Chapter One

 

Eight months had passed since the death of Amelia Hartcourt’s uncle, Thomas Harcourt, and Amelia had not stopped grieving even if her mourning period was officially over.

The library in Harcourt House was tense as she smoothed her skirts and sat on the edge of the deep-seated armchair in the corner of the room. Opposite her, her uncle’s solicitor gave her a tense, sympathetic smile. Mr. Lawrence Preston had been serving the Harcourts for the last decade.

She had been close with her uncle, had mourned him deeply and rather isolatedly, losing herself in the pages of his writings and thoughts in these last eight months. Now it was time to lose herself in yet another page of his, and thus, his ultimate passing would be sealed by the very accents delivered. 

Or, rather, life after his death.

“There has been enough delay,” she muttered to herself. Then, returning Mr. Preston’s smile with a polite one of her own, she added, “I should think my cousin will want to be present and timely for his father’s will reading.”

“We can spare a few extra minutes, Miss Amelia, it is not a problem,” he assured her.

Perhaps not to you, she thought. She was not an impatient lady but she was averse to having her hours trifled with. 

She was on the verge of protesting once again, or suggest sending a footman to search for her cousin, when a shadow fell over the doorway to the library. Despite the bright light pouring in from the wall of windows to Amelia’s left, the main door on the right, the library suddenly seemed far darker and smaller than it was.

“Mr. Preston,” Reginald Harcourt announced brightly, extending his hand as he strode towards the desk where the solicitor and his clerk sat. “How positively wonderful it is to see you after such a long time.” 

“I would not quite call it wonderful, given the circumstances.” Amelia could not help her tense reply, irritated at being kept waiting, only for Reginald to pretend as though Thomas had passed away long ago enough that no shadows of grief lingered on his face. No, her cousin looked respectively tanned from his endless journeys across the continent, gallivanting from one country to another causing the reading of the will to be repeatedly deferred. 

It had only made Amelia’s grieving and anxiety that much harder.

Reginald looked at her, a small smile on his face that looked ready to crack at any moment. “Amelia,” he greeted. “You must be lost with me being gone for so long.” He sauntered over to her in a provocative manner, his blonde hair catching the sunlight and turning him paler than he was. For a brief moment he resembled an apparition, causing a deep apprehension within her as she wondered what would transpire during the reading. It seemed that she had been outrunning ghosts for an eternity and now she stood facing them all. It was a daunting feeling. 

“I have managed,” she said thinly. “I trust your travels went well.”

“Indeed. My, you have grown up. My deepest condolences, of course. I am fully aware you and my uncle were close.” He reached out to take her hand, closing his own over hers. “It is a shame you and I never could find that sort of bond, no? It only makes me wonder what shall happen after today…”

He let his voiced thought linger, and her stomach swooped horribly. He did not need to echo her own, worried thoughts that she didn’t let show.

If Uncle Thomas did not favor me in his will and did not leave me Harcourt House as he promised he would, where will I go? He was her last relative alive unless her father had outlived his own continent travels, but she would find another way before she groveled to him.

“I am sure all will be well,” Amelia said, looking up at him with a narrowed, level stare. “After all, we are family. Close or not, family do help one another.”

Reginald’s smile grew colder. “Of course. I would not see you out of a home.” It was a lie, and she could almost taste it. Not only that but the confidence he said it with, as though he knew the house would be his, despite Thomas already naming Amelia as his heir.

My son is never here, her uncle had rasped, nearing his end in the weeks towards his death. Harcourt House deserves to be maintained by somebody who loves it. Somebody who will cherish it and call it a home every day to return to. Somebody who might still make a family home of it yet. What good is this place to Reginald if he barely stays long enough to sleep in his own bed?

Yet Reginald was his son, and Amelia was merely the younger niece, her composure was a severely guarded asset she seldom allowed to be compromised, and she earnestly hoped her present distress would remain concealed. Reginald tugged at his cuff links and turned back to Mr. Preston.

“Let us get this over with,” he ordered. “I have places to be.”

“It is your father’s will reading,” Amelia argued, unable to hold her tongue. “Surely that ought to be your most important…”

“I have a game of cards reserved at a high-end table at the Amber Hand,” her cousin interrupted. “And I refuse to be late for it.”

Amelia composed the glower that wanted to come out, and only turned away, disgusted in her cousin’s behavior and dismissal. She was terrified over having nowhere to live if the odds were not in her favor yet Reginald was so obnoxiously ready to plan the rest of his day and escape. While it had not been enough that his tardiness had kept them waiting, he maintained an air of calm and indifference

Amelia nodded at Mr. Preston’s questioning look. “I am ready.”

“Then we will proceed,” he said, reaching for the leather-bound document case that his clerk, Mr. Harry Phillips, handed him. He opened it, and the rustle of papers filled the library while Amelia did her best to ignore the smug smile her cousin gave it. It was not a competition, and she loathed how clinical her uncle’s death had become. Reduced to nothing but monetary value and deeds.

“I will be only a moment,” Mr. Preston assured them as he rifled further, his movements growing choppier. He murmured something to Mr. Phillips, and began handing him a few sheets, as if lessening the documents to search through. Amelia frowned, noticing the wide eyes that Mr. Preston searched with.

“Is everything quite well?” she asked. Her cousin, who had been picking at his nails, looked up, finally noticing something was amiss.

“Get on with it,” he snapped. “I did mention I have not got all day.”

But the solicitor’s face had drained of color as he searched and searched, giving them a nervous smile as he went through each document page, shaking his head. His mouth moved silently, mumbling to himself. Not that one, no. No, not that one, either. H… Harcourt… Harcourt.

Finally, when Amelia’s stomach had knotted from knowing something was wrong and receiving no direct answer, Mr. Preston looked up. His eyes went to her first, for she had always handled matters efficiently, even when she was twenty and one upon her mother’s death and will reading. She had possessed little but left it all to Amelia.

Her uncle did not only have a little, and today was important.

“Mr. Harcourt… Miss Amelia.” Mr. Preston’s voice wavered. “It appears as though the will has gone missing. I placed it in there in my office, and I had everything organized and arranged, but now… now it appears to have vanished.”

“Gone?” Reginald’s sneered coldness cut through the room, while Amelia watched the walls blur in her vision. It could not be gone. “Whatever do you mean gone?”

“It is not here,” Mr. Preston answered needlessly, for Amelia could not hear it again. It couldn’t be missing…it couldn’t be, for without…

Without the will her cousin became the legal heir by default, regardless of whatever her uncle had requested.

Her own face felt as though it went as white as Mr. Preston’s. Everything is slipping away, she thought horrifically, staring at the leather case as if that would make it appear. She stared and stared, her heart pounding in her ears.

I would not see you out of a home.

Except Amelia had long learned how to read lies, knew how false promised and too-pretty-to-be-genuine words sounded. She didn’t believe him, not for one second.

And now…

Now that threat might become real.

Her gaze dragged to her cousin, and for a moment, she could have sworn there was a smug smile on his face that he quickly composed with a pull of his brows, his mouth turning down in a sympathetic grimace that had no comfort in. Amelia turned back to the solicitor. She did not need comfort; she needed answers. She needed this infernal aching tension in her chest to ease so she could breathe.

“What…” Her voice came out hoarse. She cleared her throat. “What happens now, then?”

“Well, now,” Mr. Preston said, already motioning at Mr. Phillips. “My clerk will search my carriage and I shall retrace my steps from my office.”

“And… with me?” she asked weakly.

