A recipe of love

Chaper 37

Harrow nodded solemnly, and together he and Nathaniel departed, determination in their every stride. They made their way through narrow, twisting streets until they reached a small alleyway shrouded in shadow. At its end stood the unassuming shop-dark, the windows shuttered, a sign hanging haphazardly on the door reading "Closed." But both men knew this was merely an illusion of innocence.

Harrow narrowed his eyes and, after a cursory glance to the left and right, whispered, "It would seem Mr. Willoughby anticipated company and decided to make himself scarce."

Nathaniel, his patience worn to a thread, glanced around the alley with mounting frustration. Just then, Harrow moved toward the side of the shop, disappearing into the dimness of a narrow passageway. In the silence, Nathaniel heard a scuffle-footsteps, hurried and erratic, on the other side of the wall.

"Nathaniel!" Harrow's voice called sharply. "He's slipping out the back!"

With a burst of energy, Nathaniel ran, rounding the corner just in time to see Willoughby-a gaunt, wiry man with quick, shifty eyes-trying to flee through a rear exit. Without hesitation, Nathaniel lunged, catching Willoughby by the collar and pulling him back with a force that sent the man sprawling to the ground.

"Mr. Willoughby," Nathaniel said, his voice a low, dangerous murmur as he knelt beside him. "You would be wise to remain still and listen very carefully."

Willoughby struggled briefly, his gaze darting from Nathaniel to Harrow, but as he caught sight of the fire in Nathaniel's eyes, his resistance faltered.

Nathaniel's grip tightened. "You will tell us who employed you to forge that letter, or I shall summon the authorities this very instant. And rest assured, they will take a keen interest in your little enterprise here."

Willoughby swallowed hard, his face paling. "Please, sir," he stammered, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I-I have my business to consider. I-"

Nathaniel, his patience now razor-thin, pulled Willoughby upright with a quick jerk. "Your business concerns me not at all. What I require is the truth."

They forced Willoughby back into his shop, and Nathaniel pushed him down onto a chair, standing over him as Harrow locked the door. The dim light within cast shadows across the room, illuminating stacks of parchment, ink pots, and half-finished documents scattered across the tables.

"Speak," Nathaniel ordered, his voice sharp, cutting through the silence.

Willoughby winced, glancing nervously from Nathaniel to Harrow, but with no avenue of escape, he began to relent. "It was... a woman," he admitted, his voice trembling. "She came to me some years ago, paid me handsomely-more than I'd ever been paid before, sir-to forge a letter."

Nathaniel felt his breath catch, a bitter anger brewing within him. "And did this woman give you her name?" he demanded, his tone as cold as steel.

Willoughby hesitated, visibly struggling with his next words. But as Nathaniel's gaze bore into him, he relented, his voice reduced to a mere whimper. "No name, sir... but I remember her well. She was striking-sharp-featured and beautiful. A mole marked her left cheek near her lips, her skin a deep, rich shade, and her hair dark with a hint of red in certain lights." He swallowed, his voice trembling as he continued. "She... she insisted upon utmost discretion, bound me to silence. I swear, sir, I intended no harm-"

"Discretion?" Nathaniel cut in, his voice laced with contempt. "You would aid in the separation of two people under the guise of discretion? And what of the original letter? Have you kept it?"

Willoughby's eyes flitted about the room, a glint of unease betraying his usual composure. "No, sir," he stammered, "I... once the letter was penned, she retained the original herself."