He gave an arrogant nod as if he had anticipated her response. “I have come on a matter of business,” he said evenly, “to request permission to review your estate ledgers.”
She stared at him. For a moment she wondered if she had misheard. The audacity was so calm, so matter-of-fact, that it felt almost unreal.
“You have come,” she repeated, her voice now very clear, “to examine my accounts?”
“At Sir Percival’s request.”
Her cheeks warmed, though not with embarrassment. “My uncle has no authority to audit my records without my consent.”
“Nor would I presume to proceed without it,” he replied.
The temperate tone irritated her more than condescension might have done.
“What, pray,” she demanded, “does my uncle imagine is amiss?”
He did not answer immediately. The restraint was deliberate, she surmised.
“He imagines nothing in particular,” Major Manners said at last, “which is precisely the difficulty.”
Francesca rose slowly from her chair. She did not pace about or allow herself that theatrical indulgence. Instead, she placed both hands flat against the edge of her desk.
“My estate is well managed. I am well informed. My workers are well paid. My mills are maintained. If this is another attempt to demonstrate that I require superintendence?—”
“It is not,” he interrupted quietly.
She disliked being interrupted. She disliked, even more, that he did it without raising his voice. “Then explain yourself,” she said.
He stepped forward, not close enough to impose but close enough to engage. “Sir Percival does not possess a head for numbers. He has admitted as much. Ordinarily, a guardian would review quarterly ledgers to ensure regularity. He cannot do so. He has therefore requested that someone with discretion examine them.”
“You presume you are discreet?” she asked sharply.
“I know that I am,” he replied.
She folded her arms. “You may inform my uncle that his concern is unnecessary. Mr. Kendall has handled my accounts since before my father’s death.”
A flicker, brief and unreadable, crossed his expression. “Do you have full confidence in him?”
“I do.” She said it without hesitation. She meant to say it without hesitation. Kendall had been the only constant in the shifting wreckage of the past year. When grief had reduced everything to blunt survival, he had kept her going with facts, solutions, and the occasional dry, reassuring line that reminded her she had not ceased to be herself.
Major Manners studied her face as though weighing not merely her words but their cadence. “Then there can be no objection to a review,” he said, “unless you would prefer to undertake it yourself and reassure Sir Percival directly.”
The suggestion struck her more effectively than accusation might have done. She straightened. “I do review them.”
“Do you?” he asked gently. “Or do you sign where advised to do so?”
The inference stung. “You imply negligence.”
“I imply trust,” he corrected. “Trust is not negligence. It is necessary in large estates. The question is, whether or not it is placed wisely.”
Her pulse quickened. She despised the direction of this conversation, yet she could not deny its logic. She trusted Kendall because she had always trusted him. His father had served hers. He had grown up within the shadow of Vale Hall. She had not thought it necessary to scrutinize every figure with suspicion. “You presume much,” she said, though she knew her voice to be less certain now.
“I presume only that you have more responsibilities than hours,” he replied, “and that you may not relish spending your mornings verifying sums when you are attempting to reform industrial practice.” The faintest note of wryness had entered his tone. She almost resented that he understood her priorities.
“If this is a stratagem to confine me to account books rather than salons,” she said, “it is transparent.”
“On the contrary,” he answered. “If your accounts are sound, your salons will be better protected.”
That gave her pause.
