And with such a subtle, clever style, he had failed to notice it until his distracted mind had landed upon a sole entry and read it verbatim. Now that he had unlocked the key to Ridgely’s impressive manipulations, he could spy them with ease. It was as if his mind had corrected them initially, flying right past the errors which had been entered.
He went through the rest of the ledger book before him, not stopping until he had reached the opening page for that year. Three years prior. And his heart sank to the worn carpets covering the floors. If Ridgely had been using small, difficult-to-discern errors to steal funds from Barlowe Park for the last three years, what else had he done? And when had his deceptions begun?
“Fucking hell,” Greymoor muttered. “Do you mean to say the two of you are right?” He drank the last of his brandy and soda water, punctuating his query in true Greymoor form.
“I cannot view it any other way,” Zachary confirmed, grim. “He took care to make sure the amounts he was keeping to himself were small, the sort that would have gone unnoticed for some time before he was discovered.”
He flipped to the end of his ledger and his eyes caught on another item.Head gardener.The gardens at Barlowe Park were overwhelmed with weeds. The paths had roots growing through them and were nearly impassable for a lady in skirts. The Barlowe Park of his youth, in contrast, had been utterly impeccable. The lack of care evident everywhere now could not have been a mere year’s worth. Rather, it was the stuff of far longer. Five years or more. Meanwhile, the ledger book he was examining was the most recent, within the last year.
“If there was a head gardener in employ here in the last year, I will eat my own goddamn boots,” he growled. “And yet, here he is, neatly accounted for, a Mr. Robert Jones, being paid until last…” He allowed his words to trail off as he flipped to the most current entry in the ledger. “Until last month.”
Wycombe was on his feet, joining Zachary at the desk, placing the ledger book he had been examining beside his. “Tell me the suspect numbers.”
“The rents for this portion,” he said, running his finger along the page. “And this one. This portion as well…”
“Bloody hell,” Wycombe swore beneath his breath. “In comparing, it is different rents in this set, but the same pattern. Numbers transfixed repeatedly, and yet another head gardener’s salary. A Mr. Winston Smith.”
The ledgers Wycombe had been perusing were three years old.
“I suppose this means I must bring mine over as well,” Greymoor grumbled, rising and dutifully bringing the ledger with him, slapping it on the desk with the others. “Here you are.”
Zachary sifted through the pages, finding the same pattern. Numbers cleverly moved about. Yet another head gardener, this time a Mr. Neil Roberts. He would be willing to wager his eye teeth that no such name existed, the same as all the rest. That there had not been a damned head gardener being paid here at Barlowe Park since perhaps his last visit.
“What we have before us is proof that Ridgely has been stealing from the estate these last few years,” Zachary said grimly, his gaze transfixed to the elegant penmanship, the perfection of the formation of the letters in juxtaposition to the deceptions and sins they hid. “The ledgers do not lie.”
“So you’ve a thief,” Greymoor allowed. “You will want to give the sorry arsehole the sack, of course.”
The proof was before him. Ridgely was indeed a thief.
But what else was he, and why? Zachary could not shake the feeling he had only just begun to reveal the truth of the steward and what he had done. One thing was clear. He needed to remove the man from Barlowe Park forthwith.
“I will give him the sack,” he agreed, “with all haste. But let it not be forgotten that tomorrow is my wedding day.”
Certainly not by him.
He had never supposed he would await such a moment with anticipation, but he found himself counting down the hours, the minutes.
“Give him the sack after the ceremony,” Greymoor advised with an air of benevolent generosity, which could only be achieved by virtue of over-imbibing brandy and soda waters. “Then you can go off on your honeymoon and forget all about the bastard.”
“Allow me to handle the matter,” Wycombe suggested, his voice low and serious. “The evidence is clear, and at this juncture, we have no notion of whether or not this Ridgely fellow is dangerous. I will involve the local constable after you and Lady Isolde leave tomorrow for your honeymoon and see to it that he is brought to justice.”
“I cannot expect you to do that,” he denied, feeling guilty at the notion of riding off to his honeymoon and leaving his friend behind to settle the matter of his thieving steward for him.
“You are hardly expecting,” Wycombe countered smoothly. “I am offering. We are to be family tomorrow. Brothers. Family looks out for one another.”
Brothers. Family.
Zachary was unprepared for the rush of emotion at the word, the connection. He had lost Horatio and Philip long before their deaths, and he could not deny the absence had left a hole in his life.
“I would be forever in your debt,” he said hoarsely, raw emotion rising.
“Nonsense,” the duke dismissed easily. “My offer is selfish. I miss Scotland Yard. Seeing this thieving bastard brought to justice will give me a taste of the old days. Besides, your wedding and your honeymoon are far too important for you to be distracted with a matter I can easily resolve for you.”
He nodded, for Wycombe was not wrong. His wedding and honeymoonwerefar more important.
Wedding.Hell and damnation.
He, who had vowed for the last eight years to never find himself caught in the parson’s mousetrap, was gaining a wife.
