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Brendan’s arms folded. “How? I thought you were resting yesterday?”

“I was,” Julius replied, withdrawing two leather-bound volumes from the deep pockets of his coat. The covers bore the scuffs of use, the gilt-lettered spines dulled with age. “That is when Miss Gideon recollected a detail from the day of my attack.”

He held up one of the books, thumb marking a page. “She recalled that the scoundrel who stabbed me wore a coat lined in tartan—Campbell tartan, to be precise.”

Brendan furrowed his brow, fingers combing absently through his thick chestnut hair as he stared off in contemplation. “One of the fellows we marked … did he not have a Scottish connection? A mother⁠—?”

“Scott,” Julius interjected with relish. “Simon Scott. His mother is a Campbell. A viscountess in her own right, descended from a Highland branch of the family.”

Abbott let out a low grunt of skepticism. “That could be mere coincidence.”

Julius issued a soft click of his tongue, the sound sharp in the still air. “I thought as much until I recalled the livery of Scott’s household. The footmen wear coats lined with Campbell tartan. Miss Gideon identified the pattern from one my great uncle’s catalogs.”

Brendan let out a long whistle, eyebrows lifting as realization dawned. “Saints preserve us. This might be the missing link.”

“I believe it is,” Julius affirmed, his voice rising with excitement. “I am all but certain.”

Abbott, ever pragmatic, crossed to the window slit and peered out at the silent alley beyond. “We must have proof. There has to be a way to confirm it.”

Julius inclined his head. “Indeed. I propose we question Stone and Montague directly. If they possess solid alibis for the coronation night, we can dismiss them and shift our focus entirely to Scott. Also, if Peter Scott’s married a woman from the Continent … if we can unearth the parish records, we may find something that ties into the case.”

Brendan rubbed at the back of his neck, his boots scuffing lightly against the sawdust-strewn floor. “You are certain enough to wager everything on this?”

Julius’s grin spread wide across his face, the first real smile he had worn in days. His voice brimmed with satisfaction as he spread his arms with theatrical flourish.

“Gentlemen, I am coming home.”

Much later, after the sun had set and London had cloaked itself in shadow, Audrey and Julius sat together in the uppermost drawing room, the grand chamber at the top of the stairs that overlooked the street and faced the columned entrance of Lord Stirling’s townhouse across the way.

Neither had spoken since entering ten minutes prior. Julius was more subdued than she had ever known him to be, though Audrey could scarcely mark it over the muffling weight of her own melancholy. A hush had settled between them, too thick and brittle to break.

Her modest valise rested at her feet beside the empty birdcage, Flapper’s absence a keen ache in her heart. The little starling, free now in the skies above London, seemed a symbol of all she had lost. Audrey tucked her gloved fingers together in her lap, hiding the motion as she crossed them tightly.

Please let me return to Stirling unscathed. Please let this all pass.

It was her final opportunity to flee. If she lingered much longer in Town, she feared her resolve might unravel. Once they crossed the street to Lord Stirling’s house, all would be altered. She and Julius would no longer be alone, no longer cocooned in the strange sanctuary they had carved in the shadows of scandal and danger.

They would become strangers again. Polite, distant, unconnected. It would rend her heart to pass him in the hallway with a cool nod or share a dinner table and pretend nothing had ever happened. That she did not carry the imprint of his lips pressed against hers. That he had not drawn her from the dark grave of mourning to breathe life into her soul.

Audrey’s throat ached with unshed tears as she stared out at the glimmering street, fog pooling in the corners like breath held too long. The distant echo of horseshoes clattered on the cobbles, a stark reminder that time would not wait. Her fingers fidgeted at the hem of her gown, agitated and tense.

“Miss Gideon,” Julius said, his voice rough with intent.

She turned from the window, startled to find him gazing at her with an expression she could not quite name—serious, conflicted, almost reverent.

“I … wish to inform you⁠—”

But before he could finish, the rumble of carriage wheels intruded, interrupting him. Both turned swiftly to the window.

Two carriages had drawn up before Stirling’s residence. Liveried footmen emerged from the shadows, their silhouettes stretched by the glow of the gaslight.

Audrey’s brow furrowed. There was something amiss.

“They are not matched,” she murmured.

Indeed, the footmen were a curious assortment, varying in height and build, lacking the uniformity typical of noble households. Several looked too short to be liveried men. Their movements were careful but lacked the trained grace of professional staff.

Julius leaned closer to the glass. “The Johns are here.”