Titters, faux kisses, bow-and-curtsey, smile, repeat.
Rex returned his mother to the box, the play resumed, and all the while, he had the oddest urge to make his excuses, walk back to the ducal residence, and closet himself with the ledgers he was collecting for Mrs. Hatfield. Those ledgers held truths about him and about his dukedom, while increasingly, the theater box held only a vast, inane boredom.
As did the ballrooms, the musicales, the carriage parade, the gentlemen’s clubs, the soirees, the card parties, Almack’s—God spare a hapless duke from Almack’s—the Venetian breakfasts, and churchyard socializing. Perhaps titled men took up parliamentary responsibilities in defense of their sanity.
The lady cousins continued to feud, Eddie teased his brother while Howell pretended to watch the play, and Rachel and Mama pretended to ignore James and his paramour, who politely ignored them in return.
On stage, Tony Lumpkin made up boisterous songs about the joys of life after inheriting a title, while the boring, dutiful character Hardcastle lamented the status of an observer, doomed to watch others laugh and joke away their days.
* * *
Elsmore set three thick ledgers bound in green leather on the bank’s conference table. “We have a problem.”
“You have a problem.” Ellie had tossed away half her night considering the dimensions of his problem. “I am generously attempting to solve it for you.”
He unbuttoned his greatcoat, a many-caped sartorial wonder that would have fetched significant coin in the re-sale shops.
“And I am endlessly grateful for your efforts,” he said, draping a scarf over a peg beside the door. His hat went on another peg, his coat on the third. Thus did he gradually assert dominion over a space Ellie would have said he could never claim. “I have every confidence you will succeed, but I cannot continue to deliver my personal accounts to this institution, day after day.”
He wore morning attire, and he wore it very well. Whereas Quinn Wentworth dressed with the sobriety of a wealthy undertaker, Elsmore knew how to achieve style without appearing foppish. His boutonniere today was a pink rosebud and a few sprigs of lavender. His two watch fobs were anchored in their buttonholes with tiny sapphires mounted in gold. Jewels for daytime were an unusual choice, but on him, the effect was fashionable. The silk ribbon banding his top hat was dark blue, and his morning coat indigo.
He had an innate sense of style that other men likely envied, and women would notice without putting a name to.
“How am I to conduct an audit without seeing your books, Your Grace?”
Ellie’s notes were spread across the table, but she’d taken the desk this morning, the better to have an abacus, spare paper, and blotter between her and the duke.
“You will see my books, of course, but you cannot see them here.” He studied himself in the pier glass and ran his hand through his hair to eliminate the creases caused by his hat. The result was slightly tousled and—drat the man—dashing.
“Do you impugn the security of Wentworth and Penrose, Your Grace? Nobody on these premises will so much as peek at your blessed books. They are safer here than in your own estate office.” Ellie was safe here too, and that was not a detail.
He poured a cup of tea from the service on the sideboard. “Do you take milk or sugar in your tea?”
What had that—? “I’ve had my tea for the morning, thank you.” One cup from the bakeshop. Plain.
He added sugar and milk. “Join me in having a second. The morning will be long.”
Based on his expression, his evening had been long. His eyes were tired, his mouth bracketed in grooves. He’d not smiled since coming through the door. He set the cup and saucer by Ellie’s elbow, along with a table napkin and the plate of shortbread.
“Do you customarily wait on others, sir?”
“Would you believe I am the realm’s best-dressed lackey? I have three younger sisters. They took my education seriously.” He held his own cup of tea beneath his nose and inhaled. The bank stocked a good black tea, and the baked goods were delivered fresh from the shop across the street. Ellie typically did not indulge, which left more for the tellers and clerks.
“Please have a seat,” she said, lest he resurrect that battle when they had work to do.
He took a chair from the conference table and set it before the desk. “About our problem.”