“Amelia,” Reginald purred. “You need not worry. I am now the estate’s rightful master. Whether the will is here or not we both know that is the truth.”

Except I know better, she thought, not even bothering to answer him. Not while she slowly laid her thoughts in a manner that she could assess them. Panic was a thing she had learned to master from a young age. If it was experienced enough it was easy to wrangle into something useable.

She had two weeks’ savings at best from helping out with singular jobs that she could pick up. An embroidery pattern here, and a helpful advisor there, providing listening services to distraught ladies who simply wished for somebody to speak with and needing to solve problems. That meager collection was perhaps enough to buy herself a new piece of jewellery, maybe some provisions that the cook didn’t use for the general dinnertime. A treat here and there. It was hardly enough to get herself lodgings. Even if it was it would be only a few days’ worth.

 She was allowed no opportunity to revise her scheme, or discern her necessary course of action.

Amelia turned her face down, her fingers digging into the arm of the chair. Conceal the panic, do not allow Reginald of all people to see the turmoil. He will know he has won. Be collected, let him think you are unafraid.

When, in fact, Amelia had not been this afraid since she was at the tender age of fifteen and her mother let out a broken cry at the letter left for her by Amelia’s father upon his exit from their lives. She still recalled her mother’s face, as pale as a ghost, frightened and unsure…until Uncle Thomas stepped in for them, and now there was no uncle, no savior. She had no marital prospects for she had never properly inserted herself into the view of suitors at balls, preferring to linger in the background. Now, a young woman, she knew what a foolish, hopeful idea that had been. She had wanted to wait for a man who piqued her interest enough, and the ton was, unfortunately, full of the most boring personalities.

She had no other family. All that was left was Amelia’s cousin with his fake sympathy and a glint in his eye as he stood up.

“Well, then, if all is well here and we are finished, I will be preparing for my trip to the gambling hell.” With a tug on his jacket, he strolled out, barely giving the frantic solicitor a second glance. A sneer, more so, but everything was well, as far as Reginald was concerned. The solicitor’s search was none of his concern now.

It was only Amelia left to face the consequences.

Left to perhaps face destitution.

 

***

 

Nightingale Street held a beautiful arrangement of townhouses right in the heart of Mayfair, where Viscount Stratenwood, Gideon Strathmore, sat in the study of one of his closest friends, frowning down at the urgent missive in his hand.

“Whatever is it?” Lord Edmund Fairmont asked.

“It is a letter.” Gideon’s frown deepened. “From my sister. She is urgently requesting my presence at the townhouse tomorrow. She says there has been a matter of utmost urgency and I must attend to help her, and I shall quote it, dearest friend, Miss Amelia Harcourt.”

“Harcourt?” Edmund echoed. “As in related to Reginald Harcourt?”

Gideon winced, nodding. “Indeed. I have known of Miss Harcourt at a very low level of acquaintance for many years, given my sister’s closeness with her. I have heard she has suffered through quite a few ordeals in the last several years alone.”

“Ah, indeed. And now it seems another calamity has struck.” Edmund groaned as he stood up from his desk, wandering over to the counter near the far wall where he had drinks set up, waiting to be poured, “Well, it seems your time avoiding your title is coming to a swift end.”

“I do not avoid my title,” Gideon muttered. “I simply… I daresay I prefer quiet felicity to the tiresome scrutiny of society.” 

Edmund laughed, pouring them both a drink. “My guest room is yours for however long you need it, and as often, but do not leave your sister without your presence for too long, Gideon. It is clear she misses you, and you are all she has left.”

Do not remind me, Gideon thought sullenly as he took the offered drink and nodded his thanks.

“Does Lady Sophia say what the help concerns?”

“No,” Gideon said, passing the note over for his friend to read. Edmund stayed near the counter, his blond hair catching the watery light outside. The frost was melting now, and spring could be tasted on the air, but new life had not yet sprung. With it, the ton would only get thicker and harsher as the hordes of them poured in for the Season. “Just that my brilliant mind would be of use.”

“And this… Miss Harcourt,” Edmund said, eyeing him over the cream-colored letter. “You do not truly know her?”

He laughed. “I have barely spoken ten words to the woman that not simply required pleasantries.”

“Any particular reason?”

Gideon shrugged delicately. “She is Sophia’s friend, not mine. I would not expect Sophia to sit and chat with you, so why should I do the same?”

His friend gave him a funny look at that, cocking his head. An amused smile played on his face. “I see. Well, in any way, I would sit and chat with Lady Sophia. She has a brilliant mind just like her brother, and I find that fascinating coming from a lady.”

“Ah, charming.” Gideon smirked but his attention quickly returned to the missive. He exhaled. “You are right, though. As hesitant as I am, I cannot shirk my duty when it calls. Nor would I leave my sister without a solution if she needs one. She has requested me for a reason, and I cannot ignore her.”

Edmund gave him a look that was heavy with judgement at the thought of Gideon considering such a thing. Finishing off his drink, Gideon sighed and stood up. “The tea is requested for tomorrow at the townhouse.”

“Your townhouse,” Edmund corrected.

But there was still something about that, even after all these years that never sat too comfortably with Gideon. Not when he had never meant to be Lord Stratenwood. Not when he had never planned to claim his title as viscount, happily living his life as the second son, the one with more freedom to pursue everything else that made his brain tick incessantly, too heavy with thoughts to ever truly settle.

You have a mind like a winter blizzard, my son, Gideon’s father would often tell him, even from a young age. Let Dominic focus on the title and the estate while you see where your cleverness will take you. It would bring me great pride to say one son is my heir and the other is…oh, I do not know, but the opportunities are endless. You already do make me proud, Gideon.

Gideon had gotten lucky; not every father encouraged such things. Everybody wanted a clever heir, a clever child to boast, of course, as long as they focused primarily on the family and estate. But Gideon, as the second son, had been given allowance to utterly focus on academics. And it was not just the things he was taught at Oxford, either. No, he loved mysteries, puzzles, an unsolvable case that he could smash right open and evaluate the contents. He loved to have a problem brewing on his mind, tormenting him day and night. He loved the chase, the sleepless nights of connecting everything, before his moment of this is it!

But ever since…

No. No, he would not let himself touch that thought. Not in this moment, not when he was already low on sleep from mulling over evidence of a problem the magistrates had presented him with a week ago and he still hadn’t come closer to decoding anything.

He would not let himself think of his brother. Only of his sister who needed him more than Gideon needed to cling to the comfort of memories and grief. He was all she had left.

“Yes,” he finally said. “My townhouse.”

 

***

 

Stratenwood House wasn’t far from the Fairmont estate. Marley Square overlooked Nightingale Street, and Gideon always felt comforted to meet with Edmund, for he knew he was not far from his sister should she call upon him.

The day after she had summoned him, Gideon entered their townhouse, immediately calling out for her. She did not answer, but he found her pacing in the parlor, a half-finished embroidery piece clutched between her fingers. Her face was pale, and it settled dread in Gideon’s stomach.

“Sophia?”

As soon as she saw him, she dropped her embroidery and rushed to him, her dark hair and bright, blue eyes, so like his own…so like their father’s and embraced him tightly.

“Brother!” she breathed, hugging him. “It has been too long.”

“It has been several days,” he countered. “You know I do not like bringing work back to the townhouse. Heavens forbid you see something you are better off not seeing.”

“I have always told you that I would not mind one bit.”

“I would,” he countered, stepping back. Sophia seemed every bit the ton lady she was, and would continue to be upon her eventual courtship to any eligible bachelor, yet another thing Gideon would need to oversee, for she was already nineteen and had entered society as she led him to the table where she had tea and macarons set up. He raised a brow at the sweet treat.

