He set the notes down. But something caught his eye. It was a gnawing feeling that would not go away.
He looked at Harwood’s documents again. Then he opened the bottom drawer.
He had kept the Brighton note. He had kept it from the beginning, folded in the inner pocket of the coat he’d been wearing that night, and had transferred it after the wedding to the drawer where he kept things he intended to return to. He had been returning to it in his mind since the morning he woke up on the shore, with the tide coming in and no memory of what happened after he got there .
He unfolded it now and set it beside Cecily’s notes. Then he picked up the top page of Harwood’s notes.
He looked at both.
He was not certain when he saw it, the handwriting. It wasn’t identical—the note had been disguised, written with the deliberate plainness of someone not wanting to be identified. But the particular formation of certain letters caught his attention.
The t-crossing. The capital B in Beach, which sat slightly above the line, in the manner of someone who had formed that habit long ago and carried it consistently into disguise. It was the same B that appeared seventeen times in Harwood’s notes.
William sat back in his chair.
He looked at the ceiling. He looked at the Brighton note. He looked at Cecily’s careful handwriting and the shell account that led nowhere legitimate.
He closed his eyes briefly. Then he opened them, straightened the pages, and rang for Mr. Prentiss.
Harwood arrived at a quarter past two, with his leather folio under his arm.
William had said only that he wished to review several estate matters before the end of the month. He had not said which matters. He had sent the note in the neutral, businesslike tone of a man requesting a routine meeting, and Harwood had replied promptly, as he always did, and arrived now with the air of perfectness.
“Your Grace.” He settled into the chair across the desk with ease, setting the folio on his knee and opening it to the first page. “I took the liberty of bringing the quarterly summaries through to December. There are several outstanding contracts I wanted your signature on before the year closes, and the tenant renewal agreements for the northern field are ready to–”
“Leave those for now,” William interrupted.
Harwood looked up. “Of course, Your Grace.” He closed the folio, unhurried. “What would you like to start with?”
“The orphanage accounts.”
“The St. Clement’s disbursements.” Harwood nodded, opened the folio again, and produced a page with the smooth efficiency of a man who had his files in order. “I have the full year here. Disbursements have been consistent—the quarterly allowance, the supplementary administrative costs, the emergency provision we made in November after the fever case.” He laid the page on the desk. “All in order.”
William looked at the page for a moment without touching it.
“Walk me through the administrative costs,” he demanded.
“Standard overhead.” Harwood’s voice was easy, the voice of a man answering a question he had answered before. William forced himself not to react. “Management of the account requires a degree of administration—correspondence, legalmaintenance of the account structure, and the occasional third-party assessment. It runs to approximately the same figure each quarter, as you’ll see.”
“And this account.” William pointed to the supplementary account reference on Cecily’s notes, which were beneath the desk where Harwood could not see them. He read the account name aloud.
Harwood looked at the number. “Property management administrative services,” he explained. “They handle the structural oversight of the charitable arrangements. It’s been in place since–”
“What is the firm’s address?”
A pause. Brief this time, but William was watching for it.
“I’d have to check the correspondence file for the precise address. I don’t have it on hand.”
“That’s fine,” William said. “I have it.” He produced the page from Cecily’s notes and set it on the desk. The address, the account name, and the company registration—all were noted in her handwriting, with the page number of the ledger where each entry appeared. “I found it this morning.”
Harwood looked at the page longer than necessary. “I see the Duchess has been reviewing–”
“The figures don’t match,” William spoke over him. He opened the main estate ledger and the supplementary ledger side by side and turned them both toward the man. “The amount transferred from the orphanage fund on the last four quarterly dates is larger than the amount received by the administrative account on each corresponding date.” He set Cecily’s summary page beside the ledgers. “The difference, across four quarters, is here. Where does it go?”
Harwood looked at the ledgers, at the summary, then at William.
“Er… Your Grace, there may be a processing lag,” he stammered. “The account doesn’t always–”
