A Lady without a Lord (The Penningtons Book 3)

by Bliss Bennet

  Not nearly as ample as Mlle. Crébillion’s curves. But his mistress had taken herself off, outraged at being left alone to languish so many evenings of late. Theo sighed. Other men might be able to squire about a demanding courtesan while also getting to the bottom of a financial fiasco, but not he.

  He’d miss the Crébillion, he’d not deny it. Yet it was pleasant not to have to stoop down just to hold a conversation with a female. Were they as shapely as they were long, those legs Miss Atherton hid under her drab-colored gown?

  Theo gave himself a mental shake. He’d not given over a delectable armful of a mistress to take up with a country Meg long-shanks. No, he’d come to track down his missing money. No, not his; Sibilla and Per’s.

  Pray heaven there was a simple explanation for the nearly empty Saybrook coffers. Theo raised a hand and knocked on the office door.

  He waited for a moment, then another, but no one answered. Atherton had not yet returned.

  Theo hesitated. Would it be a sign of disrespect to go into Atherton’s domain in the man’s absence? Theo’s father never scrupled to enter any room in his house, even this one.

  But Theo was hardly his father, now, was he?

  Still, Atherton’s office was the obvious spot to begin his investigation. Theo set a hand against the door panel and gave a tentative push.

  How familiar it all looked. In the room’s center stood the battered desk, with inkstand and roller blotter both neatly arranged. Behind it, deep wooden shelves with their rows and rows of pigeonholes, some filled with documents and scribblings, others with seed or tools, even a few stray tufts of wool. On the left, neat rows of books on land management, animal husbandry, and agriculture technique. And yes, there, in a bookshelf skirting the window, a single row of ledgers, dating all the way back to late fifteenth century, when Saybrook House had first been built.

  How many hours he’d spent pouring over those account books, trying to imagine what the Saybrook lands had been like in the past. The words remained the same, year after year—farms and fines and land tax, rents and covenants and surrenders—but it was the figures, higher one month, lower another, that told the real story. But somehow, he’d never been able to understand which of two sets of numerals was the larger, no matter how often his eyes glazed from staring at them.

  “My lord, did you not receive my message?”

  Theo started, his hand falling away from the last account book on the shelf. “Miss Atherton?”

  “My father will likely not be back until after dark. A problem with a drain, I believe.”

  Her lips turned up, but her hands twisted in her skirts. Did he discomfit her?

  “I was hoping to speak with Mr. Atherton today.” Theo tried to encourage her sad excuse for a smile with one of his own. “But alas, even a landlord must defer to a faulty drain.”

  “Might I be of assistance? I’ve often acted as my father’s scribe since returning home, and have become quite familiar with the workings of your estate, you see.”

  Far more familiar than Theo would ever be, no doubt. “Do I have it right, that you were sent away to a grandmother, or a cousin, Miss Atherton? Where was it, now?”

  “An aunt, my lord, the sister of my late mother’s mother. Her people were from Brighton, and she refused to quit it, despite her disdain for the Prince Regent and the fashionable folk who came to take the seawater cure.”

  “But now you are come back. Did you not care for Brighton, then, despite your aunt’s attachment to the place?”

  “I found it unobjectionable, my lord. But Great Aunt Lucretia was called to her heavenly reward last year, and Lieuten—well, in any case, I was no longer needed.”

  “My condolences on your loss.”

  Miss Atherton nodded, but he could detect little sorrow in her bright brown eyes. No, not brown, precisely. Brown with greenish undertones, he could see, now that she’d joined him by the window and been caught by a ray of the sun’s waning light. What was the word for that color? His brother Benedict, who had studied art on the Continent, would surely know.

  “You did not wish to remain in Brighton, even so?”

  “Lincolnshire, and my father, both called to my heart,” she said, a far more believable smile tracing over her lips. “And thus here you find me, back at Saybrook House. Now, was it a question about the spring rents?”