“I needed something to settle my nerves,” she laughed. “Heavens, I cannot settle or focus.”

“Tell me what has happened,” Gideon urged. “Stop trying to pour me tea, Sophia, and tell me what is on your mind.”

They both laughed when they realised that Sophia was doing as their mother had always done: whenever she was distressed she reverted into a place where things would be orderly. When their mother had not known how to solve had the tendency to chip away she had turned to something she could solve, whereas both Gideon and his father chipped away at their problems until something cracked. Dominic had always laughed, saying that neither way of enduring was healthy.

Gently, Gideon lowered his sister’s hand, and he finished pouring his own tea.

“Miss Harcourt,” she began, “as you know, the niece of Mr. Thomas Harcourt who sadly passed away some time ago, has encountered a problem that requires your help. My distress is not for myself but for her.” Something loosened in Gideon at that, at least. He realised this was now his responsibility: always assessing for the worst, always wondering what problem might need to be solved next. “Mr. Reginald Harcourt, the heir, now the owner of the Harcourt estate, delayed the will reading whilst he traveled. Yet the reading was finally due to happen the day before last. Alas, the will has disappeared. It was not in the solicitor’s bag, nor his clerk’s, and when the solicitor retraced his steps there was no sign of it. Checks were done, searches were carried out both at the Harcourt estate and the solicitor’s office, but it is missing.”

Already, Gideon’s brain was ticking, waking up, refreshed from the staleness of no progress on his current case.

Before he was able to voice his queries, Sophia continued. “My concern comes from the relationship between my friend and her cousin, for he is not a… patient man, and Miss Harcourt now fears her position at the house. She fears her safety. According to the will, nothing was left to Reginald Harcourt except for a business account and a smaller estate several miles away from London. Miss Harcourt was left everything by her uncle but…”

“Without the will to prove such a thing Reginald is left everything by default,” Gideon finished. His sister nodded, dismayed.

“That is not all,” Sophia said. “Miss Harcourt reported that her cousin has been acting strange overall. Surely if he is grieving his father, he would want to bring himself closure and peace sooner, but he delayed the reading. And once the will was gone, he seemed impatient to leave. Apparently, there was no trace of grief or regret or any condolences that seemed genuine. The man was more focused on his plans to gamble that day.”

“From what I have heard that is rather normal for Reginald,” Gideon said.

“But in the face of his father’s death? It is rather insensitive, no?”

Gideon laughed sadly, looking at his sister over his teacup. “Do you know what Reginald said to me upon the death of our father?” She shook her head. “He said ‘well, Gideon, it is about high time you realised you cannot laze about all your life.’ Mind you, I was… well, rather deep in my cups at the time. Dominic grieved, of course, but had to quickly focus on the title and deeds. We were both protecting you from the worst of death’s call upon our family after our mother’s death years before, and so I dealt with it quietly, privately. It just felt very insensitive all-round, so while Reginald seems heartless, such things do not seem out of the ordinary. After all, we do not know how he has processed his father’s death over the last eight months. Now, he might simply understand where his focus ought to be.”

“Brother,” Sophia urged, her voice cracking. “Please remove your logical thinking for a moment. Do not be a viscount, or even an investigator at present. Be a man who might sympathise with my friend.”

“And I do,” he said quickly. “I do, of course I do. I understand her fear. However, as Lord Stratenwood I cannot go accusing Reginald Harcourt.”

“I am not asking you to accuse him. Simply keep him in mind as suspicious while you investigate.”

Seeing his error, and how Sophia had flinched at his logical thinking, which he disliked doing but he could not simply call a more apathetic man suspicious just for that apathy, he cleared his throat and reworked his answer.

“I will,” he promised.

“So you will take the case on?” she asked, her eyes brightening. “It has everything you love. The timing could not be more advantageous to whoever has hidden the will.”

“How do we know for certain it has been hidden? Or stolen?”

Sophia’s eyes shined as brightly as his own did. “I do believe that is for you to discover, brother.”

Chapter Two

 

Gideon knew he had been played right into his brilliant sister’s whims. It was something she had done since childhood, always knowing how to steer him the way she wanted. Sophia always knew what to dangle in front of him, what his weaknesses were, and when it came to his investigation work, she knew it even more intricately.

Which was exactly how he found himself in the carriage alongside her going towards the Harcourt estate.

“This is quite your habit, I believe.” he told Sophia, amused.

“Why dear brother. Whatever are you implying?” she asked, a hint of innocence to her voice.

“Whenever there is something you want and in this case, it was me returning to Stratenwood House, you always entice me back with something my curiosity cannot resist.”

Sophia grinned, tucking a lock of dark hair behind her ear. “Oh, brother. I am not responsible for your curiosity, merely for inviting you to work on something you derive great joy from.” 

“You are devious.” He laughed.

“As I was raised by three equally devious men,” she countered.

He paused, looking a little longer at Sophia. In his own chaos of finding his feet, first as a man with higher intelligence and figuring out that he did not want to take such intelligence into scientific or political fields but criminal investigation, and then as a viscount, he had missed his little sister growing up into a lovely young lady. A young lady who would take the ton by storm, no doubt, with her own sharp mind.

“You are rather incredible, is what you truly are, Sophia,” he said.

“If you think my mind is sharp and my wit is one to be reckoned with then, as I have repeatedly told you, you shall get on wonderfully with Miss Harcourt.”

“And as I have repeatedly answered, I have no interest in getting to know her beyond the pleasantries we have exchanged.”

“Which you have yet to explain the reason for.”

“Because…” he trailed off, frowning. How could he admit to his sister that the reason he was not very forthcoming with anything was because he was too perpetually absorbed in the concerns of his acquaintances, which mostly resulted in him being neglectful of his own affairs, thus escaping the unpleasant necessity of attending to his private troubles. Because who would choose to get to know a man who would prefer to pour over gruesome texts depicting a terrible crime rather than dine with a lady and woo her? Because that was Gideon, a man so outside of the ton’s usual ways, a viscount who had never meant to be a viscount, and still trying to find his way.

“Because nothing,” his sister huffed. “My friend is perfectly lovely and I, for one, cannot wait to watch the two of you mull over this terrible issue. This is what you need after your last case left you so… restless My patience was utterly exhausted by witnessing what it did to you. Too many late nights and missed meals.” Sophia shook her head. “Papa would be both proud and concerned.”

Gideon only nodded, keeping quiet after that, as they finally arrived at Harcourt House. He could feel his mind sliding into that calm place, somewhere no other thoughts existed except ones that would tear through an alibi, assess a scene alongside the magistrates’ workers, and find the culprit. Sophia had been right: his last case had left him torn asunder, too scattered himself by the end of the case to even piece the evidence together to find the answer right under his nose. He had kept himself awake, held up by coffee, stubborn determination, and very little else. This sort of thing, as terrible as it was to have happened to Miss Harcourt, was exactly what he needed to find his way back to himself.

They were shown into the grand, if not a little outdated, townhouse, by a kind-looking housekeeper who introduced herself as Mrs. Harriet Winters. There was a furrow between her brows, and Gideon took note of it. Immediately, he knew he could not rule out staff, but this woman looked as though she hadn’t had a lot of sleep. After all, she was the housekeeper. She’d feel some sort of responsibility if something was amiss.

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Lord Strathmore, Lady Sophia,” Mrs. Winter said. “Miss Harcourt is waiting for you in the library.”

