Joan sighed, having expected this but feeling unequal to the task. “When I was a little girl, I watched my father work.” She smoothed the veil as if needing something to do, as if the story made her restless. “He would lay out parchments and linen paper and study them, comparing various things with this immense stack of reference books that never left his desk. Always curious, I would ask what he was doing, and eventually, he showed me.”

Rowles stilled, listening, her words putting him ill at ease for some reason, as if the twist to the story were about to be revealed.

“I would read the reference books my father had on this desk, and eventually I started to see what he saw…only I was better than even he was at detecting it.”

“Detecting what, exactly?” Rowles asked carefully.

Joan compressed her lips and glanced to her hands, wringing them once before righting her expression and meeting his gaze unflinchingly. “Forgery.”

Rowles frowned. “Forgery?” That answer had taken him by surprise.

“Yes, my father worked for the War Office, assisting with document study for forgery as well as other things that could determine the validity or falsifying of evidence.”

“I see.” Rowles leaned back in the carriage, studying her, waiting for her to continue and confirm his suspicions. When she said nothing, he prompted, “And now…you work for the War Office?”

“In a fashion,” Joan admitted, biting her lip once more. “Not like Morgan does, but…well…he started bringing home missives…things that if they were real…could prove helpful. If they were forgeries, or meant to confuse—for example, sending out two messages, one true and one false—I could tell which was the forgery, at least usually. I’ve been wrong once or twice. Thankfully, those were not dangerous situations.”

“And?” Rowles asked, the initial shock filtering into a cold understanding.

“And I can. So…I’ve been assisting my brother for a few years.”

“Good Lord, you’ve been at this for years?”

“Er, yes?” Joan answered with an apologetic tone. “It’s good work, and I’ve helped our country quite a bit.”

“You’re more like Joan of Arc than I originally thought.”

“I rather thought the idea was poetic, I confess. But I digress.” Her features settled into an expression of seriousness. “Morgan was evaluating three missives. Those were the pages I took from his desk.” She withdrew them from under her black cape. “And I noticed something… Come, sit by me so I can lay these on the seat.”

Rowles quickly switched seats, the warmth of Joan beside him melting away some of the harsh truth of her words. She laid out the missives and started pointing to a few words.

“The locations are all different, but I noticed they were quite closely clustered together.”

“And?”