  She reached up for a volume on the shelf beside him, pulling the fabric of her bodice taut against her womanly endowments. Small, but ample enough to cup in a man’s hand, said endowments.

  Not that he had any intention of testing such an inappropriate assessment, now that he knew she was a lady.

  Theo cleared his throat and stepped away, putting space between himself and the unexpectedly tempting Miss Atherton. But she followed him, laying the book down on the desk against which he leaned, flipping pages until she reached the one for which she’d searched.

  “Please allow me to help you with your questions, my lord, or at least tell me what you wish to discuss, so I may inform my father and he can prepare to address your concerns in the morning.”

  “The balance,” Theo muttered. The mere sight of those columns and columns of numbers had his throat closing tight. “In his letter. Some discrepancies, don’t you know. What the bank has, what he writes in his report—don’t quite match up, the two.”

  Miss Atherton’s expression clouded with dismay as she glanced down at the page in front of her. “Oh, my lord, I am so very sorry. Did you come all this way over a small error of accounting? If you tell me the amount in question, I’m certain I—that is, my father—can set any fault to rights.”

  “Ah, yes. A matter of a few pounds, give or take.” Four thousand, to be precise. Theo may not have a head for figures, but the size of Sibilla’s dowry had practically been emblazoned on his brain.

  “Give or take? Surely you wouldn’t have bothered if the error was in your favor?”

  Lord, could he sound any more witless? Theo drummed his fingers against the desk. “No, to be sure. Not in my favor. Expecting a bit more, I understand, the bank, than it received.”

  Miss Atherton paled. “How much more?”

  Damnation. Even her bright, false smile was preferable to this tight, thin-lipped frown. “The amount? Yes, of course. I’ve got it written down somewhere.” Theo patted ineffectually at his pockets. Bad habit, that, and one, moreover, that the lady did not seem to find at all convincing.

  “Sorry, must have left it in my room.” Lord, could he look any more imbecilic to this obviously competent young lady?

  “Here, you may take the ledger up with you.” Miss Atherton closed the volume and picked it up off the desk. “To check against your notes.”

  The mere suggestion set Theo’s head to pounding.

  “No, how silly of me.” Miss Atherton pulled the book back tight against her chest. “You’ll be far too busy on this short visit, touring the estate and meeting with your people, to waste your time pouring over the account books. I’ll bring it home to my father, shall I?”

  “Just so,” Theo said, backing away toward the door. Best to leave before the oh-so-helpful Miss Atherton could offer him an abacus, or a tally stick, or perhaps even one of those computational machines mad George Babbage was reputed to be building. Not that any of them would help Theo make one and one equal two.

  “Bid you good evening, Miss Atherton.” He bowed, then edged by her into the passageway.

  “Good evening, my lord. I’m certain my father will find the discrepancy before your meeting,” she called.

  A discrepancy of four thousand pounds? Theo shook his head. Mr. Atherton had about as much chance of plucking four thousand pounds from the pages of that ledger as Theo had of being awarded Cambridge University’s Smith’s Prize in mathematics.

  The soft pat, pat of a small paw against the side of her head woke Harry with a start. She blinked, then rubbed her eyes, taking in the pale rays of light drifting in through the window, the cat perched expectantly on t
he table in front of her, eager for its morning milk. Good heavens, she had fallen asleep in the kitchen.

  She scrubbed a hand against her cheek. The Saybrook account book she’d inadvertently used as a pillow had left a deep crease across her face. Too bad sleeping atop it had not given her the key to its secrets.

  Last night she’d examined and re-examined each entry she’d so painstakingly recorded from the scraps and scribbles collected by her father, then totted and re-totted her sums, cheeks burning with embarrassment at having failed so at her work. Determined to find and fix each and every miscalculation she must have made, she worked long into the night, until the figures blurred in the light of the guttering candle. But she’d not found even a single small error, let alone anything significant enough to warrant Theo Pennington’s abandoning his town pleasures to come in person to Lincolnshire in search of it.