“Send the books with a footman,” Ellie said. “I will keep a list of questions, and you can either send me written answers or drop by when your schedule allows. Daily would be best, or even twice a day.”
The tea was piping hot and strong without being bitter. Elsmore had added the perfect portion of sugar and milk, too, or perhaps the novelty of being served by a duke made the brew especially satisfying.
“You take yours plain?” Ellie asked.
“Sometimes plain is best. I cannot entrust my books to a footman.”
“Why not?”
He crossed his legs, making the chair creak. “Because I never have. If I’m to conduct this audit discreetly, then the last thing I should do is draw notice by violating my personal routines. I bring a wage book with me to my club on occasion, or a quarter’s worth of the housekeeper’s accounts out to Ambledown if I’m biding there for a few days. You have asked for every single household ledger I possess, going back at least a year.”
He closed his eyes and took a sip of tea. This morning, he was without flirtation, charm, or humor, and that should have been a relief. Auditing ducal books was not a lark. And yet that other version of Elsmore, full of small talk and smiles, had been easier to spend time with.
Ellie could be annoyed with a charming duke. A weary, beleaguered duke was an unsettling companion.
“You’d rather not deliver your account books to this location?” Ellie asked.
“The largest problem is the location. Wentworth and Penrose is a rival institution, and if I’m seen bringing my books to a lengthy appointment here day after day, talk will ensue. Neither your bank nor mine wants talk, and gossip would be a fine recompense to your employers for their generous assistance.”
My generous assistance. Ellie pushed the plate of shortbread toward his side of the desk. “And the rest of the problem?” Something bothered him, possibly something beyond his havey-cavey, harum-scarum account books.
“My complete, utter, and unrelenting lack of privacy.”
“I don’t understand. You are a duke. You wave a manicured, be-ringed hand and the realm orders itself accordingly. Everything from the King’s spending money to the poor laws to the courts organizes itself at your whim and pleasure.”
He pushed the shortbread back to her side of the desk, using a hand that bore not a single ring. “Is that what Walden would have you believe?”
Ellie took a piece. Breakfast had been bread and butter several hours ago. “His Grace is not a typical exponent of his rank.”
“Your view of a duke’s life is understandable, but not applicable in the present case. My comings and goings are noted by my three siblings, by any of the several cousins who work at my bank, by my mother—whose acumen outstrips human explanation—my valet, my butler, my house steward, my footmen, my coachmen, and any number of gossips among whom my personal secretaries prominently number. I meet you here again at my peril.”
Ellie broke the shortbread in half and got crumbs on the page she’d been tallying. “What do you propose?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose, then pushed his thumb and forefinger up to stroke out over his brow. “I keep a house off of—”
“No.”
A frigid pair of blue eyes regarded her from down the length of a ducal nose. “I beg your pardon?”
“You cannot be seen to frequent this bank, and I will not be seen to frequent your…your love nest.” Ellie was blushing, surely for the first time in fifteen years. “My reputation means much to me, Your Grace, and unlike you, I cannot expect polite society to turn a blind eye to bad behavior or even the appearance of bad be
havior.”
Then too, Mick and Jack would notice, and they would never believe Ellie’s explanation.
Elsmore pinched the bridge of his nose again. “For God’s sake, the property has been empty for months. The housekeeper alone bides there and she knows better than to gossip.”
“What has that to do with anything? If I meet you during daylight hours, the worst assumptions will be made about me precisely because the property has been unused in some time. Talk can ruin a woman as surely as it can ruin a bank.”
He stared at her as if she had two heads, one adorned with snakes, the other with horns. “What do you propose?”
Normally, Ellie liked puzzles, but not when they were presented by an unhappy duke. “Does the audit itself bother you, or is something else amiss?” Was he pale? Ellie well knew the scent of a man who’d overindulged the previous evening. All she detected on Elsmore’s person was his shaving soap and a hint of lavender.
