LITMIR.BIZ

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to get you two started in this quest.”

      I wondered if his caution about the constables’ presence meant he planned to sneak into Mary’s house. George had taught me the art of searching someone’s residence without their knowledge a few months ago. Since I wasn’t sure Charles knew about his friend’s more clandestine activities, I decided the question would have to wait. Following George’s instructions, I settled the file on my lap, untied the string, and pulled out the first page.

      It made absolutely no sense. Letters followed by dashes, sets of initials, and fragments of words littered the page. “What on earth is this meant to be?” I turned the page around to show George and watched his eyes glaze over in confusion as he took it in.

      “It appears she’s used a type of short writing, or stenography.”

      “Stenography?” I turned the page back to scrutinize it again.

      A.S.W. dning? at Sav wt E.C? or E, PoW? Nt sn in public rms.

      I stared across the desk at George. “How am I ever to determine what this means?”

      He leaned back in his chair, stroking his chin while he stared back at me. “The note Delaney showed you, about yourself. Was it written in this manner?”

      “No.” I stared over his head at the bookshelves and tried to picture the note. “Well, some of the words were abbreviated but Graham’s name, and mine, were written out.”

      “Like this?” Charles handed me a page from his file. I read it aloud.

      “‘Lady Elinor Finch held a festive gala at the Royal Opera House last Christmas much to everyone’s delight—except the proprietors, who wonder if she’ll ever pay them.’ ”

      I let out a snort of laughter before recovering myself. “Good heavens, how did Mary hear of this?” I handed the page to George. “And yes, that’s precisely how mine was written.”

      George placed the coded note on the desk, facing Charles and me, and beckoned us closer. “Let’s try to decipher this one, shall we? The content may explain why she chose to record it in this manner.”

      “The letters followed by periods are likely initials, don’t you think?” Charles looked at us for agreement.

      “A.S.W.,” I read. “Alicia Stoke-Whitney?”

      “Possible,” George muttered. “A number of E.C.s come to mind.”

      “Oh, my goodness.” My hand rose involuntarily to my chest as I glanced at my companions. “There can be only one interpretation for the next set.”

      “Edward, Prince of Wales.” Charles waved a dismissive hand. “No point blackmailing him. The man’s never in funds.”

      “Then E.C. is likely Ernest Cassel.” George’s gaze darted between the two of us, seeking confirmation.

      “Makes sense,” Charles agreed. “The two are close friends.”

      “And bear a striking resemblance to one another.” Now that we’d identified the principals in the note, or at least guessed at them, it made more sense. “Look, she is questioning whether it was the prince or Cassel with Alicia. Since she mentions dining, Sav is probably the Savoy.”

      “Dining is followed by a question mark and she further notes the couple was not seen in the public rooms of the hotel. Leading one to wonder where they disappeared to once inside.”

      “Heavens, will Alicia never stop trifling with other women’s husbands?” Neither man answered my question. Likely because it was commonly known Alicia and my late husband had spent a great deal of time—trifling.

      I pondered the note as I stared across the desk at George. “Alicia’s husband threatened her with divorce,” I said. “At least that’s what she told me a few months ago. This little story would certainly provide him with grounds.”

      He pursed his lips. “The question is, does Alicia want to hold on to her husband, and reputation, enough to pay a blackmailer to keep this story quiet?”

      “Or does the gentleman?” I asked.

      He raised his brows. “I’d say that’s a contender.”

      “I agree. The note about Lady Finch, while embarrassing, is hardly worthy of blackmail. Perhaps that’s why she didn’t bother disguising the note with this stenography-short writing code. Are all yours like that, Charles?”

      He raised a few pages in his hand. “Everything I’ve read so far has been crystal clear and completely dull.”

      I thumbed through mine. More abbreviations and seemingly random letters. “Well, unless Charles wants to trade files with me, I don’t see how I’ll get through this lot without a copy of Debrett’s.”

      George held up his index finger as he stood. “I may have one here.”

      I’d spoken in sarcasm, but on second thought, a guide to the peerage might come in handy. George found the book and dropped it with a thud on the desk beside the first suspicious letter.

      “If you find any further likely suspects,” he said, tapping the first note, “stack them here and we’ll determine what to do about them when I return. In the meantime, if the two of you feel comfortable with this task, I’ll move on and see how the police are proceeding.”

      Charles slapped another page upside down on the desk. “I haven’t found anything other than general gossip so far, but I do comprehend the assignment.”

      George paused in his departure. Charles had spoken the words coldly enough to make me wonder if he were indeed angry with his friend. I gave George a smile and tipped my head toward the door. If my cousin had something on his mind, perhaps he’d tell me.

      As soon as the door closed he glanced up at me, a scowl on his face. “Before you say it, I know I was rude. Hazelton’s trying to save my worthless neck, and I snapped at him.”

      “I’d never call your neck worthless, but I agree with you otherwise. Why did you snap at him?”

      He dropped the stack of paper into his lap. “He’s taking risks on my behalf while I am stuck here reading gossip.”

      “He can hardly take you with him while Delaney still suspects you. You shouldn’t take offense.”

      “I’m not taking offense. Hazelton is one of a very small group of people who don’t consider me a fool. He’s a good friend and I’m grateful for his help. I simply hate being in the position of needing it.”

      “He’s helping because he knows you didn’t murder Mary.”

      “Only because he doesn’t think I have the brains for it.”

      My cheeks grew warm. That sounded closer to my opinion. I placed a hand on his arm. “You just said yourself he doesn’t consider you a fool. He simply knows you wouldn’t do such a thing. As for being in your present position”—I shrugged—“for that you must blame me. I should have stayed out of your affairs and let you find a lady to court on your own.”

      “Come now, Cousin Frances, I asked for your help.” He gave me a crooked smile. “And I did like Mrs. Archer. She was charming, lovely. I just can’t reconcile that woman with someone who’d commit blackmail.”

      He rubbed a hand across his cheek. “And on that subject, how is your stack progressing? Anything blackmail-worthy?”

      “As you are well aware, I haven’t progressed past the first page.”

      He leafed through his pages. “I seem to have nothing more than gossip here. Some of it common knowledge, even to me.” He held up a page to read. “ ‘Miss Leticia Stuart has chosen a rather unique way of refusing her suitor. While in private consultation with Mr. Frederick Thornton in her family’s garden, she pushed him into the fountain. Did the cold bath cool his ardor or will the gentleman return to request the hand of this saucy miss

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