  Not that the new Lord Saybrook seemed all that eager to review the account books himself. How strange his manner had been! Uncomfortable, anxious, even, in the midst of her father’s office, more like a callow schoolboy than the charming, self-assured nobleman she’d encountered in the sheep pasture. Almost as if he, not his employee, were the one who had erred.

  The cat reached out and gave her hand a pat, this time adding a bit of claw. “Yes, yes, my good madam,” she crooned, reaching for a bowl. “Have you not heard, patience is a virtue?”

  “Harriot, do not tell me you’re feeding that dratted feline again,” her father’s voice called from the stairs. “Cats exist to eradicate vermin, not to drink us out of house and home.”

  Harry set the milk down on the kitchen stoop, then shooed the cat out, closing the bottom half of the Dutch door behind her. “Of course not, father,” she said, placing a kiss on Henry Atherton’s cheek as he made his way into the kitchen. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Well enough, my dear. But you’re up rather early. Worrying about the village feast again, are you? Are Strickland and his cronies still threatening to put an end to it?”

  Praise heaven, Father seemed awake and alert this morning. Far different from the staring, taciturn man she’d found sitting by the vacant hearth when she’d returned home after her first encounter with Theo Pennington. That man had barely even acknowledged her presence, let alone responded to the news of his master’s unexpected arrival. And when she came back from Saybrook House, he’d already retired for the evening, eating none of the supper she’d prepared.

  But today, Henry Atherton appeared as robust and thriving as any working man in the county. Even though the dark curls and smooth brow she remembered from her childhood had long since ceded ground to gray locks and wrinkles, Harry’s father still retained the hale body of an active man, one well-accustomed to physical, not just mental, labor. The best stewards were men of the land, not men of the desk, according to her father, a principle he’d embraced his whole life.

  Funny, how she’d always been drawn to the smooth, polished gentlemen of the drawing room rather than to those more interested in out-of-door pursuits. Like handsome Lieutenant Chamberlayne.

  Harry’s shoulders slumped. Her own preferences had hardly served her well with that superficial gentleman, had they?

  Shaking off the painfully embarrassing memory, she busied herself setting out breakfast. “Lord Saybrook’s unexpected arrival prevented me from speaking with Reverend Strickland yesterday. Oh! Do you think we might persuade his lordship to advocate on behalf of the feast? It was important not only to mother, but to Lady Saybrook, too.”

  Her father sat and rubbed a restless hand against his chin. “Saybrook? Saybrook’s been dead nigh on a year now, miss.”

  Harriot frowned as she placed a loaf of bread on the table. “Not the previous viscount, father. The new Lord Saybrook. Theo Pennington. He arrived from town yesterday, don’t you recall?”

  Her father’s face grew slack for a moment, then tightened. “Certainly I do. You told me all about it.”

  “Yes, but you were a little indisposed when we spoke.”

  “Indisposed? Bah. Heard every word you said.” Harry’s father frowned as he took up a knife and began to butter a slice of bread. “Theo Pennington, rusticating? Must be pockets to let.”

  “Oh, surely not. Although he does seem eager to speak with you.”

  Her father’s expression grew stern. “Best not be here to insist we scale back on the cottage-building, or do away with the feast. An honorable landlord takes proper care of his dependents. He doesn’t squander every guinea in the lowest gaming hells.”

  Harry dropped into her seat. She’d heard rumors about Theo Pennington’s insalubrious doings in town. But gambling? Did he care so little for his tenants and his lands that he would wager away the funds necessary to keep the Saybrook holdings in good stead?

  “Lord Saybrook said nothing about the cottages. But he did mention some questions he had about the accounts. I reviewed them all last night, and found nothing of concern.”

  “Certainly you found nothing.” Her father’s knife clanked against his plate. “Been totting up the Saybrook accounts long before you were even born, missy. And the late lord never had cause to complain.”

