When the carriage came to a stop in front of her home, she stepped out quickly and all but rushed inside to seek her brother.

“Himes, where is my brother?” she asked the butler, handing a maid her reticule.

“I believe he’s in his study, my lady.”

Joan strode down the hall toward her brother’s office, and rather than greeting her as she walked in, he held up two letters.

She paused.

“Can you assist me?” Morgan asked.

Realizing it was War Office business, Joan nodded, pushing her own personal questions into the back of her mind for the moment. “Of course.”

“One is a forgery; one is the real document. Can you tell me which one is the falsified one?” He laid out the linen papers with their wax seals, then leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he waited.

Joan studied them each, reading through the sentencing document from a magistrate in Wessex. One carried a much harsher sentence than the other.

“My inclination is to believe the papers with the heavier sentence,” Morgan stated.

“I disagree.” Joan’s attention shifted between the two documents. “They are both sentencing papers for a criminal, but see this, here.” She pointed to a small spot of ink beside a word. “Compare with this.” She pulled the other document closer and traced her finger over the paper. “No spots.”

“I don’t follow.” Morgan’s replied.

Sighing, she explained. “Magistrates aren’t usually known for perfect penmanship on a document that they tend to fill out multiple times a day. In the second document, great care was taken to make it seem authentic. The first one is authentic because it’s written in the common way, with the lack of attention a magistrate would take to complete it and send it on its way. This one”—she pointed to it again—“is perfect. Not one dot of ink or flick of a t out of place. It was carefully completed. Carefully cultivated.”

“Well then.” Morgan cleared his throat.

“Yes, but that’s strange, don’t you think? Why would someone wish to make a sentence heavier rather than lighter?”

“That’s exactly the question, dear sister.”

“Who carried the sentencing papers?”

“A constable’s messenger.”

Joan looked at the papers again. “Someone wants him dead, whoever he is. Rotting way in the London Tower isn’t a light sentence.”

“House arrest is quite different,” Morgan agreed. “Someone wants him to be killed by another prisoner of the London Tower. Easier to accomplish than with someone on house arrest.”

“He must know something? Have seen something?” Joan inquired.

“I’m going to find out.” Morgan stood.

“Wait.” Joan held out her hand and sighed. “As I arrived, I saw the duke’s carriage departing.” She swallowed. “What was the nature of his visit?”