Read Chapter 16: The Banker's Notice

The bank manager, a man named Pemberton with side-whiskers like drowned kittens, led them through a warren of mahogany and green glass. His keys chimed against his thigh like a set of coward’s bells. Clara kept her gloved hand on Julian’s arm, feeling the hard tension in his forearm through the wool of his coat. Neither of them spoke. The only sounds were the click of their heels on the slate floor and Pemberton’s wheezing apologies for the dust.

He stopped before a door no larger than a pantry’s, marked with a brass numeral: 7. The key Finch had given Julian was dull brass, unremarkable, but it turned the lock with a satisfying, final thunk.

“I shall leave you to your private business, my lord, my lady,” Pemberton said, bowing. “Ring the bell when you wish to be let out.”

Julian waited until the man’s footsteps faded before he pushed the door open. Inside, the room was barely wide enough for two. A single shelf held a japanned tin box, no larger than a cigar case. Julian lifted it down, setting it on the small table that occupied the room’s center. The lid was unadorned except for a scratched initial: *A.*

Clara’s throat tightened. Her father’s mark. He had kept his own initials on everything—his riding crop, his dressing case, the silver-backed brushes that still sat on his dresser at Ashworth.

Julian worked the clasp. It gave without resistance. Inside, the box was lined with faded blue velvet. A single sheet of folded paper lay atop a small silk pouch, and beneath that, a rolled parchment tied with a black ribbon.

Julian unfolded the paper first. Clara moved to his side, their shoulders brushing. The handwriting was her father’s—bold, careless strokes that slanted to the right, as if he had been in a hurry to finish.

*I, Augustus Ashworth, Viscount, do acknowledge debts of honour to E. in the sum of thirty-one thousand pounds, payable upon demand, in full settlement of all claims. Witnessed this third day of March, in the year of our Lord 1814.*

Clara’s breath caught. “’E’,” she whispered. “We thought it might be an initial—a creditor’s name we had not guessed.”

“Eastleigh,” Julian said flatly. “Her maiden name. Jane Eastleigh. Clara—your father was not merely rooked by a stranger. He was undone by a woman who had been his lover.”

Clara’s fingers trembled as she touched the signature. Even here, his ink was defiant. “He signed it willingly.” She looked at Julian. “If he owed her thirty-one thousand pounds, why would she not have called in the debt long before his death? Why wait until he was in his grave?”

“Because she wanted more than the money,” Julian said. He set the IOU aside and loosened the black ribbon on the parchment. The map unrolled with a dry rustle. It was drawn on heavy vellum, the ink faded to sepia. At its center, a rough sketch of the chapel at Ashworth—she recognized the odd, asymmetrical tower that had always been the subject of local jokes. But this drawing showed details no surveyor had ever recorded: a marked wall behind the altar, crosshatched, and a small letter *x* beside it.

“A secret compartment in the chapel,” Clara said. “I’ve been in that chapel a thousand times. I know every stone.”

“Do you?” Julian asked, but his tone was not unkind. He traced the map’s edge. “There’s a note here. In your father’s hand again. *If you are reading this, I am dead, and Jane has been paid. The rest is for those who deserve it.*”

Clara’s eyes burned. “He knew. Whatever scheme Lady Eastleigh set against him—he knew she would come for him eventually.”

“And he left you a trail to follow,” Julian said quietly. “He meant for you to have this.”

A sharp knock came from the door, startling them both. Clara’s heart seized. Julian’s hand went to the inside of his coat, where he kept a small pistol, but the voice that followed was familiar.

“My lord? My lady?” Pemberton’s wheeze. “Forgive the interruption, but there is a visitor asking for you at the front counter. A Lady Eastleigh.”

Julian’s jaw tightened. “We’ll be out directly.”

They heard Pemberton’s footsteps retreat. Julian looked at Clara. “She’s here. In Cambridge. A woman who has been convicted—by our own evidence—of engineering your father’s ruin is standing in this bank.”

“She’s tracking us,” Clara said. “Finch must have been watched. She knew we would come here, or she guessed it.”

“Or she wants to see how much we know.” Julian folded the IOU and the map carefully, tucking them into an inner pocket of his coat. He held out the tin box. “Keep this. The pouch inside—there may be something else. But not here.”

Clara took the box, feeling the weight of the velvet pouch shift inside. She slipped it into her reticule.

They emerged from the back office to find Lady Eastleigh standing by the bank’s front counter, a vision in deep sapphire silk that matched the jewel she had once worn—Clara’s jewel, the one her mother had put around her neck on her wedding day and was now lost. Lady Eastleigh smiled as they approached, her eyes moving from Clara to Julian with an appraisal Clara did not like.

“Lord Merritt,” Lady Eastleigh said, extending her hand. Her voice was honeyed, low. “And Lady Clara. What a coincidence to find you both here. I thought you were nursing your ancestral hearth at Ashworth, not gallivanting among ledgers and tellers.”

“Business is seldom poetic, Lady Eastleigh,” Julian said. He took her hand only long enough to bow over it, releasing it quickly. “Nor is it usually conducted in Cambridge by a lady of your station. What brings you so far from your own seat?”

Lady Eastleigh’s smile sharpened. “A widow’s errand. I have accounts to settle with a man who once did business with my late husband. Small matters. But I confess—seeing you here, together, is a happy accident.” She turned her attention to Clara fully. “You look pale, my dear. Marriage does not agree with you?”

“Marriage agrees with me very well,” Clara said, her chin lifting. “It is banking hours that do not.”

A light laugh. “How droll. I always said you had a wit beyond your station, Clara.” She looked back at Julian, letting her gaze travel over him with an unhurried boldness. “I wonder, Lord Merritt, if you would spare me a quarter of an hour. I find myself in need of a gentleman’s opinion on a small legal matter—a matter of inheritance. You are a lawyer, after all. I should so value your counsel.”

Julian’s expression did not flicker. “I do not take private clients, Lady Eastleigh. And I am on my wife’s business today.”

“Ah.” Lady Eastleigh’s smile did not waver. “How devoted. I have heard that you are quite the model husband. That you have taken up the Ashworth debts as your own.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice so only Julian could hear—though Clara stood close enough to catch the whisper. “A man of your intelligence need not be bound to a dying name, my lord. There are other estates. Other fortunes. And I have need of a man who understands the value of secrets.”

Clara’s blood went cold, but she held her ground. Julian did not step back.

“I find my current position entirely satisfactory,” Julian said, his voice flat as slate. “Good day, Lady Eastleigh.”

He offered Clara his arm. She took it, and they walked past Lady Eastleigh toward the bank’s heavy front door. But Clara felt the woman’s eyes on her back, a weight of years and malice.

They were nearly outside when Lady Eastleigh called after them. “Do give my regards to your chapel, Clara. I remember it fondly. I spent quite a few evenings there in your father’s company.”

Clara froze. Julian’s hand tightened on hers.

They did not turn back. They pushed through the door into the Cambridge drizzle, and Clara let out a breath she had not realized she was holding.

“She knows,” Clara said. “She knows about the chapel.”

“She suspects,” Julian corrected. “But she has just told us everything we needed to know. She was there. She knows where the sapphire came from, and she knows your father hid more than mere debts.” He looked at her, and in his eyes Clara saw something new—not fear, but a cold, hard clarity. “We need to get back to Ashworth before she does. Whatever your father left in that chapel, we need to be there first.”

Clara clutched the reticule tight against her ribs. The velvet pouch inside felt small and dense, holding a secret she had not yet dared to open.