“Thank you.” Gideon strode onward even if this was, initially, Sophia’s invitation. He walked down the short hallway to where a door opened up into a large semi-circle shape of a library. Four large windows at the back flooded light into the room, illuminating the dust motes that danced through the air. Books upon books were shelved highly, and, in the center of a room before a writing desk, was Miss Harcourt.

Gideon could not recall how long it had been since he had last seen her but even as he prepared for the reserved logical part of his mind to take over, he paused. Her hair was auburn, the color of copper, and when it caught the light as she turned at his footsteps, it resembled the crackle of fire in a hearth on the snowiest of winter days. It struck him for a moment, and he cleared his throat, forcing himself into being the official investigator.

“Miss Harcourt,” he said, right as Sophia rushed into the library behind him.

“Oh, Amelia!” she cried, hurrying to her friend to embrace her. Curiously, Amelia stiffened for a moment before hugging Sophia back. She drew away quickly. “I do hope it is still all right that my br…Lord Stratenwood has a look around and asks you about the situation. I relayed as much as I could but I am sure you can provide the full details.”

“Of course.” Miss Harcourt’s voice was curious as well, drawing his interest. She sounded… not quite cold, more reserved, but a forcible sort. As if she physically held herself back. “Lord Stratenwood, I am grateful you are here to help.”

“My sister knows how to entice me,” he said, wincing as if embarrassed that he was so easily enticed. “Regardless, I am told this is a matter of your security, and therefore I wish to extend any assistance within my power.” 

The woman opposite him nodded. “Please excuse such an informal room to receive you in. My cousin has locked my uncle’s former study to claim as his own. I have not been permitted entry.”

“Since when?” Gideon glanced at Sophia. She gave him a rather excited look as if to say see?

“Since yesterday morning when he realised I was still trying to search for my uncle’s will.” Her voice was devoid of emotion, yet, again, he noticed how she did entirely seem cold. She was simply… matter-of-fact. He appreciated that. He had dealt with blubbering, wailing women, even if it was understandable as to why they were presenting as such, but it made it much harder to do his work well if he first had to sift through an emotional woman’s mutterings.

“Walk me through what has happened so far,” he invited.

Miss Harcourt gestured to the armchairs set out around a low table where tea had been set up. “Please have a seat. I will tell you everything I am aware of, Lord Stratenwood.”

He also appreciated that she kept everything professional and courteous even if she did already know him, albeit vaguely, and was best friends with his sister. He was surprised Sophia hadn’t already tried to insist the two develop into a first-name basis.

“My uncle passed eight months ago,” she began, her voice cracking, the first hint of emotion he could detect. So that is her emotional trigger, he noted mentally. “Almost immediately, my cousin, Uncle Thomas’s only child, claimed that in order to grieve, he could not do it in London where he would have to endure the ton asking him so often how he was faring. He said he needed privacy to grieve, and so he went traveling. It saddened me greatly but at the same time it allowed me to process my own grief. Nobody knew I was left here unchaperoned, so I have kept to myself.”

“And how have you filled your time?” Gideon asked, wanting to build a full profile of the time between the death and today.

“I have read,” she said. “I have played the pianoforte like my uncle encouraged me to do. I have even tinkered on the harp, if you must know.” She was displeased to have to bare herself like this. She does not like to show vulnerability, he noticed. He bit back his knowing smile. Most women showed it without realizing; this woman held her guard up like a veil over herself but it was there, visible, if he started learning where to look. “But most importantly, Lord Stratenwood, I have enjoyed security and my freedom, for I knew that when my cousin did return, as horrible as it was to keep my uncle’s death from being closed by the will reading, there would be chaos. As Uncle Thomas left me his estate and a lifetime of funding necessary to keep myself alive and provided for, whether I chose to enter into matrimony marry or not. He always promised I would never be forced into such a situation to remain financial stable.”

“Most unusual for a lady of the ton,” Gideon answered.

“I am not quite a lady of the ton,” she countered, raising a brow. “A lady, yes, but an untitled one. 

My family has worked extensively and honestly for as long as I have known. My uncle was a good merchant and he provided well for me. Anyway, my cousin returned, and we had the will reading scheduled for the following day.”

“Two days ago,” Gideon added. He enjoyed how she was very to-the-point, her facts without emotional embellishment.

Miss Harcourt nodded. “He arrived late, and then he was all formal, rushed, and eager to get the reading over with. His condolences were false, and he looked…well, it was a mere second that I saw triumph on his face, but it did not strike me as normal for the situation. I have dealt with will readings before. Triumph can have its place among the callous ones who only await their reward following a death, whereas I awaited closure to finally put my uncle to full rest.”

“Not to mention,” Gideon said, “the matter of the estate being left to you. …is Mr Harcourt aware of this stipulation?”

“Not to my knowledge,” she told him. “He was eager to leave as soon as it was declared the will was missing. He cared more for his game of cards that afternoon than anything else. He did not even offer to help with the search.”

“And you did?”

“Of course I did.”

“Because of your personal stake in it.”

“Because it was my uncle’s,” she argued. “Because his will is the last piece of him I have left, and while it would contest my cousin’s ownership of the house, I also wish to have that last piece of my last, true relative.”

“Reginald is your relative,” Gideon pointed out, cocking his head at her.

“Relatives do not make thinly-veiled threats about their cousin’s security and future.”

“Was it a threat, though, Miss Harcourt, or are you looking at it with the eyes of a woman who knows exactly what she stands to lose should the will not be found?”

At that, he wriggled beneath that confident grace she spoke with. But she only blinked, and that niggle of worry was gone, replaced by something far more composed.

“Lord Stratenwood, if that will is in this house I would have found it. However, what I have found is how my cousin has begun to lock doors. I have found that the last two mornings I have come down for breakfast there is very little left over for me. I have found that more and more of my cousin’s acquaintances are entering the house, loud and cheerful. My cousin has already won, but I need that will to survive. My life is none of his concern, and I am on borrowed time. I have scoured this house as much as I can so far, and have even gone as far to pick the lock on my cousin’s study which was not successful. I have looked through the carriage house, the stables, and even picked my way back to Mr. Preston’s office, our family solicitor. I am a mere moment away from breaking into his office directly and searching myself.”

“Do you believe you may find something he would miss?”

Miss Harcourt met his gaze, something fierce blazing in them, something that called to Gideon. “Yes. For I look beneath rocks that others have not even realised were there in the first place. I have already thought of ten places to look while others mull over the first place to even start. I have a mind that knows a lot of things, my lord, and I will not endure it if you try to convince me otherwise or consider I am a lady in distress …I am irrevocably committed to this course of action, and my anger signifies the absolute priority.” 

Her outburst was not even overly emotional but merely full of conviction in a way that made Gideon impressed, for he knew a mind of steel when he faced one.

He smirked. “For what it is worth you do not stand accused,” he said. “Of course. Whether the will is found and your uncle has, in fact, not made you his benefactor, or whether it remains lost, you stand to lose. However, I needed to push you to ensure that if I accuse your cousin, my accusations are not wrong.”

“I am not asking you to accuse.” Miss Harcourt’s voice was sharper than a whip, and he found himself ever so intrigued. “I am asking you to investigate a missing item. Sophia tells me this is your specialty, so I beseech you to do what you can and to allow me to be a part of it.”

Gideon paused, noting the very well concealed anxiety that flickered in her eyes. It was quickly hidden, as if she knew he had seen it. Her lip curled and he realised: she did not just dislike being vulnerable. She loathed it.

