For some reason, the word estate brought the woman—Mrs. Lombard—to mind. Would she accept the position? Did he want her to? He had believed she was the most expedient choice for a problem that had been taking up entirely too much of his time, but something in her eyes made him wonder. She was not dishonest—no, it was not that—rather she might be too honest.

***

Two days later Sandford Featherstone stood in front of Gareth’s desk in his London study.

His eyelids had the loose, stretched look of a man who was burnt to the socket. His skin had an unhealthy yellow tinge and his hand trembled when he set it on the arm of his chair and heavily lowered himself into the seat in front of Gareth’s desk.

It vexed Gareth to realize he had missed these signs of dissipation. That was what came of being such an unobservant dolt. He could only imagine the chiding he would have to endure from Declan about this.

Featherstone’s eyes darted from Gareth to the neatly stacked documents he was preparing for his journey north. “Leaving for Yorkshire today?”

“Tomorrow morning.” Gareth turned to the two men filling boxes with ledgers and papers Declan had asked him to bring. “Will you please come back in one half hour?”

The men nodded, got to their feet, and left without another word, closing the door quietly behind them, accustomed to Gareth’s odd ways.

Gareth took the two-page report Mr. Steele had prepared and handed it to Featherstone, watching his face as he read. His face turned red and splotchy. Guilt and, surprisingly, fury vied for control of his narrow features. His mouth twisted as he read, until his face resembled an angry prune. He did not bother to read the second page.

He glanced up, his blood-shot eyes flashing. “So, she set you to snooping, did she?”

It was not what Gareth had expected him to say and it took him a moment to discern who “she” was. Ah. He thought the Lombard woman had exposed him. Gareth briefly wondered whether she had known of the man’s duplicity and then decided it did not matter. Nor did he feel disposed to contradict the other man or explain how or why he had decided to investigate Mr. Featherstone’s background and criminal behavior.

Gareth drummed his fingers on his desk, the staccato one, two, three, four soothing. He did not care for such emotional encounters and could see the other man wished to draw out this ordeal and make it more unpleasant than it had any need to be.

“What you have done is legally actionable, sir. It is lucky for you the amount is too insignificant for me to be bothered with. I have decided I will not have you brought before a magistrate.” One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four. “I’ve sent word to Rushton Park and your possessions are already on their way to London.” He ceased his drumming only long enough to push a cheque across the uncluttered surface of his desk. “Here is your pay for the last quarter.” One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four. “You will take this money and the possessions from your chambers here—which have been boxed and are waiting in the foyer—and you will leave my house immediately.” One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four.