There was a breathless quality to her voice that pleased him mightily. Progress, he thought. At last.
“Is it working?” he teased, striving to keep the mood light.
The less opportunity for her to think about all the reasons why she dared not trust him, the better. He could not forget that bastard Arthur Penhurst had hurt her first. The scars he had left were now Zachary’s to heal, along with the handful he had managed to put there himself. And heal them all he would, whatever it required of him.
“Perhaps a bit,” she acknowledged, sounding reluctant as her gaze traveled over him, warming him like a touch. “Do you intend to remain on your knees for the entirety of your visit?”
“I could if you wish.” The promise left him swiftly, the sort of easily uttered seduction he would have used on another. But this was not another, this was the woman who was about to become his wife. The woman he loved. “Shall I grovel some more?” he added to banish the reminder of the life he had lived before she had burst into the Greymoor salon.
“I think you have sufficiently groveled,” she allowed, rewarding him with a small smile that lit up her lovely face.
Finally, a genuine show of emotion that was not displeasure or disapproval. It was good to see the color restored to her cheeks. That first day after her wounding, she had been dreadfully pale. He was so damned grateful she was healing well and that her injury had not been more serious. Or something far, far worse. All the more reason for him to work with Wycombe to resolve the mystery of that damned shot.
But he had no wish to upset her with his suspicions or cause her any undue fear. Best to keep the subject matter to what he knew, working to resolve their differences.
“I am not sure I can ever sufficiently grovel for everything that has happened,” he admitted wryly. “From the start, it seems I have done everything wrong.”
“As have I.” She bit her lip, searching his gaze. “And yet, here we are.”
“Here we are,” he agreed, his frustration rising. He had to somehow move them past this stalemate, or their marriage would begin in bitterness and regret. “Tomorrow, we will be husband and wife.”
The finality of that decision, of what their vows would mean, filled him with a deep sense of rightness. He loved her. In time, he hoped she could learn to look past her fears and the feelings she once had for Penhurst.
“Izzy?” The familiar voice, accompanied by a rap at the door, abruptly severed the moment.
With a guilty jolt, Izzy pulled her hands from his grasp. “That would be Ellie.”
He rose and retrieved the bawdy book, tucking it under his arm so the duchess would not spy it. “Let her come,” he said. “I should take my leave.”
“Yes,” Izzy agreed, back to frowning at him again. “You should, my lord. You have lingered far too long already. If my mother should find you here, I will never hear the end of her displeasure.”
One more day.
One more day until they would no longer have these interruptions keeping them apart.
One more day until she washis.
“You may as well come in, Duchess,” he called. “I was just taking my leave.” In a lower voice, just for Izzy’s benefit, he said, “Until tomorrow,cariad.”
* * *
The hour was late,and Zachary was getting married in the morning. He ought to be asleep. But instead, along with Greymoor and Wycombe, he was poring over ledgers. Years upon years of ledgers he had requested from the Barlowe Park steward, Ridgely. Years of neatly written lines, additions and subtractions. Records of everything from crop yields to the per annum payments to the maids.
“What exactly are we looking for again?” Greymoor asked from his position across the room, where he was seated with a brandy and soda water and one of the years since Ridgely had taken over as steward. “You know I love numbers, but these are all beginning to swim together and give me the devil’s own bloody headache.”
“Anything suspicious,” he answered calmly, certain that if they just kept looking hard enough, long enough, they would find it.
The evidence Ridgely had been fleecing his brother—and Barlowe Park—for years.
“I suspect, were a prolonged theft to have occurred, it would have to involve rents,” Wycombe said.
“If that is the case, then we will need the ledgers that were kept before Ridgely became the steward of Barlowe Park,” he pointed out. “I am not certain these records go back that far.”
“Hmm,” Wycombe said, stroking his jaw as he consulted the pages before him. “In the past, I have also seen clever thieves using subtle mistakes to hide their ill-gotten gains. Interchanging numbers, for instance, where the substitution of a smaller number might allow him to conceal a small theft, which could add up over time. Although, I cannot find any evidence of that in this particular ledger.”
“Nor can I in mine,” Greymoor agreed, raising his glass in a mock salute. “However, the lack thereof may be more attributed to my consumption of spirits this evening rather than to your steward’s skills of deception.”
Damn it all.This was a waste of time. He had been determined to get answers before the wedding, but the past few days had been a frustrating round of seemingly promising clues that had led nowhere.
