Read Chapter 15: An Unseen Ally

The apothecary’s shop reeked of rue and dried lavender, the herbs swaying gently in the draft from a cracked back window. Cordelia stood behind the counter, hands braced against its worn wood, staring at the space where the master apothecary had once mixed her tincture. The crossed-swords card burned in her memory like a brand.

Samuel Finch emerged from the shadows of the dispensary, wiping his hands on a stained apron. His eyes—young, too knowing for an apprentice—met hers without flinching.

“You shouldn’t have come back, my lady,” he said. “The constable has been asking questions about the master’s death.” He paused. “And about you.”

Cordelia lifted her chin. “Then he will be disappointed to learn I know nothing of poisons or quarrels.”

“He might not be the only one asking.” Samuel moved toward the door and slid the bolt home with a decisive click. The sound echoed in the narrow shop, sealing them in. “But you’re not here about the constable, are you?”

“I’m here about the card.” Cordelia withdrew the tarot card from her reticule—she had kept it, against all wisdom—and laid it flat on the counter. Crossed swords, their hilts entwined with thorns. “The same card was beside two dead men. One was your master. The other was a man I hired in London. And I saw the same symbol on a gentleman’s cuff.”

“Sir Hugh,” Samuel said quietly.

The name struck her like cold water. “You know him.”

“I know of him.” Samuel’s gaze flickered to the front window, and he lowered his voice. “And I know the debt he collects isn’t money. It’s older than coin, and it follows the Ashworth name like a hound on a scent.”

Cordelia’s pulse quickened. “How do you know my family’s affairs?”

Samuel was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached up and pulled the collar of his shirt aside, revealing a small scar beneath his collarbone—a brand shaped like a crescent moon, half-healed and puckered.

“I served House Ashworth for nine years,” he said. “Started as a stable boy at the Hall when I was eight. By the time I was seventeen, I was the Dowager’s personal footman. I heard things, carried letters, stood silent while the family argued behind closed doors.” He let the collar fall. “Then I made the mistake of asking a question I shouldn’t have. About a woman. A Marlowe woman. I was dismissed the next morning with a month’s wages and a warning that no one would hire me if I spoke a word.”

“What question?” Cordelia asked.

“I asked why the east wing was sealed, and why the Dowager kept a lock of black hair in her Bible.” Samuel’s mouth twisted. “The hair matched the woman I’d seen visiting the Hall at night, always veiled, always slipping in through the garden gate. The mistress of the house—your grandmother—told me the woman was a seamstress. But seamstresses don’t arrive in Sir Hugh’s carriage, and they don’t leave with tears on their cheeks.”

Cordelia’s mind raced. Emmeline. The Marsh woman her grandmother had purchased the tincture for. The lover in the letters her husband had hidden.

“The woman who disappeared,” she said slowly. “You saw her?”

“I saw her many times. The last time—” Samuel hesitated, his jaw tightening. “The last time, she was pregnant.”

The word hung between them, a grenade waiting to detonate.

“The child,” Cordelia pressed, her voice barely above a whisper. “Was it my grandfather’s?”

“I don’t know.” Samuel shook his head. “But I know the Dowager paid for her silence in more than tinctures. And I know Sir Hugh collected every payment.” He met Cordelia’s eyes. “Your grandmother didn’t buy the tincture for a Marlowe woman because she was kind. She bought it to control her. And when the Marlowe lineage continued to bear fruit, the debts grew thorns.”

The crossed-swords card seemed to burn brighter on the counter between them.

“Why are you telling me this?” Cordelia asked. “You were dismissed. You owe my family nothing but resentment.”

“I owe you nothing,” Samuel agreed. “But I owe Emmeline Marlowe everything.” He took a breath. “She was my mother.”

The words hit Cordelia like a physical blow. She gripped the edge of the counter as the world tilted, reassembled, tilted again. The apprentice—this young man with the brand beneath his collar—was the child of the woman her grandmother had silenced, the woman the Marquess had loved, the woman whose letters lay hidden in the east wing.

“Your mother,” Cordelia repeated, tasting the words. “Then you know about her. About the Marquess.”

“I know my mother loved him,” Samuel said, his voice hardening. “And I know he was too cowardly to acknowledge her or me. I was raised on the kindness of an aunt who taught me herbs to keep me fed. But I watched the Ashworths from the shadows all my life. I took the position at the Hall not by chance—I applied knowing what they’d done to her.”

“And the letters?” Cordelia asked. “The correspondence in the east wing?”

“I don’t know what’s in that room,” Samuel admitted. “But I know the Dowager fears what the Marquess hid there. Every year on her death anniversary, your grandmother burns something in the garden. Flowers. Letters. A woman’s glove. She thinks no one notices.” A shadow crossed his face. “I notice everything.”

Cordelia studied him. He was lean, sharp-featured, with the wary posture of a man who had learned to survive on scraps and secrets. But something in his eyes—a flame that burned too bright—suggested his loyalty ran deeper than mere convenience.

“You said you can guide me,” she said. “Through the underworld of debt-collectors. Where information is traded for secrets.”

Samuel nodded slowly. “Grimsby Lane. Between the docks and the asylum. There’s a market that runs after midnight—not for goods, but for truths. The dealers there don’t accept coin. They trade in secrets, in favors, in debts that can be called due at any hour.” He looked at her, something sharp and calculating in his gaze. “You have a secret worth trading?”

Cordelia’s heart hammered. She had many secrets—her gift, her vow, her cold bargain with the Marquess. But the one that felt most vulnerable, most precious, was the lie she had told early in her marriage, the confession she had given to win him, the thing she had buried so deep she could almost forget it existed.

Almost.

“I have something,” she said carefully. “But I need to know what I’ll get in return.”

“The truth about your husband’s first wife,” Samuel said. “Where she is. What happened to her on her wedding night. And why the Marquess still owes Sir Hugh a debt that can only be paid in blood.” His eyes were dark, unblinking. “My mother’s disappearance, your husband’s secret, and Sir Hugh’s collection—they’re all tangled in the same knot. Untie it, and you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

Cordelia considered him. He was offering her a path through the underworld, a guide who knew the streets—but he was also offering her a bargain, and bargains with strangers who had their own wounds were always laced with blades.

“Why should I trust you?” she asked.

Samuel smiled, and there was no mirth in it. “Because I’m the only person in London who wants to see the Ashworths fall as much as you do.” He paused. “And because I loved my mother, my lady. The way you wish your husband loved you.”

The arrow struck true. Cordelia felt the sting beneath her ribs, the unspoken ache of her cold marriage, the hollow space where affection should have lived. She straightened her spine and pushed the wound aside.

“Tomorrow night, then,” she said. “Grimsby Lane.”

“Wear nothing fine,” Samuel advised. “And don’t bring your husband’s ring. They’ll read it on you like a brand.” He hesitated, then added, “One more thing, my lady.”

“What?”

“The Dowager—your grandmother—she uses the tincture still. I’ve seen the bottles in her chambers.” Samuel’s voice dropped. “And she hasn’t been using them on memory. She’s been using them to forget something. Something she did.” His eyes flicked to the crossed-swords card on the counter.

“Something to do with Emmeline.”

The words settled over Cordelia like a shroud. Her grandmother knew more than she had revealed—far more. And the tincture, the hidden woman, the sealed east wing, the dead investigator—they all spiraled downward, deeper into a darkness Cordelia had only begun to glimpse.

She gathered her shawl, sliding the card back into her reticule. At the door, she paused.

“Why were you dismissed, truly?” she asked.

Samuel met her gaze, and his voice was flat. “Because I asked the Dowager what she had done with my mother’s body.”