What weakness had she shown in her past, or what had she witnessed in her life, that she would see vulnerability to be such a hindrance?

Her hazel eyes were filled with rich intelligence. She already claimed to be further ahead than most, and Gideon realised there was a proud woman beneath this version he saw that must have wanted to prove herself. He looked at her a little longer, waiting for her to crack.

She did not, and he crooked a small smile, impressed. “Well, then, Miss Harcourt, you have already told me you have looked beneath rocks that others did not know are there. Tell me where you have looked and where you have yet to, and that is where we will begin.”

Miss Harcourt gazed back at him coolly. “I…”

Before she could finish her sentence, Gideon became aware of footsteps entering the library. He stood up, turning to face Reginald Harcourt. Immediately, Gideon knew Miss Harcourt was right: this was not a man who felt a great deal of grief. Eight months had passed, yes, but even that would leave its mark. There were no shadows on this man’s face, no hollowness to his charming smile that he flashed. He was poised, collected, and something about it did set Gideon’s assured nature on edge.

He forced himself not to glance at Miss Harcourt, knowing he would likely see on her face that she knew she was right. But as Gideon had protested, as Viscount Stratenwood, he could not simply run around accusing other gentlemen of theft in order to gain false ownership of a property that may or may not be his. Until that will was found, Miss Harcourt’s claims of the estate being left to her was simply hearsay, even if he didn’t want to accuse her of lying.

“Lord Stratenwood,” Reginald greeted, holding out his hand. Gideon shook it once, firmly, pulling away just as quickly. “I do not believe I have ever had the pleasure of you being in my home.” There was a flicker of worry as he looked between Gideon, Sophia, and Miss Harcourt. A furrow nestled between his brows.

 “What… what do I owe the pleasure?”

Gideon could not help wondering if Reginald recognised him as a threat. He was, after all, a recluse. The only times he had turned up unexpectedly to houses was to begin an investigation. It was interesting to see what that knowledge would do to Reginald.

“Mr Harcourt,” Gideon greeted, all business and smooth-talking. “I am sure you were notified that I would be coming over.”

“Mr. Preston did not inform me, no. For surely that is who invited you? Although, to enter my estate without my approval…” Reginald frowned, already defensive. 

“May I inquire as to the reason you did not meet at the office?”

Gideon didn’t correct Reginald that it was in fact his cousin who had invited him and nobody else spoke up, either.

“I suggested it made more sense to look here first,” Gideon lied smoothly. “After all, a house is far bigger than office.”

“All the more reason to search there first, surely.”

“Pray, is this point not agreeable for us to commence?”

“But of course,” Reginald smiled, and it was too wide, showed too much teeth. Gideon wasn’t affected by the too-perfect composure. “On the contrary, I implore you to. The matter of my uncle’s will is of the upmost importance, to both myself and my cousin. Is that not right, Amelia?”

Gideon glanced at her, finding her jaw tight, but she relaxed as soon as attention was back on her, her whole manner changing into something softer, something that had to wear a specific mask to get by. He recognised it well.

“Indeed,” she said, a quiet bite to her words. “Most important.”

“Well,” Reginald said, “you may look around, Lord Stratenwood or are you not the viscount while you investigate? I can never quite figure that out. What shall I address you as?”

Viscount or not, I will figure out if you are to blame for all of this, Gideon swore, even as he smiled politely. “You may continue addressing me as such.”

“I am sure addressing you by your first name is much…”

“Lord Stratenwood is fine,” he interrupted, not wishing to have any sort of familiarity with the other man.

Reginald looked back at him, shifting. His composure cracked ever so slightly but it was back in place within a moment. “You may search wherever you please.”

“Your study, Mr. Harcourt,” Gideon said, catching him off-guard. “While it is not my first place of interest, I have been informed it is locked.”

“You have been informed correctly.” Reginald’s gaze cut to Amelia. “Although the locked doors of this house are none of your business.”

“If you are permitting me into looking for your father’s will, I believe it is.”

“That sounds as though you are threatening me, Lord Stratenwood.”

“It is only a threat if you see it as one.” Gideon lifted a brow, letting the silence prompt Reginald into compliance or further put himself into the hole he might dig that would give Gideon clues. In the end, Reginald only huffed and straightened himself.

“I have a business meeting to attend,” he muttered. He looked around the library once again. “I shall have it be known that my father was an orderly man, and I am the same. If his will has gone missing then it was not the fault of any male Harcourt. Perhaps if a more competent solicitor had been hired then this would not have happened. Then again, Mr. Preston has been known for favoring… desperate souls.” The barely noticeable glance towards Miss Harcourt only went noticed by Gideon, and while he didn’t know Miss Harcourt’s full history, he disliked the tone Reginald spoke with.

“Why did you not bring in your own solicitor, then?” Gideon asked, keeping it light, casual, a mere question of interest.

“My father asked for Preston,” Reginald all but spat, shaking his head. “All I know for certain is that I will not do business with him again. Do excuse me. I will be back later this afternoon. I trust you will have finished your investigation for the day.”

So defensive for a man who is victorious from the outcome. I wonder if he knew the contents of the will and knew that Mr. Preston had allowed ownership of the estate to be given to Miss Harcourt.

With one more cursory glance back at Gideon, Reginald departed, leaving him with Sophia and Miss Harcourt.

“I told you that he is suspicious,” Sophia insisted only after the slam of the townhouse’s door echoed throughout the house, rattling the teacups on their saucers from the tea that nobody had touched.

“You did,” Gideon mused.

“Still,” Miss Harcourt murmured, “every investigator worth anything does not go on hunch alone. A hunch is a place to start but not a place to stay. Merely a springboard.”

Gideon’s eyes flicked to her, his brow lifting. Perhaps that was it, that comment that solidified his desire to help her. Perhaps that, paired with the hard resolve she spoke with, how removed she was despite the fact that her livelihood was on the line…

He had expected a distressed, sobbing woman. What he met was something whose flint in her eyes reflected his own. A woman who did not merely want to be favored by what was in that will but a woman who also wanted answers. A woman who stood out from the standard ways of the ton.

Gideon gave her a slow, impressed half smile. “Miss Harcourt, I admit that, at the beginning, I merely came here because my sister piqued my curiosity. I thought I would be stumbling into family theatrics I had no place getting myself involved in, but after speaking with you and hearing about what has happened, I do indeed wish to assist you in every way that I can.”

He couldn’t look away from that cool gaze, something about it making him want to find a reason to stay at Harcourt House longer. It is merely professional interest, he thought. Not simply because Miss Harcourt is the most like-minded woman I have ever met.

“Thank you.” The gratitude was simple yet sincere, followed by a nod of her head, as if she had expected his help, or maybe not let herself hope. Their eyes met again, and she peered back at him. Suddenly, Gideon was thinking about every past meeting they had ever had: fleeting greetings when she visited Stratenwood House to see Sophia, or whenever they had passed by one another at social events. It had always been distant, polite, and he had never seen this side of her. Not really.

But now…

Now he found himself intrigued by the hazel-eyed woman who looked as though she could unravel his own mysteries as surely as he wished to unravel hers.

Chapter Three

 

“Harcourt house is still very quiet without my uncle,” Amelia murmured the next morning as her closest friend, Lady Sophia Strathmore, stirred her tea. “Part of me is glad for the silence, as unnerving as it is, but another part dislikes it. Yet as soon as my cousin returns with one business acquaintance or another, this silence will be shattered.”

