Free Her Officer and Gentleman by Karen Hawkins Page A

already died, alone and locked away. Someone had to put forth those charges. Whoever that was, I believe they wished her dead and found a convenient way to do it without sullying their hands.”
    “May I ask how you plan on finding this person?”
    “Of course.” Christian opened the box. Inside lay an enameled snuffbox, a packet of letters tied with a pink ribbon, and a broken watch fob. “This is all my mother had left when she died.”
    Christian ran his fingers over the letter. “When I arrived in London after my brother’s capture, I immediately traveled to Newgate. She was already dead, gaol fever having stolen her life two weeks before.” If Christian placed a hand upon the box and closed his eyes, he could still feel his despair at that moment, taste the bitterness of death and defeat. “One of the gaolers remembered her well. He had this box and he sold it to me.”
    The box had been his for ten pence, a laughable sum now. But to a starving boy of ten, it might have well been a thousand pounds. Desperate for some part of Mother, he’d set out to get the money. It had taken all his effort, all his cunning, and a loss of his morals and innocence to procure the funds before the gaoler sold off the box and the treasures it contained.
    “I feel certain,” Reeves said into the quiet, “that your mother would be glad her possessions are now in your hands.”
    “She was in Newgate, Reeves. And no one wouldhelp her. Not her supposed friends. Not her lover. Not even the man who sired me and Tristan.” Christian threw up a hand. “I know, I know. My father—if you could indeed call him that—might have wished to help, but he had so removed himself from her life that he was not available.”
    Reeves nodded.
    “However it happened, she was left alone. She sold her jewels to pay for a cell that was reasonably dry. When that was gone, she sold her clothing. Even her shoes. She was left in rags with nothing—” A wave of emotion swallowed him whole.
    He knew from experience that he could do nothing but feel, accept, let the pain course through him. He took a deep breath and traced his fingers over the letters, over the ribbon she’d once tied herself, the small gesture soothing him somehow.
    Reeves cleared his throat. “Are there clues to her predicament in her letters?”
    Christian collected himself. “There is one letter from someone named Sinclair. It is a code name of some sort, for the wording is quite stilted. The letter is almost a confession. This Sinclair admits they provided false information to the Crown against Mother.”
    “Someone put her in gaol and then apologized?”
    “It was not an apology. The tone of the missive is taunting. I suppose it was the ultimate irony for Mother; the letter is proof, but since the author disguised his hand, she could not use it to free herself.”
    “Then it is not much of a clue.”
    “Ah, but it is. That missive led me to the Duke of Massingale, Lady Elizabeth’s grandfather.”
    “How so?”
    “I took the letter to a friend of mine who specializes in missives.”
    Reeves frowned. “My lord?”
    Christian chuckled. “My friend is a forger, one of the best.”
    “Ah.”
    “He used a powder to dust the surface, and we found a faint bleed from another letter. It was a franking mark. From the Duke of Massingale’s own ring. The letter originated from Massingale House.”
    “I see. And what is the evidence from Master William?”
    “I sent him to find the priest who attended Mother on her deathbed. Willie is on his way back. He says he has found something of import. That my suspicions of the duke are correct.”
    Reeves pursed his lips. “I suppose I cannot convince you to find another way into the duke’s home other than using Lady Elizabeth?”
    “No. The duke is a recluse. Lady Elizabeth is the only way.” Christian closed the box and carefully replaced it in the drawer. “I do not yet have conclusive proof. I know that. But the more I sift