The Duchess War (Brothers Sinister #1)(63)

There was only one path out of this mess, and it was going to break Minnie’s heart.

“Come, come.” Lydia tugged on her sleeve.

“Dry off a little.” Not that it would do any good, what with them venturing out again. “I need…five minutes. Five minutes to gather some papers.” Five minutes to slay two birds with one single betrayal.

She walked into her room in a daze. Slowly, she pulled out the stash of papers she’d built up. Evidence, painstakingly collected. Including the letter he’d written her.

Minnie looked straight ahead. Her heart thumped heavily, but she bundled it all up without trembling.

IT TOOK NEARLY THREE-QUARTERS OF AN HOUR for Minnie to make her way to the Charingfords’ house in the storm. By the time she arrived, Minnie’s skirts were dripping and her hair was no doubt a tangled, sodden mess. But there was no time to waste with anything so frivolous as drying. As soon as Lydia escorted her inside, she threw the parlor doors open and walked inside.

“Miss Pursling!” Mr. Charingford exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

Stevens slowly stood, folding his arms in disapproval. His eyes slid over Minnie, fell on Lydia behind her, and then shifted away. “Miss Charingford,” he said icily. His gaze shifted back to Minnie.

“Tell them,” Lydia said behind her. “Tell them the truth.”

Stevens shifted to look at Minnie. “You, I presume, are Miss Minerva Lane.”

She had known it was coming. Her stomach lurched, even so, at hearing her old name spoken aloud, seeing the look in Stevens’s eyes. Lights flashed in front of her vision.

It is nothing. You are nothing. It can’t touch you here.

“Correct,” Minnie said.

Behind her, Lydia let out a gasp. But Minnie couldn’t look back. She couldn’t bear to see her friend’s face now.

“So, you’re a bastard. What else have you been hiding?”

Minnie held up a hand. “I am a great many things,” she said quietly. “But there is one accusation that will not hold. I am not, nor have I ever been, a writer of seditious handbills.”

“Lies,” Stevens growled.

Minnie met Mr. Charingford’s eyes. “I have never been involved—and all the proof points to another man.”

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?”