At his desk, Declan closed the red ledger. “The evidence is damning.”
“It shows a direct financial trail,” Richard said.
“That it does.” Declan’s face wore a grim expression. She had expected him to be more celebratory. Perhaps he was shocked by the contents or maybe the raw impact of the tragedy his wife was trying to overcome still stunned him. “It fits perfectly. Brennan’s position with the Department of the Interior would permit him to keep tabs on my office. He oversees internal security. My people are legally bound to inform the Department of the Interior of any operation that requires the transport of more than ten marshals. He knew where we would strike before we had a chance to get there.”
Declan fell silent.
“And, my lord?” Charlotte prompted gently.
He looked at her. “And if it was anyone but Brennan, I would act on it immediately.”
Richard leaned forward, focused. “The numbers don’t lie. Audit his accounts. You’ll see the record of payments made to him.”
“If it was anyone else, my name and position alone would be sufficient to instantly gain access and isolate the suspect from any channels of influence. But in this case, he is the cousin of the king,” Declan said. “His favorite cousin, the man whom the King sees as his younger brother. I know Brennan. He is smart, and he navigates the waters of the Department of the Interior like he owns them. He doesn’t make mistakes.
“If I request an audit based on the existence of this ledger, I would have to throw all of my pull and all that of my father’s and mother’s reputation just to get a foot in the door. The ledger will be reviewed by half a dozen people, none of whom want to pin a target to their own chests. Brennan will know about it almost immediately. Someone will tell him simply for a chance to be invited to the next royal picnic. I’ll be asked how I came into possession of the ledger, a question, like many others, I’ll have to dodge.
“Days will pass, the investigation into the ledger will drag on, until he’ll finally come forward and offer to simply settle this because he has nothing to hide. We will perform the audit and find nothing. The ledger will be denounced as a fake. Apologies will be rendered, throughout which he will appear magnanimous and gracious, while I will be painted as overeager, earnest, and naive at best, and jealous and harboring a deep vendetta against Brennan at worst. My credibility will be shot, forcing me to step down, and with me out of the way, Brennan will be free to rebuild his vile enterprise at his leisure.”
Charlotte sat in stunned silence. The shreds of their victory floated about her, melting into nothing.
“So this is it? It was for nothing?”
“No,” Declan said. “We know who he is now, which means we can more effectively cut him off from access to our antislaver operations. He’s suffered a catastrophic loss from the sacking of the Market. If we consistently dismantle the slave trade, ruining his profits over the course of the next few years, he may decide that continuing his oversight is too expensive . . .”
Tulip’s tortured face flashed before her. “No.”
The two men looked at her.
“No,” she repeated. “Not good enough. A few years? Do you have any idea what I’ve seen? Do you know at what cost those few years will come?”
“Charlotte,” Richard said quietly. The adolescent girl was staring at her, dark eyes alarmed.
She checked herself and saw the dark streams of her magic splayed around her. Her control was beginning to slip. She pulled her shame back into herself.
“You have my deepest respect and admiration for the depth of your sacrifice, my lady.” Declan rose and bowed to her. “I’m merely pointing out the facts.”
“What do you need to end him?” Richard asked.
“A confession,” Declan said. “Preferably in front of a dozen infallible witnesses.”
It would never happen. Something inside her was dying bit by bit. Perhaps it was hope.
“Then we’ll have to obtain it for you.” Richard rose. Declan did, too. She regained her feet.
“You’re welcome to stay at the house,” Declan said.
Richard glanced at her. Charlotte shook her head gently. They needed to be alone with their grief and deal with it as a family. Richard and she were not a part of it, and she wanted to be left to her own despair.
“Thank you. It’s most gracious of you, but I believe it would be best if we moved on,” Richard said. “The less we’re seen together, the better.”
Declan escorted them out of his office.
Outside, dense clouds the color of lead had overtaken the sky. A gust of wind pulled at her hair—a storm was coming. Charlotte realized for the first time that she was still wearing the same clothes she’d worn on the island. A blood splatter stained her pants, a castoff from Richard’s sword. She could smell the stench of smoke on her tunic. She looked like a wreck. It was a wonder they had let her into their home at all.
On the stairs, the girl stared at Richard with a wordless desperation.
He hugged her and kissed her hair gently. “I will be at the Lair.” He handed her a folded piece of paper. “Give this to George. Don’t leave the manor. I may have need of you.”
She nodded.
Richard started down the stairs toward the phaeton, and Charlotte followed. What else could she do?
The doors swung open, and Rose rushed outside. “Wait!”
Charlotte paused.
“How was she before she died?”
“Your grandmother was well,” Charlotte said. “She spoke of you and the boys often. She kept all of your presents. The glasses you’d sent her were the envy of the whole town. Mary Tomkins almost took sick from sheer jealousy.”
A haunted look passed over Rose.
“She was healthy,” Charlotte continued. “I made sure to keep up with her aches. She was respected. Her biggest worry was trying to keep a cuckoo clock in her hair. She knew you and the boys loved her, Lady Camarine. She stayed in the Edge of her own choosing, and a pair of wild horses couldn’t have pulled her out. Your grandmother never saw herself as a victim. It is perhaps presumptuous of me, but I would suggest that you shouldn’t see her that way either. If anything, the blame belongs to the people who killed her—and me, because when she needed help, I wasn’t fast enough.”
Charlotte turned and walked toward the phaeton. She felt spent and empty, scraped completely dry.
“Lady de Ney,” Rose called out.
Charlotte turned again.
Rose bowed. It was a deep, formal, Weird bow. “I don’t blame you. I blame them. Thank you for taking care of my grandmother.”
“You’re welcome,” Charlotte told her. She just wanted to get away.
Richard swung the door of the phaeton open for her, and she climbed in.
“The ride won’t be long,” he promised, and shut the door. She heard him get in the front, in the driver’s seat, where an instrument panel waited. The horseless phaeton took off down the road.
Two years, she reminded herself. That’s how long it took Richard to get to this point. She had only been at this for less than a week. It had been the most difficult week of her life, but it was only a week. Even if it felt like a lifetime.
Rain drenched the phaeton. She looked outside the glass window and saw a gray haze of water. The raindrops bombarded the roof, sliding along the smooth resin walls of the phaeton, as if she were under a waterfall and yet remained completely dry. Charlotte covered her face and cried. It was a wordless, silent sobbing born of pure pressure that squeezed the tears out of her eyes, more a stress relief than true mourning.
The phaeton came to a halt. The door swung open again, and she jumped out into the deluge, grateful that it would wash the signs of her weakness from her face.
Tall trees surrounded a narrow driveway. In front of her, a house crouched in the rain, like a shaggy bear. She could barely make out the dark log walls under the roof green with moss. Lightning flashed above. A moment later, thunder tore through the hum of the rain. Richard grabbed her hand, and they dashed across the driveway to the house. Charlotte ran up the stairs onto the narrow porch, Richard swung the door open, and she ducked inside gratefully.