He finished his tea, doubtless stalling while he framed half truths. “I spent last evening with family and friends and the company was not at all restful. A slight megrim—”
“No megrim was ever slight, Your Grace. Give me your hands.” Ellie held her hands out across the desk and waggled her fingers.
He regarded her. “You interrupt me more than all three of my sisters put together.”
“Your hands, sir.”
He held out his hands. “You give me more orders than they do, you contradict me, you scold me…What are you doing?”
Ellie took his hands in hers and found the muscle between the thumb and palm on each one, then pressed hard.
“I’m using my granny’s trick for easing a megrim. It doesn’t always work immediately or entirely, but it can’t hurt and it’s much safer than a patent remedy.” And it cost nothing, always a consideration.
Though Ellie should have realized that Granny’s trick meant more or less gazing into the duke’s eyes while holding hands with him across the desk.
The odd familiarity seemed to bother him not at all. “Your grip is strong, Mrs. Hatfield, and your husband is a lucky man. Would he mind if I brought my books to your home?”
“What? You cannot bring the books to my home.”
“You never receive callers? Your husband never receives callers?”
As firmly as Ellie pressed her thumb and forefinger into Elsmore’s hands, even more assuredly did she feel his curiosity intruding into her privacy. She let go of him and sat back.
“I have no husband.”
The duke clenched and unclenched his hands, big masculine paws that closed into capable-looking fists for all the lace at his wrists.
“No Mr. Hatfield. I see.”
No, he did not. He did not see that even the tiny scrap of respectability that went with appropriating a married woman’s form of address was precious. Housekeepers were invariably addressed as Missus. Women who ran their own shops were frequently Missus, and a husband need not come into it in either case.
“I have rooms in proper lodgings in a proper neighborhood. You should not call upon me…” Though in truth, Lord Stephen’s establishment boasted certain amenities. “I hesitate to tell you this.”
“We either solve the immediate dilemma or I might as well run an ad in the Gazette that I’m so distrustful of my own employees I’ve asked a competitor to look into my personal books. Dorset and Becker won’t last a fortnight thereafter, but I’ll have my audit.”
Still, Ellie dreaded the thought of Elsmore in her parlor, even for the time it took him to deliver a few ledgers or answer the odd question. Jack would watch and wait, and sooner or later, he’d draw the wrong conclusions.
“You were right to arrange an audit,” Ellie said. “Your books are askew. I already know that much. A system that allots to each factor a limited area of responsibility has ended up limiting accountability as well.”
“Somebody is stealing from me. You have barely scratched the surface of my ledgers and you know that already.” His attitude was philosophical acceptance of another problem to be solved rather than anger or even annoyance.
Ellie was annoyed enough on his behalf that she’d decided to make an attempt to straighten out his books as a matter of professional pride. Two weeks was insufficient for a thorough audit, though she could get a sense of where the problems might be buried.
“I strongly suspect irregularities, but an auditor does not leap to conclusions. My lodging house is in an old neighborhood and has its own coach house and stable. Lord Stephen purchased the building in part because it affords him at least one private entrance that I know of. If you were seen on the premises, the assumption would be that you were calling on him.”
Elsmore considered his empty teacup, then rose to set it on the sideboard. “That will serve. Thank you. More tea?”
“Please.”
Nobody called on Ellie at her private lodgings. She was not friendly with the other tenants beyond a polite nod at the front door, and she barely used the kitchen facilities on the lowest level. Lord Stephen had the whole top floor of the house, and the attics were available to house domestics, but Ellie almost never crossed paths with his lordship.
She would have to explain Elsmore’s calls to him though.
The duke set a fresh cup of tea by Ellie’s elbow and took away the one she’d finished. “Shall we to the books, Mrs. Hatfield?”
“I have a few questions first.”
He settled into his chair. “Do your worst. I’m to meet two uncles at the club for luncheon, and I’m yours until then.”
