“Actually, if I remember correctly, they took the paper from my writing secretaire, and used it to print a number of notes.”
He thought of the bank note William had shown him that first day in his study, and the stack of identical notes from the baron’s bureau. “That’s why the note was such a poor counterfeit. They didn’t see the need to bother with—”
“It’s an excessive amount of bother for a simple joke, in my opinion,” Lady Thurston cut in with a huff. “But yes, as they’d never meant for anyone other than their friends to see the notes, they didn’t trouble themselves to make them perfect.”
“What happened?”
“I found them out and put a stop to it. Your father put away the plate, and the baron agreed to put away his share of the notes they had already printed. That was the end of it, for a time.”
“Until one of the notes surfaced this past month,” William added. “Your mother had told me of the intended joke long ago. I’d seen the printing plate and a sample of the counterfeit bills. I knew where it came from. I suspect Eppersly is telling the truth. He attempted to pass off a few of the bills to Hartsinger, who caught on to the trick and blackmailed the baron into giving him more of the bills to circulate. I imagine he’s passed them on to friends out of the country. Might have been able to continue the ruse a bit longer if Eppersly hadn’t tried using one in Benton.”
“But rather than put a quick end to it with a quiet raid, you planned this mission.”
“Two birds with one stone,” William replied.
“When William suggested the possibility,” Lady Thurston added. “I went to the attic and hunted up the plate.”
“The attic,” Whit grumbled. “Of course.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing.”
“Were you caught searching?” Lady Thurston asked. “Is that how Mirabelle came to be injured?”
“No.” Realizing it was his turn to answer a few questions, Whit stepped away from the fire and took a seat across from them. He told them what he learned from Lindberg’s report.
“For heaven’s sake,” Lady Thurston breathed when he had finished retelling the events of the evening. “What was she doing in his study? Do you suppose she knew of the contract?”
Whit shook his head. “I don’t know what she was doing there, though I doubt she knew of her uncle’s intent to send her off to an asylum. We’ll have to ask her.”
A soft rap at the door by a footman kept Lady Thurston or William from responding. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but Miss Browning is asking for you, my lady.”
“Go ahead,” Whit encouraged. “I’d like a few moments with William at any rate.”
Whit waited until she’d left before speaking. “You sent McAlistair. Why?”
William shook his head. “I hadn’t expected him to be of any real use. Figured he would just skulk about the grounds a bit.”
“Then why give him the orders to go?”
“As I said earlier, I preferred to err on the side of caution. With the two of you searching the house, the possibility of danger to Mirabelle increased. I wanted to be certain she was protected. Have a few champions, as it were.”
“How many champions did she need?” He held up a hand before William could answer.
He knew how many she’d needed. One. Him. And he hadn’t been there.
He’d failed.
“Damn it.” He dragged a tired hand down his face. “You were right, and it was best that he was there.” He smiled ruefully. “He wasn’t at all happy about it.”
William merely snorted. “Past time the man came out of hiding, and it was as good a way as any to ease him back into the world of the living.”
“Difficult world for a man who deals in death. Does my mother know what he was?”
“Not unless you told her.”
Whit shook his head. “No. When he came to stay on the grounds, I told her only that he was a soldier.”
“Ah.” William brushed at his pant legs and stood. “Well, if there’s nothing else, I’m in dire need of a drink, and then I believe it’s time for me to be going. I’ll just—”
“You’ve a bit left to do yet,” Whit cut in with a hard glance. “We’ll be going over this again.”
William slowly resumed his seat. “Again?”
“Again. And a third and fourth time if I feel it’s necessary. Then you’re going to go upstairs and explain it all to Mirabelle as many times as it takes to satisfy her.”
“Bloody hell,” William muttered and sat back down. “I’m the bloody head of the bloody War Department. That bloody well ought to count for something.”
“I wouldn’t give a damn if you were the bloody king,” Whit retorted. “Mirabelle is upstairs, hurt, frightened, and—”
“Ha! It worked,” William said suddenly. His scowl bloomed into a satisfied smile. “The mission was a success, wasn’t it? You’re in love with her.”
Whit shifted in his seat before he could stop himself. “I’ll not lend credence to this ridiculous farce—”