Carcel stood by the window. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn back, revealing the darkened grounds of his estate. The moon was hidden behind a thick blanket of clouds, leaving the garden in shadow. It was fitting, he thought. The woman he loved was being hunted by shadows, and now he had to become one to save her.
He turned away from the window and looked at the grandfather clock in the corner. Its pendulum swung back and forth with a rhythmic, mocking tick-tock. It was late, almost midnight. He has been waiting for Vance. Most of the household was asleep. But Carcel could not sleep. The image of Ines’s trembling hands in the garden earlier that evening burned in his mind. She was usually so vibrant, so full of quiet strength and hidden mischief. To see her reduced to fear by an anonymous coward made a cold, dangerous rage settle in his chest.
He walked to his desk and sat down. The wood was cool under his fingertips.
He waited.
But Carcel did not have to wait long. The door to the library opened silently. There was no knock, no announcement. One moment the room was empty, and the next, a man was standing on the Persian rug.
Mr. Vance was a man who seemed designed to be forgotten. He was of average height, with hair the color of dust and eyes that were a muddy, indeterminate hazel. He wore a plain gray suit that was neither expensive nor cheap. If one saw him on the street, one’s eyes would slide right past him. He looked like a clerk, or perhaps a bored librarian. That was exactly why he was the most dangerous man on Carcel’s payroll.
"Your Grace," Vance said. His voice was soft, like dry leaves scraping together. He bowed low, but his eyes remained sharp, scanning the room as if checking for hidden listeners.
"Vance," Carcel said, his voice deep and steady. He motioned to the leather chair opposite the desk. "Please Sit."
Vance sat. He did not lean back. He sat on the edge of the cushion, his posture alert. He placed a plain brown folder on the desk between them.
"I assume this is about the matter regarding Lady Ines," Vance said. He did not waste time with pleasantries. He knew why he was here.
Carcel leaned forward, clasping his hands on the desk. "You assume correctly. The letter she received today changed things. We are no longer dealing with simple curiosity. We are dealing with a concerted attack."
Vance nodded slowly. "I have read the report from my man in the field. The situation at the print shop has deteriorated."
"Tell me," Carcel commanded. "And do not spare me the details. I need to know exactly how deep this rot goes."
Vance opened the folder. His movements were precise. He pulled out a stack of papers covered in small, neat handwriting.
"As you ordered three months ago, I placed a watcher on the establishment known as The Quill & Press," Vance began. "This is the shop where Miss Gladys takes the manuscripts. My watcher is a beggar who sits across the street. No one notices him. He sees everything."
Carcel nodded. He had ordered the surveillance the moment he suspected Ines’s secret, when he left for business before the ball, long before she confessed it to him. He had told himself it was to protect her, and tonight, that decision was vindicated.
"For months, it was routine," Vance continued, his finger tracing a line on the paper. "Miss Gladys arrives. She delivers a package. She leaves with a satchel of coins. The printer, Mr. Hobbs, is an honest man. He is discreet. He likes the money the books bring in, and he keeps his mouth shut."
"But?" Carcel prompted.
"But Mr. Hobbs is not the only one with keys to the shop," Vance said. He looked up, his hazel eyes meeting Carcel’s own. "He has an apprentice. A boy named Parker. Nineteen years old. Likes dice and cards a bit too much for a boy with his wages."
Carcel’s eyes narrowed. "Gambling debts."
"Precisely," Vance said. "Two days ago, my watcher saw a carriage stop at the end of the alley. It was not a carriage for hire. It was a private carriage, painted black, with no crest on the door. Very expensive. Very discreet."
Carcel felt a muscle in his jaw jump. "Go on."
"Parker came out of the back door of the shop," Vance said, painting the picture with his words. "He looked nervous. He kept checking over his shoulder. He went to the carriage. The door opened, but no one stepped out. Parker spoke to someone inside. Then, a hand reached out."
"A hand?"
"A gloved hand," Vance clarified. "Leather gloves. A man’s hand. He gave Parker a pouch. It was heavy. You know the sound gold makes when it hits a palm? My watcher heard it from across the street."
Carcel stood up abruptly. The chair legs scraped loudly against the floor. He walked around the desk, needing to move. The energy inside him was too volatile to contain.
"So Parker sold them out," Carcel said, his voice low. "For a pouch of gold, he sold my fiancée’s safety."
"He sold information," Vance corrected gently. "Parker went back inside. The next day, the ’Broker’ arrived—the man Miss Gladys mentioned in her letter. He knew exactly when to come. He knew Mr. Hobbs would be out for lunch. He knew Gladys would be coming. Parker told them the schedule."
Carcel stopped pacing in front of the fireplace. He stared at the dying embers. "And the carriage? The black one?"
"We followed it," Vance said. There was a hint of frustration in his voice now. "My man followed it for three miles. It went to the chaotic streets near the docks. It went through a tunnel. When my man came out the other side, the carriage was gone. It vanished."
"It didn’t vanish, Vance," Carcel snapped. "We were outmaneuvered."
"Yes," Vance admitted. "Whoever is behind this... they are professional. They know how to clean their tracks. I checked the banks. I checked the rumors in the gambling dens. There is no name attached to the buyer. The money is clean. The carriage is unlisted. We are chasing a ghost."
Carcel turned back to face him. "Ghosts do not exist, Vance. People exist. People with money, people with grudges, and people who want to hurt the future Duchess of this house."
He walked back to the desk and leaned over it, his hands splayed on the wood. "Ines thinks it is a woman. I think it’s Priscilla. Do you know her?"
Vance pursed his lips, thinking. "Lady Priscilla? The one who debuted the same year as you? Her family has money, but not enough to fund an operation this clean. She has a reputation for being... petty. Vindictive. But this? This is military-grade espionage."
"Hatred can make people very resourceful," Carcel said darkly. "And if she has partnered with someone... someone with more experience in the shadows..."
"That is a possibility," Vance agreed. "If Lady Priscilla is the face, she might have a silent partner. Someone who wants to see you fall as much as she wants to see Lady Ines ruined."