“Two days ago, my lord. Before I turned to the estate accounts. I cannot explain their absence.” Bexley’s brow furrowed deeply, his genuine confusion evident in the furrow between his brows. “No one should have had access to those files. At least, I believed so.”
The sharp edge of suspicion dulled. Georgina would have told him to look twice before condemning the man. The thought steadied him more than the ledgers ever could.
Alex watched him closely, measuring his words, his demeanor, the restless motion of his hands. He saw no guile in Bexley, no subterfuge, no confidence trick. Just a man sinking under the weight of honest failure.
The sharp suspicion that had carried Alex into the room cooled, tempered by recognition. This was no conspirator standing before him, but a steward overwhelmed, swamped beneath a tide of deceit not of his making.
He drew a breath and let it out slowly. “You are certain of that?”
“To the best of my knowledge, my lord. I swear it.” Bexley met Alex’s gaze squarely, and though his shoulders sagged beneath the strain of the confession, there was honesty in his eyes.
Alex inclined his head once. “Very well.”
Relief flickered across Bexley’s features, though it did little to ease the deep lines of fatigue carved into his face. “Anything I can do to assist further, my lord?”
Alex’s gaze swept once more over the disarray of ledgers and papers. His mind ticked through the estate’s resources, assessing what little could be done to bolster Bexley’s failing defenses.
“You’ll need help to untangle this,” Alex said at last. “Speak with Mr. Hughes, our solicitor. He’ll know someone reliable to assist you.”
Bexley’s brows rose, and for the first time since Alex had entered, a glimmer of hope flickered through him. “Yes, my lord. I will.”
Alex fixed him with a final, steady look. “Choose carefully.”
“I will, my lord,” Bexley promised, drawing himself up with a semblance of his former diligence.
Alex turned to the door, the line of his shoulders set, the thread of urgency pulled tighter still. The trail they followed had not yet gone cold, and he would not allow it to do so.
*
Georgina stepped downfrom the carriage at the Sommer-by-the-Sea Female Seminary. Damp mist clung to the stones of the courtyard, curling around the iron railings like a reluctant guest unwilling to depart.
Georgina drew her cloak closer against the chill as she crossed to the main hall. Despite the grey weather, a quiet energy filled the seminary grounds. Students flitted between lessons, voices low beneath the patter of rain, while Ellen supervised from beneath asturdy umbrella with military precision.
Inside, the warmth of the familiar office greeted her like an old friend. Lamplight softened the edges of the high-ceilinged room, casting golden pools over the ledgers spread across the broad oak table. Mrs. Bainbridge was already there, her sleeves neatly turned back, her spectacles perched at the bridge of her nose as she bent over the latest column of figures.
“Lady Georgina,” she greeted without looking up, “I trust Hawkesbury Manor proved instructive?”
“It did,” Georgina replied, settling across from her. “Though I suspect this task may prove more fruitful.”
Mrs. Bainbridge gave a wry smile. “At least these ledgers do not argue with me. The bakers for the wedding, on the other hand, seem determined to drive me to distraction.
Georgina’s lips curved. “They still debate?”
“Endlessly. Marmalade enthusiasts against sugared rose loyalists.” She sighed, though amusement softened her exasperation. “One might think I were convening a royal court rather than ordering cake.”
“You could assign them ledgers instead,” Georgina suggested with a small laugh. “It might distract them.”
“I am not convinced they would not begin debating sums and margins instead,” Mrs. Bainbridge retorted, though her eyes glinted with humor. “At any rate, I far prefer the company of these numbers over the squabbles of bakers. At least here, the falsities can be proven.”
They fell into quiet industry, the soft scratch of quills and the muted patter of rain filling the room as they worked through the entries. Georgina’s attention sharpened, her focus narrowing to the columns of amounts and suppliers.
Her thoughts, however, drifted more than once to Alex. She imagined him across the estate, pacing the steward’s office with the same restless determination he had carried since the moment she arrived at Hawkesbury Manor. He would not sit idle. She knew that now withcertainty. He would drive toward the truth with the same fierce energy he had shown in every encounter between them. She pictured the quiet steadiness in his gaze, the warmth that always reached her first. The memory stirred her pulse, unwelcome for its timing, but impossible to dismiss.
Perhaps Mrs. Bainbridge read something of Georgina’s unspoken thoughts, for she murmured without lifting her gaze, “Lord Hawkesbury strikes me as a man who will burn through every wick of daylight if left to it.”
Georgina smiled despite herself. “He does not yield easily.”
“A useful trait,” Mrs. Bainbridge replied, her tone approving. “And a dangerous one, if pointed in the wrong direction.”
