Page 106 of The Duke's Jilted Bride

Which meant whoever was behind this felt secure in their anonymity. That was about to change.

The trip back to London dragged. Rowan sat with his elbow propped against the carriage window, watching the countryside smear past in muted greens and browns. His thoughts kept circling the same point: Mr. Quince. If anyone could shed light on Edward Bentern, it was him.

By the time he reached Lombard Street, the sun was low, casting long shadows over the narrow lane. The building was wedged between a wine shop and a printing press, barely wide enoughfor a proper doorway. A tarnished brass plate beside it read:H. Quince, Accounting Services.

The front door was already ajar. Rowan nudged it open and climbed a steep set of stairs that creaked under his boots. Another door at the top. Same name on the glass. He knocked.

“Come in,” called a voice.

Inside, it looked like a ledger had exploded. Papers everywhere—across the floor, spilling out of drawers, teetering in unsteady stacks on every surface. Behind the mess sat a young man, no more than twenty, hunched over a book with ink-stained fingers and smudged glasses slipping down his nose.

“I’m looking for Mr. Quince,” Rowan said.

The young man glanced up and blinked. He took in the fine coat, the serious expression, the no-nonsense stance.

“Oh. Right. Sorry, sir—Mr. Quince passed about three months ago. I’m his apprentice. Thomas Hartwell. Is there something I can help with?”

Rowan’s jaw tightened. Another name crossed off the list. “I need to look at records. A client—Edward Bentern. Transactions from around three years back.”

Thomas pushed his glasses up with his knuckle and looked around the room like the files might answer for him.

“Bentern?” he echoed. “Doesn’t ring a bell, but, well…” He motioned to the chaos. “It’s been a bit of a mess. Toward the end, Mr. Quince wasn’t exactly… sharp. Most of the filing system is in his head. Or was.”

“Search anyway,” Rowan commanded.

“Of course, sir. Though it might take some time.” Thomas began pulling ledgers from various stacks, checking index pages, and scanning entries. “What sort of transaction was it?”

“A payment authorization. Twelve hundred pounds.”

Thomas whistled low. “That’s a substantial sum. Should be recorded somewhere if it went through our books.” He continued his search, muttering to himself as he sorted through papers. “The trouble is, many of the older records are misfiled or poorly labeled. Mr. Quince developed a rather… creative filing system in his later years.”

Rowan watched with growing impatience as the young man searched drawer after drawer, shelf after shelf. Minutes ticked by, then an hour, with no sign of any record bearing Bentern’s name.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Thomas said finally, pushing a stack of ledgers aside. “I can’t find anything under that name. No Edward Bentern in any of our records from the past five years.”

“That’s impossible,” Rowan said, his control fraying. “The transaction definitely went through this office.”

“Perhaps it was recorded under a different name? Mr. Quince sometimes used client pseudonyms for sensitive matters.” Thomas looked up hopefully. “If you could give me more details about the transaction…”

“I’ve given you enough details.” Rowan’s voice turned cold. “Show me the ledgers for that period. All of them.”

Thomas hesitated. “Sir, I’m not sure I should?—”

“Show me the ledgers, or I’ll tear this office apart myself.”

The threat in Rowan’s voice was unmistakable. Thomas quickly gathered several thick volumes, placing them on the desk with trembling hands.

“These cover the relevant time period,” he said. “Though I should warn you, Mr. Quince’s handwriting became quite difficult to read in his final years.”

Rowan snatched up the first ledger, scanning page after page of cramped, faded entries. The handwriting was a mess. Barely readable, ink smeared, and names crammed together like an afterthought. Most of it looked like gibberish. Some entries were scratched out, others written in shorthand that meant nothing to him. A few were in what looked like code: strange initials, symbols, marks that repeated but didn’t make sense.

“What’s this supposed to mean?” Rowan asked, jabbing a finger at one of the clusters.

Thomas leaned in, squinting. “Honestly? I’m not sure. Mr. Quince had his own way of doing things. Could be internal references. Or client codes. Or… something only he understood.”

Rowan’s patience snapped. Three years chasing shadows, and still nothing solid. Every lead seemed to vanish just as he reached for it. And now Selina’s life was in danger, and the trail was as cold as ever.

He didn’t say a word. He just scooped the ledgers off the desk.

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