“Perhaps,” Elizabeth replied quietly. “Something peaceful. To remember this.”
Her voice almost cracked at the end. The moment was lovely, but she could feel the weight of something darker just beyond the horizon.
And Alasdair, for all his strength, would be standing at the center of it.
She looked at him again, committing every smile and line of laughter to memory.
She would need to remember the brightness when the shadows returned.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The private room was quiet, too quiet for a London afternoon.
Alasdair stepped inside and let the thick velvet curtain fall behind him, muting the sounds of the gentlemen’s club beyond.
A fire crackled low in the hearth, the scent of aged leather and pipe smoke heavy in the air. The walls were paneled in dark mahogany, lined with shelves of books that looked more decorative than read. Two armchairs sat angled before the hearth.
Lord Farnleigh occupied one of them with the air of someone who had claimed it long ago and had never been asked to yield.
Alasdair didn’t sit immediately. He took in the room, the angles, the exits, the set of the man before him.
Farnleigh glanced up from his cup of tea. “Your Grace,” he said. “Punctual. I appreciate that.”
“I’ve been called worse,” Alasdair said dryly, moving forward.
He removed his gloves, slid into the opposite chair, and leaned back.
Farnleigh studied him for a moment longer, then placed his teacup on the side table. “Shall we speak plainly?”
“That’d be my preference.”
A beat of silence followed, broken only by the pop of the fire. Then Farnleigh reached into the inner pocket of his coat and withdrew a slim leather folder. He laid it on the table between them.
Alasdair didn’t touch it. Not yet.
“There’s been a network of corruption stretching back nearly twenty years,” Farnleigh said, voice low. “Most of it centers on land speculation, fraudulent tariffs, and false debts levied against Highland estates. A handful of men made themselves quite rich funneling the fallout through false accounts.”
“Kittridge?” Alasdair asked.
Farnleigh’s mouth tightened, not in hesitation but calculation.
“Always nearby. Always clean. Never the signature, never the direct order. But the connections are there. I’ve compiled what I could over the years: letters, receipts, withdrawals. Enough smoke to hint at fire. But not enough to burn him.”
Alasdair reached forward and opened the folder.
The first page was a list of names: minor lords, estate stewards, merchants in the north. He recognized two from his father’s court case. The others were new, but something about the pattern, the clusters of dates and transactions, tugged at memory.
“I thought I was mad for keeping track of this,” Alasdair muttered.
“You weren’t mad,” Farnleigh said. “But you were loud.”
Alasdair looked up.
“You came into society snarling, fists raised, eyes wild,” Farnleigh continued, not unkindly. “No one listens to a man like that. They survive him. But this,” he nodded toward the folder, “this is a weapon. And you must learn how to wield it.”
Alasdair’s jaw worked silently for a moment. He looked back at the page. The smell of ink and old parchment curled up from the folder, mingling with the firewood smoke.
It reminded him of his father’s study. Of the last day he’d seen him alive.