“Mr. Harwood,” she began.
“Mhm.”
“He was very eager to tell me that the orphanage didn’t concern me.”
William looked up then. “He manages it. That’s his job.”
“I know. But I only asked a few ordinary questions.” She kept her voice even, not argumentative, simply precise. “The number of children. The source of the funding. Nothing that would require particular knowledge to answer. And he answered none of them.”
“He said it was in order.”
“He said it was in order,” Cecily agreed. “Three times, in different arrangements of the same words. That’s not the same as answering the question.”
William was quiet for a moment. He looked at her with the expression she had come to recognize—the one that was giving her more consideration than his composure let on.
“Harwood has managed this estate for fifteen years,” he said. “He managed it under my father, and he manages it under me. He is thorough, he is loyal, and in fifteen years, he has given me no reason to doubt him.”
“I’m not doubting him,” Cecily clarified. “I’m telling you what I observed.”
“Which was?”
“That he answered a question about charity with efficiency andnotinformation.” She looked at him directly. “A man with nothing to hide does not work that hard to close a subject.”
The silence that followed was not the silence of someone with no answer. It was the silence of someone deciding which answer to give.
“Harwood is careful,” William insisted. “He protects the estate’s business as a matter of habit. It does not mean anything beyond that.”
She looked at him for a moment. “Perhaps.”
She stood, smoothing her skirt with unhurried movement.
“We are dining with Beatrice and Edward tomorrow,” she reminded him.
“Yes.”
“Would you come with me to the orphanage afterward? On the way back.” She said it simply, without pressure. “I’d like to see it. And I’d rather go with you than arrive as a stranger making independent inquiries.”
He considered this. She waited, not filling the silence.
“It’s out of the direct route,” he pointed out.
“Not significantly.”
Another pause. His quill was still in his hand, the afternoon’s business not quite finished, and he looked at her across the desk intently.
“All right,” he acquiesced.
“Thank you.” She moved toward the door.
Her hand was on the handle when he spoke. “Cecily.”
She turned.
He looked at her for a moment—just a moment, his green eyes unreadable in the afternoon light. “Harwood has not been wrong before.”
“No,” she said. “I’m sure he hasn’t.”
She left him to his papers.
