Harrington blinked, staring at Theo as if he had lost his mind. "A name?"
"My mother required a specialist about a year ago," Theo said, leaning forward. "A man capable of forging Admiralty seals and perfectly replicating handwriting. She would not have found this man herself. She would have used a proxy, someone desperate for cash, someone who knew the rookeries, someone like you."
Harrington's pale face turned the color of chalk. He looked wildly around the empty club room. "Westmore, if I cross the Dowager—" Theo reached across the table.
His hand shot out, grabbing Harrington by the lapels of his coat and dragging the smaller man halfway across the mahogany table. "My mother has been stripped of her power," Theo whispered, his face inches from Harrington's.
"She is broke and banished. I am the Duke of Westmore. I hold your debt. I hold your social standing in the palm of my hand. If you do not give me the name of the forger, I will ruin you before noon. You will be in a debtor's prison by nightfall."
Harrington swallowed.
The smell of gin and fear radiated from him. "Finch. His name is Silas Finch. He operates out of a print shop in Spitalfields, Bell Lane. The sign says he binds Bibles."
Theo let him go. Harrington collapsed back into his seat gasping for air. Theo stood up, straightened his coat, and walked out without another word. Spitalfields was a different kind of poverty than St. Giles. It was industrial.
The air here was thick with the smell of dye, tanning chemicals, and cheap coal. The print shop on Bell Lane was a narrow cramped building. Its windows heavily frosted with grime. Theo kicked the door open. It wasn't locked.
The shop smelled of lead type and oil. A small ferret-faced man with ink-stained fingers looked up from a heavy iron printing press. He took one look at Theo's broad shoulders, his tailored coat, and the heavy oak walking stick, and he immediately bolted for the back door. He didn't make it. Theo moved with lethal speed, closing the distance and catching the man by the scruff of his neck.
He threw Finch backward. The forger crashed into a stack of unbound paper, sliding to the floor in a shower of white sheets. "Mr. Finch, I presume?" Theo said quietly.
He walked over and stood above the terrified man, tapping the lead-weighted end of his walking stick rhythmically against the floorboards. "I ain't done nothing," Finch squeaked, holding his hands up to protect his face. "I'm a legitimate businessman." "You bound a very specific piece of fiction for the Dowager Duchess of Westmore last spring," Theo stated.
"Naval ledgers, replicating the handwriting of Baron Miller."
Finch's eyes darted left and right, looking for an exit. "I don't know no Duchesses."
Theo stopped tapping the stick.
He knelt down, bringing himself to Finch's eye level. He didn't yell. The terrifying calmness of his demeanor was far worse than rage.
"Listen to me very carefully, Mr. Finch. I do not care about your petty crimes. I do not care about the blackmail you run on minor lords, but you touched my wife's family. You touched my house."
"I have a carriage waiting outside. In my pocket, I have a bank draft for 1,000 pounds."
Finch's eyes widened at the sum. It was enough to buy a small estate in the country. It was enough to flee to America and live like a king. "However," Theo continued, his voice dropping to a silken threat.
"If you lie to me, if you protect my mother, I will drag you out of this shop by your hair. I will haul you to the Bow Street Runners. I will personally ensure the magistrate knows you forge Admiralty seals. They will hang you, Mr. Finch, slowly." Theo pulled the bank draft from his pocket and held it between his fingers.
"The money and passage on a ship to Boston tonight, or the gallows. Choose." Finch stared at the paper. The greed won over the fear. It always did. "She gave me letters," Finch babbled, scrambling to his knees.
"Letters the Baron wrote to her husband years ago, to copy the handwriting. I kept them. I always keep the originals. Insurance, you see, in case the rich folk decide they don't want to pay the final bill. Give them to me," Theo commanded.
"And the practice sheets. And a signed confession detailing exactly who paid you to forge the letters." 10 minutes later, Theo walked out of the print shop. Tucked securely inside his coat was a heavy manila envelope containing the absolute destruction of his mother's plot. He took the carriage back to Park Lane. The Westmore mansion was in a state of chaotic dismantling.
Trunks were lined up in the massive foyer. Servants were rushing about, looking terrified. The Dowager Duchess stood at the bottom of the grand staircase, wearing a heavy traveling cloak, directing a footman carrying a portrait. She saw Theo enter. Her face contorted into a mask of pure, venomous hatred.
"You have made your point, Theodore," she spat, her voice echoing in the marble hall. "You have humiliated me. You have frozen my life. But if you think I will let you bring that gutter trash back into this family—" Theo didn't speak.
He walked calmly across the foyer. The servants instinctively backed away, sensing the violence radiating from him. He stopped in front of his mother. He reached into his coat. He pulled out the manila envelope.
He opened it, withdrew a single sheet of paper, Finch's signed confession, and held it up for her to read. The Dowager's eyes scanned the words. The color rapidly drained from her face, leaving her looking old, fragile, and utterly defeated. The steel spine collapsed.
"Finch is currently on a ship to Boston," Theo said, his voice quiet, meant only for her. "I have the original letters you gave him. I have his practice drafts. The forgery is dead." The Dowager stared at the paper.