Carcel let out a low whistle of pure amazent. It was the perfect weapon to end the Oakridge silk scam case.
"And how exactly does Miss Kingsley know about this highly secret safe?" Carcel asked, deeply impressed.
"Lady Celine Farrington," Rowan explained. "She told Delaney everything. Celine knows where the key to the safe is kept. She is going to steal the ledger and deliver it to Delaney in exactly three days."
Carcel stared at Rowan for a long mont. He slowly shook his head, a wide, genuine smile breaking across his face.
"It seems we are both attracted to incredibly capable won," Carcel smiled, thinking of his own brilliant, fierce wife, Ines. "While we were tearing apart the dusty city archives, she simply walked into a dress shop and secured the entire victory."
Rowan nodded his head in complete agreent. His heart swelled with profound love and pride.
"It seems so," Rowan agreed softly, looking down at her elegant handwriting one more ti.
Then, his face beca entirely serious again. The smile faded, replaced by a look of deep, solemn purpose. He rembered the final paragraph of Delaney’s letter. He rembered the desperate, heartbreaking plea from the young Lady Celine.
Rowan looked up at Carcel.
"Carcel," Rowan asked, his voice dropping into a respectful, quiet tone. "Can I ask you for a favor?"
Carcel imdiately recognized the serious shift in Rowan’s deanor. He stopped smiling. He stood tall, offering his absolute, unwavering support.
"What is it?" Carcel replied, ready to do whatever was necessary.
Rowan stood up from his chair. He held out the thick parchnt letter, offering it to his brother-in-law.
"Read the last paragraph," Rowan instructed quietly.
Carcel took the letter. He scanned the final few lines. He read the na Edward Fitz. He read the tragic story of the murdered stable boy and the weeping girl who simply wanted a place to grieve.
Carcel slowly lowered the letter. His eyes were incredibly cold. He hated Lord Farrington with every fiber of his being, but reading about the cold-blooded murder of a young boy made his blood boil with a new fury.
Rowan t Carcel’s dark eyes.
"Can you help find where he was laid?" Rowan asked simply.
Carcel did not hesitate for a single second. He folded the letter carefully and handed it back to Rowan.
"It is a small matter," Carcel replied, his voice a low, deadly promise. "I will write a letter to Vance imdiately. I will tell him to drop the search for the Oakridge case and focus entirely on this young lad’s case. He will question every gravedigger, every local magistrate, and every retired servant until he finds that boy’s resting place."
Carcel paused, a tiny, grim smirk touching the corner of his mouth to lighten the heavy, tragic mood in the room.
"Just know," Carcel added, raising a single eyebrow, "your paynt to Vance is increasing drastically. He has not slept in days."
Rowan nodded his head seriously, completely ignoring the cost. He would empty his entire vault if it ant bringing peace to Celine and justice to Farrington.
"I know," Rowan agreed firmly. "And he entirely deserves every single pound. He worked really hard behind the scenes to uncover the coachman’s confession and every other evidences."
Carcel nodded in agreent. He turned toward the door, ready to leave and write his instructions to his investigator.
"We have the coachman’s confession for the carriage accident," Carcel summarized quietly. "We will soon have the ledger for the silk scam. And we will find the grave of the murdered boy. Everything is moving in our favor, Rowan."
Carcel looked back at the Duke of Ford.
"Now, we just only have to deal with Lord Farrington," Carcel stated clearly.
Rowan replied, his eyes turning as cold and hard as winter ice. "I agree."
He was entirely ready for the war. He was ready to rip the arrogant Earl from his high social standing and give him the justice he deserves.
Before Carcel could even reach for the brass door handle, another sharp knock ca on the door.
Rowan frowned deeply. Two interruptions in a single morning was highly unusual for his well-trained staff.
"Co in," Rowan called out, his voice returning to its sharp, commanding tone.
The door opened, and Mr. Simmons stepped back into the study. This ti, the elderly butler did not carry a silver tray. He looked slightly confused, his usually perfectly blank expression replaced by a look of mild bewildernt.
"Forgive the second intrusion, Your Grace," Mr. Simmons apologized, bowing his head.
"What is it, Simmons?" Rowan asked impatiently, wanting to return to his planning.
"Your Grace," Simmons began, his voice hesitant. "A woman is looking for you in the foyer."
Rowan’s frown deepened. The house was strictly closed to visitors. "A woman? Did she give her na? Is it one of my sister’s friends from society?"
"No, Your Grace," Simmons replied, shaking his head. "She does not appear to be a lady of the Ton. Her clothes are quite plain, and she arrived on foot, not by carriage."
Simmons paused, clearing his throat slightly.
"She says her na is Flora," Simmons finished.
The quiet study went completely, utterly silent.
Rowan froze. He stared at the butler. His mind, usually so sharp and capable of recalling thousands of nas and estate figures, suddenly went entirely blank.
Flora.
Rowan tried to rember where he had heard that particular na. It sounded incredibly familiar, like a distant echo from a past life. He searched his mory. Was she a forr maid? A tenant from one of his country estates?
And then, like a lightning strike in the dark, the mory hit him with staggering force.
He rembered the carriage ride with Delaney a week ago. He rembered the rain, the mud, and the terrifying crash. But right before the carriage fell, they had been on a very specific mission.
Aunt Margery had sent them into the city.
He and Delaney had been trying to talk to a young woman who used to work for the Kingsley family. A young woman who possessed a vital piece of evidence regarding the Farrington family.
A young woman nad Miss Flora who was Lady Celine’s handmaiden.
Rowan’s eyes widened in absolute, complete surprise. His jaw actually dropped slightly.
He looked at Carcel, who was watching him with a highly confused expression. Then, he looked back at the butler.
"Miss Flora?" Rowan asked, his voice a breathless whisper of pure disbelief.
Fate was not simply working in his favor; it was practically handing him the entire victory on a silver platter.
Rowan didn’t wait for the butler to answer.
"Bring her in," He commanded instantly, his voice ringing loudly through the study. "Bring her in right this second, Simmons!"
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