when on the move. Any number of things could happen. It could be as simple as sabotaging the wheel of a carriage or spooking the horses.”
“Indeed, there are a million ways to do murder. However, this proves their intentions. But these are directions to locate and eliminate this man, Walter Brewer. Is that the name of the prisoner?”
“Indeed,” Morgan answered.
“So, those men…”
“Were to intercept you—Saint—to keep you from getting this particular forgery.” He shook his head. “Ironic that you stole the very paper they were trying to keep from you.” A dark chuckle slipped from his lips.
“But I wonder…” Joan turned the page over, studying it. “Morgan, this paper, the seal…it’s forged but done so well… Could someone have infiltrated the magistrate’s office?”
Morgan pinched the bridge of his nose. “I would like to say no, but it would most assuredly make sense, especially if this Mr. Brewer could name the traitor.”
“That would certainly motivate someone to have him silenced permanently,” suggested Joan.
“A traitor in the magistrate’s office could easily slip pertinent information to whomever paid highest, or perhaps they were planted in that office to do that very job. Regardless, this needs to be investigated and stopped.”
“I suggest you start by talking to Mr. Brewer and finding protection for him. Seems someone wants him dead.”
“Indeed,” Morgan agreed, then turned to leave the room. “I’m heading to the office. Please, stay here and allow me to do this.”
“I always do. I only intervened when you did something half-cocked,” Joan replied with derision.
“I will not confirm or deny your allegations, only stay.” Morgan pointed, nodded, and then left. “I’ll return this evening, and I’ll be sure to let you know what we found out.”
“Be safe!” Joan called out.
Morgan was already down the hall, calling for his carriage.
Joan sighed. This was the part she hated most, the waiting.
Because between the excitement of it all, there was a great deal of waiting.
Twenty-nine
After dispatching a letter to Joan first thing in the morning, Rowles sat down with the family solicitor. The arrangements for the funeral were easily delegated to the funeral furnisher, who would see to all the details, giving his mother the remembrance she deserved.
The nurses attending his mother had washed and laid out her body, then proceeded to drape the entire room with black baize cloth. The furnisher would see to the hiring of the mutes, mourners, and jobbers to transport his mother’s coffin to the family grave site, where she’d rest forever beside his father.
Rowles leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. The sensation of relief over his mother’s death warred against the guilt he suffered for feeling that way, and he was at a loss for how to address either. The funeral would be held the next evening, and he’d say his final goodbyes to the woman who gave him life. He’d choose to remember the good, the times of peace and health—not the slow, methodical destruction the malady had wreaked on her life, and the lives of those around her. It was over, and he’d been fighting for far too long.
He rose from his desk and called for a footman to ready his carriage, then thought better of it. Penderdale House wasn’t far, and he needed to move, to walk, to have a moment of fresh air. He would look to the future, and that future held one woman—Joan. He desperately wanted to see her, hear her voice, revel in the intelligent conversation and kind spirit that had utterly taken his soul captive. In a word, he needed her. Collecting his hat, umbrella, and coat, he stepped out the door and started down the elm-lined street toward Grosvenor Square.
As expected, the light English rain was cleansing and refreshing, wiping the air of all the soot and dust and leaving a gentle fragrance in its wake. The leaves of the elms quivered as the small drops landed on them, a soft pattering noise following his progress as the rain touched the sidewalk. In less than fifteen minutes, he paused in front of the Penderdale door, knocking once.
The butler answered quickly, stepping aside to allow him entrance. “Your Grace.”
Rowles nodded his appreciation. “Is Lady Joan receiving callers?”
With a nod, the butler led the way to the library. Rowles followed, his heart quickening with anticipation. He stepped into the well-lit room, and his soul immediately found peace as he took in her tender look.