  “Never, father.” Harry turned to stare out the window so he would not catch sight of any doubt her face might reveal. Those early ledgers, from when Mr. Atherton had first been named steward, were as neat and accurate as any landlord might desire, as were the ones he had kept during her early years in Brighton. But the one from just before her return to Lincolnshire had looked as if a different person entirely had charge of it. Illegible entries, incorrect totting, tradesmen’s bills stuffed between the pages but never entered in the accounts—a sad mess, it had been. And continued to be, even after the disruptions of the last Lord Saybrook’s illness and death had passed, and life at Saybrook House returned to its usual routine.

  At least they had, until Harry recopied them, every single entry, into a new book, correcting the alarmingly frequent errors she’d found as she went. She’d tried to discuss the state of the books with Father, but he’d only fussed and fumed and then, when she’d pushed, blamed any problems on her interference, not any failing of his. Far less trouble just to take the bookkeeping into her own hands.

  As long as she kept up the pretense that her father was still the one in charge, there was no need for him to know she’d added accounting as well as transcribing to her list of daughterly duties.

  But now here Theo Pennington was, claiming mistakes had been made. Had her father been responsible for introducing an error? Or had she?

  “Lord Saybrook mentioned a discrepancy between the amount received by his London bank and the income listed in your end of year report,” Harry said in as placating a tone as she could muster. “If I could show him the acknowledgement of the deposit you made at Oundle & Thrapson’s, though, he’d see the mistake must be on their part, or on his London banker’s, not ours.”

  “Bah, I’ve not the time to go searching for a silly scrap of paper,” Mr. Atherton said, rising to his feet, his cup still clutched in his hand.

  “But Father—”

  “Likely just a tempest in a teapot. Young Theo never had much of a head for numbers.” Her father snorted. “What our new lord knows about arithmetic would barely fit in your childhood thimble.”

  “Yes, Father,” she said, rising too. “But Lord Saybrook asked to meet with you—”

  “At six o’clock in the morning?” Her father snorted again as he rose from the table. “I’ll be in the north pastures, seeing to the drains, if his lordship happens to rise before the sun reaches the meridian.”

  She bit her lip. Leave it? Or push?

  “Still, would it not be best to be prepared?” she asked, taking a step in his direction. “I’d be happy to search for the deposit slip, if you tell me where to l— ”

  “Damnation, miss, enough with your meddling!” She jumped back as his earthenware cup crashed against the table, ale spilling over its sides. “You’d do better to
concern yourself with finding a husband and a house of your own, rather than interfering in mine.”

  She fixed her eyes on the cup, utterly unable to meet her father’s gaze. Henry Atherton had always upbraided any man, gentleman or no, who had the temerity to utter even the mildest oath in front of a female. To hear him swear so, and at his own daughter—

  Harry blinked at the ridiculous rush of tears as Mr. Atherton took up his hat and slammed the door. Who was this stranger, and what had he done with her father?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The tutor points to the symbols on the slate: 5 - 2 = _____.

  “Minus. Minus means to take away, Theo.”

  “Yes, sir. Take away.”

  “So five minus two equals—?”

  Minus. Minus. Minus. The word repeats and repeats in his head, leaving no room for anything else. But still the tutor waits, expectant.

  “Two?”

  The tutor frowns. Another wrong guess. Theo tries not to squirm in his seat.

  His tutor takes a deep breath. “No, Theo. Try again.”

  Theo mimics his tutor, drawing air into his tight chest. “One?”

  “Correct.” The tutor smiles, sits up straighter. “You see, if I have five fingers—” The tutor holds up a hand, every digit extended, then folds down all but the thumb—“and I take away four, how many fingers do I have?”

  “You have one finger.” Ink-stained and nail-bitten, that finger, but even at the age of five, Theo knows better than to make any comments about his tutor’s personal habits.

  “Yes. Very good.” The tutor points again to the slate. “Now, what is five minus two?”

  Theo’s heart pounds. He can feel his mind working, scrambling to find the right answer. But all the drawers in his brainbox are empty.