Page 68 of The Wayward Duke
“Maybe.” She shook her head. “Let me see it again.”
He went to his study and rifled through the sheaf of cryptograms and drawings until he located the crumpled page, then returned to his wife’s side.
Caroline’s blue gaze sharpened at the sight. “There.” She traced the small leaf in his drawing. “This is not part of the crest. This motif is a signature.”
Understanding crashed through Julian. “You recognise it?”
Caroline gave a faint nod. “It matches a ring my late father once owned. All his friends had the same – a group of privileged men engaged in drinking, gambling, and debauchery.” Her brow creased. “One was tried for treason, but the details escape me now.”
“Did this group have a name?”
She paused, considering. “Yes, but I was a child. Between the scandal and his gambling debts, we left London for our countryside property near your father’s estate. My father sold off the ring.”
“You’re certain of this?”
Caroline nodded. “Yes. The signature belongs to Aurelius Van Derlyn on Albemarle Street.”
He pressed a fierce kiss to her knuckles. “Well done, duchess.”
28
The shop’s polished brass bell gave a light tinkle as Julian stepped across the threshold, the door clicking shut behind him with a soft thud. His sharp gaze swept the interior, taking in the velvet-lined cases and shelves laden with glittering wares that beckoned beneath the late morning sun streaming through the front windows. An ostentatious display of wealth, each piece exquisitely wrought.
The proprietor glanced up from an account book, eyes blinking wide behind spectacles perched on a hawk-like nose.
“Your Grace. To what do I owe the honour?” The jeweller executed a quick bow.
“Mr Van Derlyn.” Julian inclined his head in polite acknowledgement. Beside him, Wentworth offered no greeting.
Julian’s smile held all the warmth of a dagger point. “I’ve come about a piece my wife’s late father owned. A ring you crafted some years ago. It bears a motif on which I’d like some information.”
The proprietor swallowed, but his tone remained pleasant. “Of course, Your Grace. Happy to be of service regarding any of my creations.” His shrewd gaze flickered from Julian to Wentworth, no doubt noting the latter’s ill-concealed impatience. When his gaze cut back to Julian, they held a glint of wariness. “How might I assist you gentlemen today?”
Julian withdrew the hastily sketched crest from his pocket and unfolded it on the gleaming counter. One finger tapped the small motif Caroline had identified as the jeweller’s signature.
“Have you sold any pieces bearing this addition to the design?” Still polite, still mild. As if they spoke only of the weather or the day’s newspaper headlines.
As if Julian’s heart wasn’t pounding out a demand for retribution.
Van Derlyn adjusted his spectacles with a trembling hand before visibly gathering himself. “I create bespoke pieces, Your Grace. My work is quite exclusive, as I’m sure you and the duchess appreciate. Client confidentiality—”
Julian didn’t let him finish. He braced his hands flat on the counter and leaned in. “I admire discretion as much as any patron of your fine establishment, Mr Van Derlyn,” Julian said, still polite. “However, a matter of some urgency has arisen, you see. My wife’s health, as it happens.”
Something shifted behind the jeweller’s eyes. His thin lips flattened.
“She took a bullet meant for my heart. Do you know what that does to a man, Mr Van Derlyn?” Julian’s voice dropped to a lethal purr. “It fills his thoughts with visceral and imaginative ways to dismantle those responsible. Piece by piece.”
Van Derlyn’s throat worked. “I… see. You have my deepest sympathies, Your Grace. Forgive my hesitation, but you understand, matters of discretion—”
A muscle ticked in Wentworth’s rigid jaw. His fingers drummed a staccato on the display case. The sound rang in the tense hush. Sharp. Impatient.
“Let me be frank, Mr Van Derlyn,” Wentworth said in clipped tones. “A wanted criminal remains free, courtesy of your silence. If you refuse to help, I’ll find any means in my power to ruin you. If the next bullet finds its mark in the duke’s heart, I’ll hold you accountable, and I will bury you.” He braced his hands on either side of the open ledger. “Now. The crest.”
With a last helpless glance at Julian, Van Derlyn capitulated. “It belonged to the members of the Scarlet League,” he admitted. “The Earl of Wyndham was a member.”
Wentworth’s threatening posture relaxed into geniality once more. “There. That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”
Wyndham.The name tugged at a memory. The earl had faced treason charges over military intelligence leaked during the Crimean War, if memory served correctly. His family was stripped of honours and sentenced to disgrace. Rather than accept the harsh verdict, the earl had fled into exile with his young son.