“Perhaps silence is not always a bad thing.” Sophia eyed the food laid out before them but neither had touched their breakfasts. It was a relief to find somebody whose mind seemed to weigh just as heavily as her own. Yet that morning was one of Amelia’s first breakfasts without her cousin present, and she knew she ought to take advantage of that, but her stomach felt like a rock had been dropped into it. “After all, we spoke well enough throughout the night.”

Amelia nodded thoughtfully. “We did, and yet we are no closer to any answers than when we 

retired.” She sighed, rubbing her tired eyes. “Regardless, I am grateful you offered to stay, Sophia. It has been hard and rather lonely here. Your company… it makes everything a little more bearable.”

Sophia reached across the breakfast table to squeeze Amelia’s hand, her smile soft. “I am always here for you, Amelia. And… well, I have not offered this before because we were both so certain that it was not necessary, but should your cousin see you out of Harcourt House…”

“Please, do not,” Amelia whispered, turning her gaze to the gardens outside. Gardens she had spent so much time in.

“I know, I know.” Sophia’s voice was ever so soft. “But you would have a place at Stratenwood House, even if it is a last resort.”

Even as Amelia nodded, her throat closing up both from gratitude and distress, didn’t reveal her underlying emotions as she knew fully well that she would never accept the offer. She had moved far too many times as it was. Harcourt House was supposed to have been her permanent home, her one, and solid place to settle no matter what. She had never planned to wed unless it was absolutely necessary, and she had envisioned herself lady of the house, right there at Harcourt, carrying on her uncle’s legacy.

What if it was not Reginald? Amelia had voiced at one point in the night, the two of them sat on her bed. She had already forged ice into her heart so she had not cried at the numbered nights she still had in that room. The very bedroom that had both healed and wounded her, had looked over her as she slept, as she learned how not to cry so she felt stronger, and had learned that her mind could be a maze only she could navigate.

Of course it had been Reginald.

But… did that mean he knew what was in the will? Had he known that it was, in fact, him who had been left without a home, and not Amelia? None of it mattered but Amelia couldn’t stop thinking over how unfair it was.

“Besides,” Sophia continued, toying with a lock of black hair, “it is not as though Gideon is ever home, and when he is he is shut away in his study.” Her friend let out a deep sigh. “I do not know if you are aware but you two are very similar.”

“We are not,” Amelia countered quickly, frowning. “He is rather sullen and… well, I had half a mind to think he was questioning me yesterday. There is something rather…” She fumbled for a word. Authoritative, although true, was not the word she wanted. Powerfully clever with his words? That was also not what she meant. There was something deeply intense about him, quite arresting. His presence alone commanded the notice of the room, quite unintentionally, whereas Reginald invariably demanded it. 

“Our father always saw a great deal of himself in Gideon,” Sophia told her. “Although it was Dominic who was the rightful heir, Papa always said that Gideon had the natural way that would get people to listen. Dominic… he was fair and lovely, something that, in an ideal world, would have also made a good viscount but it was not to be.”

Despite her simple, matter-of-fact words, a hint of grief flashed over Sophia’s face, darkening her 

gentle features.

“You and your brother are very alike,” Amelia noted. “Physically. If not for the age difference, you two could be twins.”

Sophia let out a quiet laugh. Amelia would not admit it but she was grateful for conversation that felt rather normal. If she didn’t think about why she was about to know Lord Stratenwood closer than ever then she could simply pretend her friend came over to speak about her family.

“Papa also said that a lot,” she said. “Again, Dominic was rather the odd one out, more like our mama than anything. Do you recall him?”

Amelia nodded, thinking of the fairer-haired Strathmore brother, almost completely opposite Sophia or Lord Stratenwood. When the two of them had ventured out together, Amelia had always found it amusing with how different they appeared.

“These are the moments I wish I had a brother,” Amelia confessed. “At least he would be bound by blood duty to help me. Or so I’d tell myself, at least. Reginald does not quite have the same obligation or inclination.”

“Then more fool him. Do not fret, Amelia. My brother will arrive this afternoon and we shall properly begin the investigation. He is very good at what he does. Do you recall how he recovered Lady Whitmore’s lost family heirloom last Season? Heavens, we all thought that diamond necklace was gone for good, but he never rested until he had helped her. And his last case… well, I shall not scare you with the details, but it… encompassed him greatly. He does not rest until he has done what he sets out to do. My brother is not a man who gives up easily. Although, you understand that if the magistrates should call upon him for help he might be a little absent from this case.”

“I understand,” Amelia promised. “To even have been considered to be helped is something I am grateful for, Sophia.”

But her gaze strayed once more to the gardens. Even with his help what can be done if the will is truly stolen? She would lose everything, and even going to Stratenwood House was another temporary solution. It would not take long to become a burden. She could not lose Harcourt House. It was not only her last connection to her beloved uncle but also to her mother. Her mother had loved it here, too. It had healed broken pieces of her that even Amelia had been able to see.

Panic rose in her as strong as a river’s undertow but she forced it down with a hard swallow of tea. No. She could not let herself fall prey to such things. She was strong, stronger than her panic tried to convince her. Amelia had suffered through too many things to fall now.

A knock on the door had her further ignoring her panic, and she was grateful. Harcourt’s butler, Mr. Jeswick, stood in the doorway.

“Miss Harcourt, Mr. Preston has arrived, asking to speak only with yourself. Shall I see him into the library?”

“Yes, please do,” she said, standing quickly.

“I shall take my leave and come back with Gideon later,” Sophia said, also standing, but Amelia grasped her friend’s hand, letting herself show a hint of desperation.

“Stay,” she urged. “Please. I…I find myself needing to not be alone right now.”

It was another moment of vulnerability but she accepted it. Her mother had been proud but it had been Uncle Thomas who had told Amelia that sometimes there was no shame or cost of pride in asking for company. Help could be avoided if she truly could not stomach it but one never had to be truly alone.

So Sophia squeezed her hand again and the two of them went to greet Mr. Preston. Amelia would never admit it but she was growing used to the knot that balled in her stomach, always on the edge to await bad news.

 

***

 

The first thing Amelia noticed when she sat across from Mr. Preston was how disheveled he was. His usual slick styled neat hair was now in a dire state of disarray as was his unkempt appearance that morning was now unkempt, as though he had rushed out of his home that morning. His countenance was marred by deep shadows of exhaustion, and he seemed perpetually on edge, as if the burden of the missing will had utterly denied him slumber.

Amelia, having known him for close to eight years, had never seen him so out of sorts.

“What news do you bring, Mr. Preston?” she asked, eager to get to the point. Amelia did not recognise the rise in her chest as hope until she tampered it down. He would not look so ailed if the news was anything to hope for.

“Not good news, I am afraid, Miss Harcourt,” he said, cleaning his round spectacles on his waistcoat. He frowned down at his hands, and Amelia almost snapped for him to speak faster. “Of course, I have acquaintances who are also solicitors. One of those is Mr. Illingworth. I am sure you know of him?” He shook his head as if he realised it did not matter. “Mr. Illingworth is Mr Reginald Harcourt’s solicitor. His personal solicitor. As I was Thomas’s, it appears Mr Harcourt has appointed his own now in order to begin his inheritance proceedings. Without the original will present, and believe me, Miss Harcourt, I have scoured everywhere, checked every drawer, cabinet, bookshelf, even my personal abode, your cousin stands to inherit everything as the closest male relative.”

“Even if Amelia is the sole owner, claimed by her uncle?”

“Even so, for there is no proof,” Mr. Preston answered regretfully.

