“Eight months,” William cut in. “The first discrepancy I can trace is eight months ago. That is not a processing lag.” He held Harwood’s gaze. “I’d like you to account for the difference.”
A pause.
Harwood looked at the ledgers again with the expression of a man doing calculations.
William waited, let him calculate, said nothing.
“There were additional costs,” Harwood said finally. “In the latter part of the year. Legal consultation regarding the account structure. It was necessary to… er… restructure certain arrangements, and the cost was absorbed at the administrative level rather than–”
“Show me the invoice,” William demanded.
“I would need to retrieve it from–”
“The correspondence files,” William finished. “Which you have with you.”
Harwood looked at the folio on his knee.
“Harwood,” William said quietly. “I have been sitting at this desk for ten years. I have signed what you put in front of me because I trusted your management of this estate. That trust was not unlimited. It was simply extended without proper verification, which is a different thing, and the difference is something I intend to understand now.” He paused. “Showme the invoice.”
More silence.
Harwood opened the folio and turned several pages. He turned several more. He looked through the correspondence section and squinted.
“It appears,” he muttered, “not to be in this file.”
“No,” William said. “I don’t imagine it is.”
He opened the bottom drawer, produced the full set of ledgers—not Harwood’s presentation copies, but the originals—andstacked them on the desk. He had done his preparation and intended to be thorough.
“I spent this morning going through everything I signed in the last three years,” he said. “Not the summaries, but the originals.” He opened the first ledger to a marked page. “This is the northern tenant account. The rent rolls for the past two years show consistent collection, which matches what you have reported to me. But the bank deposits on these dates”—he opened the second ledger—“are consistently lower than the collected amounts.” He looked at Harwood. “Not by much. Never enough to demand immediate attention. But consistently.”
Harwood said nothing.
“The east outbuilding maintenance account,” William continued, opening a third ledger. “Materials costs logged against contracts with firms I cannot locate in any current trade registry. Significant expenditure across eighteen months.” He turned another marked page. “The tenant improvement fund—money designated for cottage repairs that I authorized two years ago, the full amount disbursed according to the accounts, but three of the four cottages have repairs outstanding that Garret in the northern field has been requesting since last winter.”
He closed the ledgers and looked at Harwood.
Harwood was very still.
“This is not just about the orphanage,” William said. “The orphanage is where it was most visible, because the Duchess looked at it with fresh eyes and without ten years of accumulated trust in the way. But this has been happening across the estate.” He narrowed his eyes at the man. “For how long?”
Harwood was mute.
“Harwood.”
“Seven years,” Harwood forced out.
Willim gasped and dropped his head into his hands.
“Seven years?” He raised his head.
“It was small at the beginning. Marginal amounts. Nothing that would—it was never intended to be–” Harwood broke off. “You came home and sat at this desk, and the estate needed management. You signed what was placed before you because you were nineteen and you had two small children to raise. You were doing what you could, and I…” He sighed. “I saw an opportunity.”
“Seven years,” William said again.
He looked at the man and thought about everything he had not looked at for seven years, what it had cost, and who had paid it. He felt cold anger rise inside him.
“There is one more thing,” he bit out. “I’d like you to look at this.”
