Creeping closer, she pressed her fingers to the sun embossed in the black steel of the fireplace like a fleur-de-lis. The emblem depressed into the setting, and the fireplace groaned.
Drawing her hand to her chest sharply, Adele took a step back.
Had the fireplace moved?
Reaching out, she pushed it, and the fireplace began to turn, revealing a small hidden room behind it. Gray light streamed through a dirty window, highlighting a battered old desk and several shelves covered in heavy, leather-bound volumes and sundry other items. A mechanical ship held pride of place on the desk and she knew if she looked closer, she'd see HMS Hamilton engraved on the tiny nameplate.
Sir George had earned a knighthood from the prince consort for designing a new type of recurring mounted gun to be used by naval forces, one year before the prince consort was overthrown. She'd never understood it. Many other manufacturers designed important things, but her father had been granted a title for it.
If there was any memory Sir George worshipped, it was that of the moment he'd been raised into the Echelon. No longer a mere second son of a second son of some poorer House, far from the grace of the ruling duke, but a titled man himself.
They'd even named a ship after him, which seemed abundant, even to her, though now she had to wonder.
What else had he done for the prince consort?
Or had he somehow been involved with Lord Balfour? Everyone knew Balfour had pulled the prince consort's strings, so the knighthood must have been his idea.
It fit.
It fit together all too neatly.
Her father was a traitor.
As if drawn by magic, Adele crossed to the desk. She wasn't supposed to get involved, but she had to know the truth.
Sir George had never been neat, but the sheer number of papers strewn across his desk surprised her. She flicked through them methodically, trying not to disturb them too much, even as she kept one ear on the door.
There were several maps of London, with various locations clearly marked upon them in red ink.
A letter addressed to Thomas Mowbray, demanding a bill of sale for what seemed to be a household automaton. Or several hundred of them.
Schematics to some sort of device or invention she couldn't quite make heads or tails of.
But it was the small list of ingredients beneath it that caught her attention. Or to be honest, one item on the list in particular.
Nobel's Blasting Powder.
While she had little knowledge of chemistry, the term "blasting" sent a chill down her spine. That was an explosive, wasn't it? TNT?
What was her father doing with a list of explosives on his desk in what appeared to be a secret study?
"He's SOG," she whispered out loud.
He had to be.
It made too much sense.
Oh God. What was she going to do? This would ruin Hattie. She'd long since stopped caring what happened to either of her parents, for the feeling was clearly mutual, but Hattie was the one thing she'd fought to protect all her life.
Adele's head jerked up as she heard raised voices coming nearer.
Her father.
She hastily shoved everything back into place, and then examined the desk to see if it looked like someone had been in here.
Darting through the secret entrance, she put her back to the fireplace and tried to force it back into place. Inch by inch, it groaned closed. Her father's voice was louder. Damn it. Adele gave an almighty shove, and the fireplace hissed shut with a sharp click and a whuff of exhaled air.
By the time the door opened, she was seated in the same chair she'd been in when Sir George left. His gaze shot to the book she was holding, which she abruptly closed before pasting a smile on her face. "Sorry. Just had to touch something."
He'd have expected nothing less, even though sweat chilled her spine.
"Now, where were we?" Sir George snarled.
But for the life of her, Adele couldn't focus on what he was saying.
How the hell was she supposed to stay out of it now?
"Ah, Duchess. What a pleasant surprise. I didn't expect to see you here."
The words hauled Adele out of her private reverie as she scurried down the stairs leading down from her father's townhouse. Adele paused, one hand lingering on the railing, as the Earl of Devoncourt appeared in front of her.
One of Balfour's Falcons.
Adele's heart leaped into her throat.
"My family lives here," she managed to respond. "Why on earth would you be surprised to see me visiting?"
A smile softened Devoncourt's mouth, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. She'd never noticed that before. "My apologies. I thought you and your father were at odds."
Such a suggestion had never come from her mouth.
What had her father said about her?
Adele arched a brow. "You thought wrong. I won't say he was pleased to hear news of my marriage, but he's accepted it now. And I was here to visit with my sister. Not my father." When one was caught out, the best way to deflect was to attack. "Though I must say, I'm surprised to see you here. I know you and my father are friendly, but calling at home?"
Was he the messenger her father just had to see?
Had her father told him she was visiting?
Had he waited for her to emerge?
After all, she'd forced herself to sit through another ten-minute lecture on how Sir George respected Lord Corvus, and if Corvus wanted to court his daughter, then Hattie could make no truer match.
"We do some business together. Nothing of interest to you, I'm sure."
Adele bared her teeth in a smile. "Ugh. Business. How dreadfully dull. If you'll excuse me? I probably should be going. I'm going to be late. There's a new hair style my maid wishes to practice for Lady Haynes's ball."
Nothing was better designed to make gentlemen back away from a conversation than mention of gowns and toiletries.
"Surely you can spare me a moment? I wanted to speak to you about something."
"What sort of something?"
"Walk with me," he murmured, offering her arm. "And you'll find out."
Adele didn't disguise the furtive look she sent down the street. How was she to avoid this? "I don't know if that's entirely wise."