Forever and a Duke

by Grace Burrowes

  “I’ll have a look at Elsmore’s estate books,” she said, “and maintain my duties here. In the evenings, His Grace must make available to me any document I request.”

  “Elsmore’s holdings are more complicated than my own, and a few hours of an evening won’t allow you to do justice to the task. I’ll inform Milton that you’ve taken a month’s leave to deal with a family matter.”

  That Walden was willing to part with Ellie’s services for a month told her volumes about his sense of indebtedness to Elsmore. All that remained was to be introduced to the mincing fop who’d mucked up simple math relating to bales of wool and boxes of candles.

  “Wentworth and Penrose cannot audit itself over the next month,” Ellie said. “Who will mind the books here while I’m gone?”

  “You’ll be gone for only a month.”

  “Two weeks, during which the tellers will notice that I’m away from my post. They won’t mean to make errors, but every one of them occasionally does. You do too.” About twice a year, which was amazing, considering the sheer volume of calculations His Grace performed. He not only kept his hand in as a bank director, he owned half a dozen properties, and oversaw a few charities as well.

  The duke paused halfway to the door. “What do you suggest?”

  Ellie got to her feet, because putting off the inevitable was not in her nature. “Did you honestly think to let the books go for even two weeks without a reconciliation? Did you expect me to merely skim a few pages when I returned from this frolic for Elsmore? Haven’t I taught you any better than that?”

  “Two weeks isn’t so long,” the duke said. “I’ll keep a close eye on the bank in your absence.”

  Ellie marched up to him. “Not good enough. You are the managing director for the institution and you still post entries from the head teller’s ledger to the bible if Mr. Penrose is otherwise occupied. You will have Lord Stephen review the books in my absence. If there’s an error, he’ll find it.”

  Lord Stephen was the duke’s younger brother, a genius of protean interests, and a right pain in His Grace’s arse. Ellie rented rooms in one of his lordship’s properties, and while his lordship had a genius’s share of impatience with lesser mortals, Ellie trusted him to review the books.

  “By choosing Lord Stephen to hold the reins, you are punishing me for asking a favor of you,” His Grace said, “and yet the work—finding inconsistencies in the books—is your greatest delight in life.”

  He always smelled good, of flowers and spices. Ellie hadn’t realized that until Jane, Her Grace of Walden, had listed a pleasant scent among her husband’s many adorable qualities. The notion of anybody adoring a duke…

  “My greatest delight in life is looking after the books at my bank, Your Grace. Tidying up after some prancing buffoon with too much money and not enough meaningful work is my idea of a penance.”

  His Grace opened the door and gestured for Ellie to precede him. “Come along, then. Elsmore is kicking his heels with Penrose in the conference room. I’ll introduce you to your penance.”

  Just like that, the battle was over and lost, and Ellie’s next two weeks taken hostage. “I will start Elsmore’s audit on Monday.”

  “Elsmore will be overjoyed to hear it.”

  “And well he should be.”

  His Grace allowed Ellie to have the last word, which was prudent of him.

  Joshua Penrose stood when Ellie entered the conference room, as did another man. Ellie took one look at the stranger and cursed herself for a fool, though Elsmore bowed politely and thanked her for being willing to “lend her assistance.”

  She’d been wrong, and she hated being wrong. Elsmore was neither a fop, nor prancing, nor a buffoon, and two weeks in his employ would be the longest fortnight of her life.

  * * *

  Rex had waited in the Wentworth and Penrose conference room like a brawling schoolboy awaited a headmaster’s judgment, though no schoolyard pugilist had ever enjoyed such luxurious surroundings. The walls were wainscoted in oak and covered with green silk. The floors sported first-quality cream, gold, and green Axminster from wall to wall. The furniture was heavy, well padded, and polished to a gleaming shine.

  This might have been any conference room in any bank, except—Rex hadn’t noticed this until he’d been in the room many times—the windows were clean, inside and out, despite being one floor above a busy street. London coal smoke dirtied everything it touched, from laundry to ladies’ gloves to Mayfair mansions.