The room spun around Amelia, and she barely could force her words past her lips when she asked, “how long?” She stared out at the solicitor, who paled. “How long do I have before I lose everything?”

“Two weeks,” he told her. “Reginald has paid Mr. Illingworth handsomely to hasten the process.”

Does that mean he knows what the original will said, or does he simply wish to get it over with? Had he spoken with my uncle before Thomas’s death and knew I am the true inheritor?

She kept her face calm, her hands pressed to her lap in a show of casual listening, and kept her turmoil writhing beneath her skin. Do not let them see, do not let anybody see how you crumble.

Lifting her chin, Amelia nodded, keeping herself well and poised. Only last Season she had rejected three matrimonial proposals, hopeful on her uncle’s word of not needing to fuss herself with matrimony. Her stomach twisted with disgust at the thought of being chained to a man permanently, especially one whom she would feel no affection for.

In retrospect, should she have accepted one proposal, even if she had not felt anything but utter boredom and revulsion towards the suitor? Though her uncle had granted his approval upon a succession of suitors, Amelia herself found them all utterly unacceptable. She observed the other ladies’ practiced, fluttering attentions to the gentlemen with an impatient scorn for their indecorous ardor. 

Dread dripped through her at needing to become like that now if she could not save herself in another way.

But no, she refuse to trade one form of dependency for another. In every book she loved, the lady always saved herself, and Amelia would not be any different. She would fight for herself until her very last moment.

“Miss Harcourt?” Mr. Preston prompted, and Amelia realised both he and Sophia were observing her, awaiting her response.

While her throat constricted involuntarily, it was Sophia who spoke, level-minded and calm.

“We should act immediately.” Her voice was strong, convicted. “Gideon…” She glanced at Mr. Preston. “Lord Stratenwood is due to come this afternoon, but there is no time to waste.” Once again, her attention returned to Amelia. “We stayed up half the night discussing next steps but there are few to take alone. Let us go to him now, Amelia. Reginald’s plans cannot be allowed to go on. You are the benefactor. Your uncle’s will must be found at all costs.”

“You are right.” Amelia surged to her feet. “Every hour counts. We will make haste to Stratenwood House.”

 

***

 

Gideon’s mind was being tugged in a thousand different directions. There were so many cases to keep track of, each case with its own agenda, selection of suspects, motives, timings, and if it weren’t for his meticulously kept notes he would have lost himself a long time ago.

Some days the weight of the sheer amount of work he took on crushed him but he could not stop, and he could not slow down. What was a little forfeited sleep if it meant he was one inch closer to solving something, to completing what needed to be done?

As it was, he was tucked away in his study. Sophia detested how much time he spent in there, and that was when he did even come back to the townhouse, and sometimes the only way she could coax him out was with a game of chess. Her little, sly grin would appear, and she would know he could never resist a chance to battle her in their game of mental wits. Chess had forged their connection over the years; Gideon himself had taught Sophia all he knew. Now, due to his attention turning to mystery cases, she was almost his equal at the tabletop game.

But in that moment, he poured over endless documents, attempting to regain his composure and settle his thoughts. trying to recenter himself in one of the cases he was working on. Ideally, he should not have taken on Miss Harcourt’s on top of everything else his time demanded of him, but he had not been able to hold himself back.

He dipped his quill in the inkpot, beginning another note page.

The suspect was absent on Sunday, the day of the engagement ball, he wrote. Is it more suspicious to have been absent or present? He has no alibi, but if he was not in the venue at all then does that rule him out?

Before he could work himself up over it, his study door was knocked upon, and in walked his butler, 

Mr. Parting.

“Yes?” Gideon asked tiredly, not looking up, but he had long learned his butler’s heavy tread.

“Lady Sophia and Miss Harcourt have arrived,” his butler told him. Gideon blinked in surprise, trying to push his thoughts away from the betrothal ball case. “May I send them in? They say it is most urgent.”

It always is when there is a case, he thought. He nodded.

“Send them in,” he said.

His sister appeared in the doorway with Miss Harcourt at her side. Beyond them, their lady’s maids waited and they were hastily directed to the entrance hall.

“Brother,” Sophia said, striding in. Gideon usually kept a no-entry policy regarding his study but he made an allowance for it this time. “I understand we have arrived ahead of our meeting but there has been a development in Amelia’s case.”

Gideon’s eyes flicked to Miss Harcourt and immediately noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes, and there was also a pinch to her polite, stiff smile that hadn’t been there the day before. He gazed at her, assessing her drawn, pale face. She has no slept, he concluded. Still, she held her head high, her hands clasped tight together in front of her. She wore a simple, navy-colored dress, her hair in a hastily-tied braid, as if she had not had the patience to wait for it to be styled as elegantly as usual. A surge of protectiveness rose through Gideon but he quickly wrangled it down. It was essential that nothing of a private nature should transpire between them as she was but a patroness whose case was a recent undertaking for his consideration.This is no place for personal matters. Miss Harcourt merely comes attached to another puzzle to solve. And solving puzzles was what he was good at. He focused on that. Dealing with individuals was not his particular skill, but solving complicated problems proved to be entirely to his liking

“Come in,” he beckoned. “Both of you, and close the door.”

As they did, and as Sophia took a seat, he noticed how Miss Harcourt opted to stand despite her fatigue. Interesting, he thought. It was as he would do if he was not ordered to sit.

“Mr. Preston arrived at Harcourt about an hour ago with an update,” Sophia began, even as Gideon’s eyes remained on Miss Harcourt, assessing her. There was something so captivating about her, about the press of her mouth, as if that alone would keep any visible reaction at bay. He could see how much she held back, but he did not coax her to let it all out. He was there for business, to investigate, that was all. “It seems that Reginald has done his own meddling since the will disappeared. He has contacted a personal solicitor, overriding his father’s connection with Mr. Preston.”

“How long has Preston worked with the Harcourts?”

“At least eight years.” There was something hard to Miss Harcourt’s voice. Something bitter, something terribly restrained. She only gazed back at him, showing nothing at all. “He helped manage my uncle’s affairs, and my mother’s.”

“What of your father?”

“I do not speak of my father.” It was not quite a snap but a clear retort that he had hit right on a sensitive spot. Gideon only nodded, shuffled the papers from the case he had been pouring over, and shut them away in a drawer. He had already worked through the night on two different cases, one of them Miss Harcourt’s, taking some initial notes. He offered them to her, and she read them efficiently, quickly, before nodding.

“Tell me anything else you know, or have thought of.” he beseeched. He enjoyed the brusque, pointed way she explained things. There was no preamble, no interval of emotion. Just cold, hard facts or reasonable hunches. Again, all without emotive motivation. Whether she kept that to her own mind, he didn’t know. He didn’t really need to know, either. She presented him with facts and knowledge and that was all he cared for. Considering, though, that this was her life on the line, he was surprised by how well composed she kept herself.

“I have been informed by Mr. Preston that Reginald has hastened the proceedings,” Miss Harcourt began. “I now have two weeks before he is the sole owner of Harcourt House, and ousts me from it. Mr. Preston has reported to me that Reginald visited him the morning of the will reading, although my cousin claimed to be returning from his travels and attending the reading immediately. He even greeted Mr. Preston as though the two had not met in some time, but Preston’s claims do not back this up. Regardless, Preston’s clerk, Mr. Phillips, handled the document case into the carriage while Preston greeted another client. Although Reginald did not leave with Preston to return to Harcourt House, the solicitor did confirm he lingered.

