“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?”

“I’m in no mood to play guessing games. You’ve already said it’s from London.”

“It’s from Graydon Mills. Do you know anything about Graydon Mills?”

“I tell you, Miss Lane, if you do not come to a conclusion—”

“Let her finish,” Charingford growled.

Minnie nodded. “Graydon Mills was founded sixty-seven years ago by a Mr. Hansworth Graydon, a farmer who made his first fortune in sheep, and his second, third, and fourth fortunes in manufacturing. He owned quite an empire. His wealth was so extensive that he was able to marry his daughter well. When Mr. Hansworth Graydon died, he left the bulk of his properties to his grandson. You know him as Robert Alan Graydon Blaisdell, the ninth Duke of Clermont.”

This was met with silence, then a snort of derision.

“You have to be mad,” Stevens sneered. “You think to escape your rightful punishment by exploiting so far-fetched a coincidence?”

Mr. Charingford said nothing, just motioned for Minnie to continue.

“His Grace uses paper from Graydon Mills for all his personal correspondence as well,” Minnie said. “A premium grade, to be sure.”

“I don’t care if he does!” Stevens’s face was turning red. “I’ve heard enough innuendo. Charingford, if you will—”

Slowly, Minnie drew out the letter he’d handed her on the train.

“This,” she said, “is personal correspondence from His Grace.” Her voice was trembling now. Her hands were, too. She smoothed the paper against the table and gripped the edge. “I will point out that he uses the highest quality of Graydon Mills paper that there is—there’s the watermark. His signature, too, can be authenticated.” She pointed. “But I rather think you will find the contents more interesting than the source.”

Stevens snatched the paper from her hand.

“Don’t know what I’m doing…” he muttered, reading. And then he stopped and looked up at her.

“I write handbills,” he read slowly. He read it again, and then a third time, his eyes moving more slowly across the paper with each successive reading. Over his shoulder, Charingford perused the words with a growing frown. He moved away, shaking his head.

“I don’t believe this,” Stevens said. But his words were not the words of a man who doubted the letter. They were an attempt to deny reality.

“Minnie,” Charingford said, “this letter…the tone of it is intimate. The salutation. The words he uses. Even the way the letter is signed. How is it that you came to be in possession of this letter?”

Robert might possibly have forgiven Minnie for revealing the truth under the circumstances. The duchess had said that she’d needed to betray him, to earn his scorn.

If she had been playing a game, this was the moment when she would have kissed her chess piece. Once she made this move, there would be no going back.

Minnie lifted one eyebrow. “The Duchess of Clermont approached me,” she said, quite distinctly. “She wants her son to give up his ideals. She offered me five thousand pounds if I could stop him.”

The truth. Not the full truth, and said as it was, it conveyed an impression that was entirely false. Her hands were shaking.

“Tell him that I said that,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady. “Show him, and he won’t deny his involvement.”

There was no longer any turning back. If she’d read the relationship correctly, telling the duke she had been in league with his mother would end any esteem he had for her.

But then, the moment Stevens had connected her with the name Minerva Lane, all chance at a happy marriage with the duke had ended.

“He’s a duke,” Stevens said dully. “How could a duke do this?”

“Ask him.” She dropped her head. “I wouldn’t know what a duke does or why he does it.”

“And how am I to bring him to account, even if he did?” Stevens was still staring at the paper. “He’s riled the town near to boiling with his handbills and his assertions. Next you know, you’ll have workers marching, refusing to come to work. How am I to keep peace if the citizens of the town think the law can be broken with impunity?”