  The result of clean windows, though, was a rare sense of light and freshness within Wentworth and Penrose’s walls. Unlike most commercial establishments—including Dorset and Becker, come to think of it—this bank was maintained to the standards of a wealthy domicile rather than a busy shop. The difference was both subtle and profound.

  Cathedrals, unheated and often set apart from major cities, had the same clean, benevolent light.

  The Duke of Walden himself held the door for a smallish female who preceded him into the room as if he were her footman rather than a wealthy peer.

  Rex liked women—almost all women, which was handy when a fellow was knee-deep in sisters, aunties, and cousins of the feminine persuasion. He would have stood had any female joined the meeting, because manners were the least courtesy the ladies were due.

  With this woman, a man would sit about on his lazy backside at his peril. She did not walk, she marched, plain gray skirts swishing like finest silk. Her posture would have done credit to Wellington reviewing the troops before a battle. She wore her dark hair in a ruthlessly tidy bun; a pair of spotless spectacles perched halfway down a slightly aquiline nose.

  She had the figure of an opera dancer and the bearing of a thoroughly vexed mother superior.

  Rex took in these details—and interesting details they were—as the lady crossed the room and snapped off a shallow curtsey. She declined to offer her hand, as was a woman’s prerogative.

  He bowed, and for once refrained from smiling at a female. He had an arsenal of smiles. Friendly, flirtatious, bored, condescending, menacing—that one was not for use with the ladies—but this woman would likely slap him silly for such posturing.

  The Duke of Walden dealt with the introductions, and all the while, Mrs. Hatfield studied Rex as if deciding where to take the first bite of him.

  “Elsmore at your service, madam. A pleasure to meet you.”

  She aimed a glower down that not-exactly-dainty nose. “Likewise, Your Grace.”

  “We’ll leave you two some privacy,” Penrose said. “Would not do for Wentworth and Penrose to be privy to the concerns of a rival institution’s director. Your Grace, madam, good day.”

  He trundled off to the door, a tutor much relieved to turn his charge back over to the nursery maids. Walden followed him but paused before leaving.

  “I’m down the corridor if I’m needed.” He sent Rex an unreadable look, then left, closing the door.

  “Which of us do you suppose would be calling upon Walden for aid?” Rex asked. “I don’t quite count His Grace a friend, but I have asked this favor of him, haven’t I?” Rex wasn’t sure anybody considered Walden a friend, and Walden appeared to prefer it that way.

  Mrs. Hatfield opened a drawer at the head of the table and withdrew several sheets of paper and a pencil.

  “The favor you seek is from me, Your Grace. Applying to my employers was mere courtesy. Shall we begin? I need to know exactly what evidence you have of errors in your bookkeeping, and the sooner we embark on that discussion the sooner you can get back to”—her gaze flicked over him—“whatever it is you do.”

  “I’m sure your time is valuable,” Rex said, pulling out a chair for her. “I appreciate that you’re willing to take on this project.”

  He more than appreciated it. If his personal books were problematic, whether due to errors, bad accounting procedures, or something else, his own solicitors hadn’t noticed. Rex would explain the situation to them only after he grasped how the inaccuracie
s had arisen and what to do about them.

  Mrs. Hatfield looked at the chair, then at him, her air of annoyance fading into puzzlement. “You need not act the dandy with me, sir. I am entirely capable of managing both my skirts and a chair. One can, if one dresses sensibly.”

  Eleanora Hatfield did everything sensibly. Rex knew this from the tiny dash of lace at her collar, from the small, plain watch pinned to her left sleeve—an odd but practical location—and from the ink stain on her right thumb.

  She was painfully sensible, while he was…painfully worried about his wretched, blasted, bedamned family finances.

  “Holding a chair for a lady is not acting the dandy, madam, but rather, being a gentleman. If the fellows at this institution have inured you to discourtesy, shame upon them, for I am unwilling to commit the same transgression.” This skirmish over a chair mattered. Rex needed her help, but he would not be treated like a pestilence when he’d committed no wrong.