“Mr. Phillips was quiet the morning of the will reading. He barely interacted with me or Reginald. Could he have been working for Reginald? Could Reginald have bullied him into handing over the will? These are my two current hunches.”

Her words were clipped and precise. If Gideon did not know better, he wouldn’t have known they discussed her livelihood. Her future depended on the will being found yet she spoke of it like a mere account of her morning breakfast.

“So Reginald knew when Preston would be leaving, it seems,” he mused aloud. Miss Harcourt nodded. “This suggests methodical planning rather than an opportunistic thievery in the spare of the moment. You could be right in your suggestion of Mr. Phillips working in tandem with Reginald. We shall not rule him out.”

“Furthermore,” Miss Harcourt interrupted, “Reginald gambles with many people. I imagine not every lord or merchant is honorable. He was eager to get to a card game at the Amber Hand following the reading. Whether I stood to gain or not, I would not be so nonchalant about a will going missing. And if he was motivated by greed, surely he would want to know exactly what he stood to gain.”

“Unless he already knew,” Gideon thought aloud, once again getting a nod from Miss Harcourt. “It was in his interest to stay around, especially if he knows how sharp your mind is. I wonder if he knew it was only a matter of time before you suspected him.”

The compliment had slipped out without him being fully aware of it, and once he was aware, he cleared his throat, quickly speaking over himself.

“I shall note all this down.” He held out his hand for the notes he had given Miss Harcourt to look at. She quickly handed the paper back, and his fingertips brushed hers. They both pulled apart quickly. A curl of Miss Harcourt’s mouth reminded him to remain professional.

He noted down MOTIVES on his note paper and wrote Mr. Phillips’s name beneath.

“He could have been offered money,” he mused. “The clerk, I mean. A solicitor’s work pays well but does he pay his clerk well in the same fashion?”

“Surely there are better clients to swindle from,” Miss Harcourt argued, but Gideon only fixed her with a knowing, slow smile as he folded his hands beneath his chin.

“Miss Harcourt, do you know who my usual accused are?”

She shook her head, and he saw how it irritated her to not know.

He continued. “Maids. Servants. Even housekeepers. They are easily bought, and they always seek the lesser ranked people first, especially if it their first handful of times. They are not yet arrogant enough to know the ways to get away with thievery. For the clerk to be a suspect is not so unusual, and your cousin would be an opportunistic person to work with. Forgive me, but the Harcourts are untitled. It is a good place to start. He loses little if he is caught but can still gain a fair amount.”

To his surprise, Miss Harcourt did not argue, although he wasn’t sure why he expected her to. Instead, she nodded, understanding.

“Then investigate as you need,” she told him. “My future depends on the will being recovered within days. I do not have two weeks, Lord Stratenwood. Do what you must, and I will remain involved. Sophia suggested your work for a reason, and I would like to see success from it.”

He was almost affronted from how directly she spoke but his admiration for her way won out. He merely gazed back at her, knowing he smiled faintly, amused.

“Very well,” he said. There were no tearful pleas, and, Heavens forbid him, he was glad for it. His lapels had fallen victim to a great deal of feminine helplessness, the way they grasped at his clothes in distress, begging for help. He had plucked more than one matron, miss, and housekeeper off him. “I have already accepted but I will reprioritise my work. I understand this situation cannot endure a delay.”

“And you already understand my need for discretion,” she said. “As of right now, I do not have a shred of hope that Reginald will extend courtesy to keep me in Harcourt House but should he find out the extent of our investigation then I will have absolutely nothing. As it stands, I might still have a chance. I may be able to appease to his need to uphold public appearances.”

Gideon nodded. “It will not do well for his reputation if word travels that he will see his unattached female cousin out of her home.”

Miss Harcourt flinched at the blunt words, and he almost apologized for it, until he saw acceptance spread over her face. She took it for it was: sheer fact.

“Gideon,” Sophia tutted, and he had almost forgotten his sister was present, so focused on Miss Harcourt and the composed way she carried herself with. “Have some…” She waved a hand at him in scolding. “Decorum.”

“There is no need,” Miss Harcourt said. “He is not being rude. Only factual.”

“I disagree,” Sophia huffed. “My brother does not know himself sometimes, especially when he is profiling a person or looking into something. Do not excuse him simply because you are both similar.”

“We are not similar.”

Gideon’s head snapped to Miss Harcourt, the two of them parroting one another at the same time, their arguments against their similarities ringing out. Sophia merely giggled to herself. Miss Harcourt blinked back at him, and there was a slight flush of color to her cheeks as she averted her gaze. She had sounded haughty, as if she was exasperated, like she had heard the claim before whereas Gideon was purely disinterested. He did not need to be compared or likened to a woman such as Miss Harcourt.

She was of little value, simply another client who would see him claim another success. The more successes he had the more he would be pleased with himself, and the higher he would soar in the magistrates’ opinion.

No, he needed to not be detained by the frivolous comparisons or Miss Harcourt, or even his sister. Gideon worked alone solely because he couldn’t allow himself any distractions. Distractions led to mistakes, led to things not being noticed as keenly as they needed to be. If he became busy looking or arguing something not to do with the case, his focus wouldn’t be on the case where he needed it.

And the last time I missed a detail…

His mouth tightened as he thought about Dominic. He didn’t quite shake his head to dispel the thoughts but he forced his brother’s name from his mind, unable to think on that for a moment. Not as guilt wrapped itself around his heart, too fast to run from.

Stop this, he chided himself, standing up from his desk, as if moving would get his line of thought to stop spiraling into a darker place. A missing document was hardly a life at risk. He had dealt with those, too, had raced against a clock to save a person. It was the thing he had sought in those years after Dominic’s death, as if saving another soul accounted for the one life he had never been able to save no matter how much he had begged or prayed to turn back the time.

“I will go to Preston’s office,” he said, clearly stating the solo intent.

Miss Harcourt was already shaking her head. Contrary thing, he thought. “We will,” she corrected firmly.

“Miss Harcourt, I work alone,” he said. “I should have been clearer about that.”

“And I will not have you work on my case without my involvement.”

“Your involvement will only complicate my work and slow me down.”

He was aware of his sister watching them but he didn’t take his eyes off Miss Harcourt.

“You might be a good investigator,” she said slowly, “but you are not impervious to error. Two pairs of eyes and two minds will solve this faster. I do not have the time to wait on a man who will work as and when he pleases. I can fill in gaps you cannot when you need to work on other things. I can do anything you are unable, or think is below you. I will not be pushed out.”

Again, he simply gazed back her, finding himself anchored to the spot by her fierce insistence. She was right; he had no right to push her out, not really. Perhaps if she was a blubbering mess, tearing up all over his documents, interrupting his searches with her wails and demands of updated, but she was not. She was level-headed, and despite how the missing item decided her entire future, she viewed everything so punctually and factually.

For the first time, Gideon did truly consider not working alone. Perhaps because for the first time he faced somebody he felt might match his pace, might question and think as he did.

“Very well then,” he finally said. “But at the first hint of you slowing me down, I will beseech you to step back and allow me to do my work.”

“Let me make it clearer for you, Lord Stratenwood, with all due respect. Why would I have any inclination to slow you down when my entire life hangs in the balance? I will search for this will until my last breath if that is what it will take. I will work dawn till dusk. I will not rest until it is found. Because I simply cannot afford to. I am aware of everything that is at stake. If I slow you down I myself will walk away from the case, but too much rests on working hastily to risk such a thing.”

For a moment, nobody said another word, and Gideon only nodded. “Then let us depart for Mr. Preston’s office.”