A row of books was about to topple, and Emily straightened the stack. Her gaze narrowed upon one of the volumes. It was one of the last gifts Daniel had given his son, a book of fairytales. The book had belonged to her grandfather many years ago. Emily traced the broken leather binding and then picked it up for old times’ sake.

Flipping through the collection of stories, she recognized the Brothers Grimm, Hans Christian Anderson, and other beloved authors. Then her fingers came upon a familiar, well-loved page. It was the story of “The Steadfast Tin Soldier,” Royce’s favorite. Emily smiled as she skimmed the first pages about the tin soldier’s adventures in a rain gutter. Before she reached the end of the tale, the story changed abruptly. In place of the original tale, neatly glued into the binding, were pages of notes.

Her heart skidded to a stop. These were the hidden records, the ones Stephen had been looking for. Emily studied them, wondering what was so important about the meticulous columns of figures. As she reached the bottom of the page, she recognized names of at least a dozen ships, along with profits and losses. At the very end of the last page were the names of investors involved with The Lady Valiant.

One name startled her, but she dismissed any suspicion of ill doing. She tore out the pages from the book, tucking them into her bodice. Tonight, she would show them to Stephen, and perhaps he could shed light upon their meaning.

There was little point in trying to question a hysterical Lady Carstairs. While she wept and clung to her daughter, Stephen had searched through the mess of papers, looking for something that would lead him to the true assassin. This time, a dagger in the back had caused Carstairs’s death.

Stephen knew he ought to feel something about the murder, but a numbing chill had frozen his mind to reality. He found it easier to dwell upon theories and lists than the fact that he had escaped death yet again. He shouldn’t be alive now.

What did his enemies want? It had to be information, knowledge they believed he and Carstairs possessed. They had ransacked Hollingford’s house and now Carstairs’s study. They had not searched his father’s residence, however. A mixed sense of relief flooded him when he realized his constant change in residence had likely protected the inhabitants.

Stephen sifted through another stack of papers, and he discovered a record of men who owed Carstairs money. Though it was simply a list, he had not come across Freddie Reynolds’s name before. Annoyance pervaded him when he thought of the man who had tried to court his wife with flowers and awful poetry. Even when they were growing up, he’d never trusted the fop.