He would never be hers, nor could Ellie imagine wanting him to be—even if he did fix her tea exactly how she liked it, dress with exquisite good taste, and have warm hands.
Chapter Four
Rex could not imagine that a bank would stock a better class of tea than a ducal household did, and yet, Wentworth and Penrose served a lovely blend. He had eschewed breakfast rather than escalate the megrim that had plagued him throughout the night.
As Mrs. Hatfield launched into the first volley of questions, he allowed himself a small piece of shortbread.
“We will make a map of any employees who handle your money,” she said. “Like this.” She sketched a series of boxes connected with arrows, the boxes labeled by person—butler, housekeeper, porter, and so forth. “The greater risk is in the areas where you pass money downstream rather than as money flows upstream to you.”
“Why?” The concept of a money map made intuitive sense, for all its novelty. Did other large households use this approach, and if so, why had Rex—a bank director and a duke—remained ignorant of it?
“Downstream money is more vulnerable,” Mrs. Hatfield said, “because you will likely know how much rent is due from a tenant. Stealing a bit on the path between the tenant and your pocket would thus be difficult. You are less likely to know what coal and candles cost, and will probably never have a conversation with the suppliers of those commodities regarding their prices.”
Many, many arrows led from the ducal coffers into other hands, even for the London household. The housekeeper, house steward, valet, ladies’ maids, butler, under-butler, first footman, and head porter all had accounts, some mere pocket change, some enormous. Rex’s sisters and his mother had pin money, and so did the aunties and three lady cousins. The family accounts originated at the bank, but required management at various points along the way.
Four male cousins at university had allowances, and Eddie, Howell, and James, in addition to duties at the bank, also each managed a rural property.
And at every distant holding, another flight of arrows sprang from another pot of ducal gold.
“I can eliminate some of the potential areas of concern,” Rex said, pulling the chart of London boxes to his side of the desk. He took another bite of shortbread and washed it down with sweet, milky tea. “My butler, for example, has never put a foot wrong in forty years of service. I inherited him from my father, and he served as first footman to my grandfathe
r.”
Mrs. Hatfield took the chart back. “We eliminate no one. In fact, you should have somebody check my work when we’ve concluded this exercise.”
The shortbread seemed to help with Rex’s upset stomach, or perhaps actually doing something about his books was helping.
The patient compassion in Mrs. Hatfield’s gaze helped not at all. “I know my staff, madam.”
She took off her glasses and produced a plain handkerchief to polish them. “Your Grace, we have a problem.”
“Please do elucidate.” Without her glasses, her features took on different proportions. Her nose called less attention to itself, her eyes looked larger. Even the contour of her lips softened.
“You know the particulars of being a duke. You’ve spent your whole life learning that role, and it comes to you now as naturally as a hound chases a hare. I can claim the same expertise when it comes to accounting, particularly crooked or inept accounting. You are no more qualified to tell me how to do my job than I am qualified to be a duchess.”
“And yet”—he waved his hand, which nobody save himself bothered to manicure—“you presumed to tell me of the many privileges associated with my office.”
“And you corrected me, because my perspective is limited to that of somebody who is employed by a duke, who has tea with a duchess every Friday, who has observed ducal holdings for years at very close range, and yet, I was in error.”
She stated her error baldly, no mincing about or draping euphemisms all over it. The honesty was refreshing, though, like a tonic, not exactly palatable.
Rex took up one of the pencils from the silver tray and drew a sheet of blank paper near. He crossed an ankle over a knee, used a ledger book for his easel, and began sketching the woman who boldly lectured him.
Corrected him, rather.
“Do you know the insult my butler will suffer if I impugn his integrity?” Rex paused to take another sip of tea rather than launch into a lecture of his own. Mrs. Hatfield could not possibly grasp the delicate workings of a large, wealthy domicile. “An affronted butler can set off a cascade of burned toast, sour wine, feuding housemaids, and warring footmen. The upheaval would rival the English civil wars.”
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