  Her brows drew down, and fine dark brows they were too. Nicely arched, a little heavier than was fashionable. As she rustled closer, he considered that she wasn’t so much annoyed with him as she was flustered.

  “Does nobody hold your chair, Mrs. Hatfield? Mr. Hatfield has much to answer for.”

  She sat as regally as a cat settling onto a velvet cushion, tidied the blank paper into a stack, and took up the pencil. “Mr. Hatfield is none of your concern, Your Grace. Tell me about your situation and spare no details. My discretion is absolute, and I gather the situation is becoming urgent.”

  The situation, in Rex’s opinion, had passed urgent some time ago. If his instincts were to be trusted, and they generally were, the situation now qualified as dire.

  Chapter Two

  Rex began a recitation of the family’s history, which as far as titleholders were concerned, went back for three dreary centuries. The previous Elsmore peers had had a knack for coming down on the right side of political dramas, which had started them off with an earldom, and then seen them elevated to ducal honors. By then, the family had founded the Dorset and Becker Savings and Trust, though the Dukes of Elsmore had known better than to keep exclusive control of the institution in their own hands.

  Other venerable families had shares in the bank, allowing Rex’s ancestors to retreat to the gentility of directorships and quarterly meetings. Younger sons and cousins involved themselves in the business as employees. Thus the institution remained a family venture, and solved the conundrum of what to do with spares and relations unsuited for the church or the military.

  “This arrangement has served us well,” Rex said, “and also served the bank well.”

  Mrs. Hatfield scratched away with her pencil for a moment. “If your books aren’t balancing, then some aspect of the dukedom is not in good repair. Somewhere in your ledgers, a cross-tally isn’t done, a series of entries is not verified. Bookkeeping is both an art and a science, and yours has fallen into disrepair.”

  She spoke gently, as if diagnosing him with a serious illness.

  “The problem is doubtless minor,” Rex replied, “but over time, small amounts can add up. The Dukes of Elsmore have always had a sterling reputation, as has any financial institution we take an interest in. I am determined to uphold that tradition.”

  An auditor ought not to have such pretty eyes. Mrs. Hatfield peered over her spectacles, looking like a solemn little owl, except that an owl’s eyes didn’t slant like a cat’s, or shade toward a velvety chocolate. Nor did an owl have a capacity to appear concerned over a few missing quid.

  “How did you first notice something amiss, Your Grace?”

  “A few details that literally didn’t add up.” And a persistent suspicion that a prudent peer would spend less time waltzing and more time with an abacus. “A tally here, a shortfall there. Must we trouble ourselves over those specifics now?”

  Mrs. Hatfield put down her pencil. She checked her watch and compared the time with that told by a great monstrosity ticking away on the mantel. Rex had the sense she was choosing her words, or perhaps counting to ten.

  “The word auditor comes from the Latin audire,” she said, “meaning to hear. An auditor listens, Your Grace. In former times, we listened to the accounts read out while we kept tallies in our heads. Now we not only pay attention to the books, we also attend to what happens around those books. Anybody can make a mistake in calculations or transcription. You can see a seven where I see a one. But if what’s occurring is something other than random errors, then I must discern the pattern, and that means I need all the information you have.”

  She spoke so earnestly, as if instructing a slow scholar who very, very much needed passing marks.

  Rex rose, having tolerated as much inactivity as he could. “You want to know how much I lost at the club last night? What I spent at the haberdasher’s? What baubles I purchased for my current chère amie?”

  “Yes, though I doubt you have a mistress in keeping at present.”

  A frisson of unease had Rex pretending to examine a sketch of a small girl with a large dog. In a few strokes, the artist had caught the dog’s protectiveness and the child’s trust, also her resemblance to the current Duchess of Walden.

  “Mrs. Hatfield, you cannot possibly divine that I’m without a current attachment merely by looking at me.”

