Free A Bride by Moonlight by Liz Carlyle Page B

powerful man, a politician to his very core and a mover and shaker of the highest order. He’d held ambassadorships and even served on King William’s Privy Council. Such men knew things—oftentimes dangerous things.
    But Saint-Bryce had been just a genial country gentleman who’d done nothing more controversial than judge the fruit preserves at the county fair. The phrase passing strange did not seem to remotely apply. Hepplewood had been old. Saint-Bryce had been a tad corpulent. Such men died, and that was that.
    But Jolley had laid both sheets to the window glass with an expression of confusion on his face. “Now, this new one, sir,” he said, squinting through the loupe at it, “is curiously watermarked.”
    “Watermarked?”
    “Aye, it’s been made, sir, with a dandy-roll on a continuous papermaking machine.”
    “I know what a damned watermark is, Jolley,” said Napier irritably.
    “Well, then, have a look at it, sir.” Jolley popped out the loupe and offered it. “It’s the Maid of Dort mark.”
    “Dort? What’s Dort?”
    “It means Dordrecht, sir. It means the paper weren’t made here, but in Holland.”
    “Not British paper?” Napier slapped the paper to the glass to better see the faint embossing. “I don’t need the loupe, thank you. What the devil is she holding? A hat on a stick? And a . . . a creature of some sort?”
    “Just so, sir,” said Jolley in the tone of one tutoring a child. “That’s the Maid of Dort, and she’s speared her enemy’s helmet. And her lion—see him, just here?—he’s got some arrows and a sword. It’s like a warning, sir, to Holland’s adversaries. And if you find a paper with this mark, then you might know who wrote the letter.”
    “Interesting,” muttered Napier. “It must be a relatively rare paper, mustn’t it?”
    “Not common, no.” Jolley handed Hepplewood’s old letter back. “What d’you mean ter do, sir?”
    Napier tossed them onto the table and stared at them for a long moment, still thinking about death—and, if he were honest—about Lazonby’s vile accusations against his father. Actually, they had been Miss Ashton’s accusations, though he still believed Lazonby was behind it.
    It was like circles running around circles. Letters upon letters suggesting this and demanding that.
    Damn it all, he did not have time for any of it. With a muttered curse, Napier refilled his brandy, three fingers’ worth this time, watching as the liquid gold shimmered in a shaft of fading sunlight.
    He set the decanter down, forgetting it was open. The nagging in the back of his mind and that dark, awful doubt would not relent. And frustratingly, the truth to all of it likely lay at Burlingame Court.
    “Jolley,” he finally said, “would Mrs. Bourne fancy a fortnight’s visit to her sister down in Hull, do you reckon?”
    “Oh, I should imagine.” Jolley reached around to stopper the decanter.
    “Well then, old fellow.” Napier paused to slowly exhale. “Perhaps you and I ought to take a little trip of our own.”
    “Ooh, sir, not ter Wiltshire again.” Jolley flashed a sidelong wince. “Never much cared for the country, meself.”
    Napier shrugged. “I fear that’s of no consequence,” he said picking the offensive letters up again. “You’ve chosen house arrest—and the choice of which house must be mine .”

CHAPTER 3
    An Accident in Mayfair
    V alise in hand, Napier set off the following morning in the general direction of Hackney, intent upon executing Sir George’s orders. Although he found himself inexplicably hesitant to call upon Elizabeth Ashton, he wanted it over with.
    After that first fateful meeting in his office—nearly two years ago now—Napier had naïvely imagined he need never see Sir Arthur Colburne’s daughter again. What a fool he had been. Trouble had practically wafted from her skin like that unusual scent she favored. Even now he could see those long, slender fingers deftly slipping loose the