The Duchess War (Brothers Sinister #1)

Stevens shook a finger at her. “More lies.”


But Mr. Charingford stepped forward. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Because, Minnie, as little as I would like to think of you in this way, I know what you can do.”

He didn’t look at his daughter as he spoke, but Minnie knew he was thinking of that long-ago afternoon when she’d explained what needed to be done to safeguard Lydia’s reputation.

She ignored him. “I shall prove it.”

All her emotions seemed distant—a light stuffed away under a metal hood, shining brightly where nobody could see it. She was dark and calm. She was nothing inside.

“Who do you claim is responsible?” Charingford asked. “Grantham? Peters?”

She opened the fabric sack at her side. She’d wrapped the contents first in waxed paper, then in oilcloth; they were only a little damp when she pulled them out.

“These,” she said, separating out the first sheaf of pages, “are the papers that our dear friend De minimis has produced thus far. The following can be observed under a jeweler’s lens. First, the type that produced these has an e with a defect: it has a hairline crack. Right here.” Facts. That was all she was: a collection of facts, and no more. She pointed, and then flipped a page. “And on this one. And this next one here. It’s quite distinctive.”

She spread another sheaf of papers in front of her. “These are the sort of papers that can be purchased in large quantity here in Leicester.”

Stevens started forward.

Minnie held up a hand. “They are all made locally. You’ll note that I’ve marked their origin in the corner; even if you do not trust me, you can ascertain the truth of what I’m saying with a morning’s inquiry. Use that same jeweler’s lens on this paper, and you’ll discover something that will hardly seem surprising. All the paper that is made in Leicester takes advantage of local materials. The three mills here all incorporate waste products from the textile industry into their papers: rags, bits of cotton, wool. Paper from Leicester, when closely examined, has characteristic threads of fibers throughout, no matter what the grade. This—” she tapped Robert’s handbills “—this has none.”

“What are you trying to say?”

She ignored Stevens. She was an encyclopedia, a dictionary, telling truths and nothing more.

“Here are samples of printing from the local presses. I have cataloged the defects in the type personally; once again, I assure you that a little time spent on your part would verify this assertion. You will note that there are no hairline fractures in any e that is the size shown in the handbill.”

“Come to the point, Miss Lane.” Stevens sneered. “We already knew that whoever was producing the handbill was not acting alone. This only tells me that you had help from abroad. A national organization, perhaps?”

She wouldn’t let him fluster her. Mr. Charingford was watching her more closely. Deliberately, she picked up another few pieces of paper. “Now, this paper was purchased in London. You’ll note that I have paper of several different grades in this pile. This one—” she plucked the piece from the bottom “—this one here, you’ll discover is a precise match in content for the paper on which the handbills are printed. Do keep the rest of the paper in mind, however. Who do you suppose the manufacturer is?”

“I’m in no mood to play guessing games. You’ve already said it’s from London.”

“It’s from Graydon Mills. Do you know anything about Graydon Mills?”

“I tell you, Miss Lane, if you do not come to a conclusion—”

“Let her finish,” Charingford growled.

Minnie nodded. “Graydon Mills was founded sixty-seven years ago by a Mr. Hansworth Graydon, a farmer who made his first fortune in sheep, and his second, third, and fourth fortunes in manufacturing. He owned quite an empire. His wealth was so extensive that he was able to marry his daughter well. When Mr. Hansworth Graydon died, he left the bulk of his properties to his grandson. You know him as Robert Alan Graydon Blaisdell, the ninth Duke of Clermont.”

This was met with silence, then a snort of derision.

“You have to be mad,” Stevens sneered. “You think to escape your rightful punishment by exploiting so far-fetched a coincidence?”

Mr. Charingford said nothing, just motioned for Minnie to continue.

“His Grace uses paper from Graydon Mills for all his personal correspondence as well,” Minnie said. “A premium grade, to be sure.”

“I don’t care if he does!” Stevens’s face was turning red. “I’ve heard enough innuendo. Charingford, if you will—”