  “Of course not,” she said, using a penknife to sharpen her pencil point. “I merely read the newspaper. You are escorting only the most eligible of the blue-blooded young ladies these days, but not singling any woman out for special attention. Your set considers it good form to approach marriage without other entanglements, and you are of an age to take a wife. You have no direct heir, no younger brother even. Hence, my conclusion. Now, might we resume our discussion of your books?”

  Rex’s social life apparently did not interest her beyond what was reported in the tattlers, but then, the vast, ceaseless whirl of his entertainments seldom interested him. He wandered back to the table and sent the lady a questioning glance.

  “Mind if I sit?”

  “Your Grace, if you insist on silly rituals we will accomplish little. You must treat me as if I were a chambermaid or a footman, an employee, though one who labors with her mind rather than her hands. No more of your chair-holding, bobbing about, or pretending you need my permission to sit.”

  Her handwriting was painfully neat, her attire painfully plain, and yet simple manners flustered her.

  Rex remained by the chair to her left. “As a boy, I slurped up proper deportment with my morning porridge, and as a peer, I hold myself out as an example of British manhood at its most refined, at least when a lady is present. With you, I must tend to the silly rituals or I will lose my good standing in the Decorous Dukes club.”

  That salvo earned him not even a hint of a smile. “You may sit.” She set her knife aside. “Sir.”

  “Don’t pout,” he said, patting her wrist. “A man who insists on showing you common courtesies is not the worst fate that could befall you. Once you’ve concluded your little inquisition, our paths will hardly cross.” A pity, that. Eleanora Hatfield did not want to dance with him or learn his opinion regarding the weather. That alone made her a rarity among his female acquaintances.

  She held the pencil, now dagger-sharp, poised over the paper. “I am loath to contradict my betters, but your path and mine will cross frequently,” she said. “Until I have solved the problems besetting your accounts, our paths will be one and the same.”

  * * *

  Ellie liked sitting at the head of the conference table. In the usual course, this allowed her to have a partner on either side of her, so they could all three peruse the same ledgers or documents.

  With Elsmore, she wished he’d taken the head—most men would have—so she could sit at the foot.

  He smelled not merely clean, but expensively clean and masculine. His shaving soap bore the scents of sandalwood and God knew what. Some exotic orchid that doubtless only bloomed under a blue moon in the deepest jungl
es of darkest South America. On a woman, the scent would be too heavy. On a man it faded to a reminder of morning ablutions and a promise of evening waltzes.

  “Then there’s my little Ambledown,” Elsmore said. “I love that place. Anybody would.”

  He’d been listing properties for the past thirty minutes, and the odd thing was, he knew them all as if he’d spent most of his life at each one. The sheep farms in Cumbria, the castle in Peebleshire, the hunting box on the edge of the New Forest, the modest estates he managed for his aunts and cousins.

  “Who does the accounting for Ambledown?” Ellie asked.

  “The housekeeper, and she sends me monthly reports. You’d get on well with her.”

  Elsmore did this, tossed out casual lures that sparkled before Ellie like golden apples: Why would I get on well with her? He seemed to admire this housekeeper—he certainly trusted her—and he smiled when he spoke of her.

  “If I could show you one property,” he said, “it would be Ambledown. My grandmother used it as a dower house, and my sisters and I ran wild there with the neighbor children. My parents liked for us to be near them in London—Ambledown lies in Surrey—but not underfoot at the town house.”

  His smile had grown so wistful, Ellie paused in her note-taking and indulged in a single personal question. “How did your grandmother feel about having young children underfoot?”

  “We were the curse of her old age, the tribulation she had to endure for sins committed in past lives. She told us that regularly, while making certain we had good tutors, sound ponies, and other children to run amok with.”

  Oh, to have had a grandmother able to tease her grandchildren like that. “When did you last look over the books from Ambledown, Your Grace?”

  He propped his chin in his hand. “Who ran amok with you, Mrs. Hatfield? When you were a little girl in pigtails, much smarter than your brothers but not yet confined by the strictures of decorum, who tempted you to climb trees, roll down hillsides, and play pirates in a punt tied to a stump?”