The study door opened with a soft click, and I glanced up to see Alistair entering with a steaming cup of coffee. I'd been poring over these same documents for hours, tracking the disappearances of young women across three counties. The pattern was there—I could feel it—but the connections remained frustratingly elusive.
"Your coffee, Your Grace," Alistair said, placing the cup on my desk with practiced precision. "Strong, as you prefer it."
I nodded gratefully, rubbing my tired eyes. "Any word from Isabella?"
"Not yet, Your Grace. Though I expect her to return from her visit with Miss Pembroke by late afternoon."
I scowled at the grandfather clock in the corner. "It's already past three."
Alistair's expression remained perfectly neutral, though I detected the slightest hint of amusement. "The Duchess often loses track of time when engaged in pleasant company. I'm certain she's perfectly safe."
