He rested his hands lightly upon the desk, fingers interlaced, as though he were addressing strategy rather than finance.
“We do nothing publicly,” he said. “You continue as you have. You request no explanations yet.”
“Privately, however, I may do something, I trust?”
“You shall request duplicate ledgers and enquire of the bank.”
Her brows drew together. “Duplicate ledgers?”
“The copies retained by the mills,” he clarified. “Every transaction passes through more than one hand. If figures differbetween the originating book and the consolidated ledger, we will know where the alteration occurred.”
Francesca considered this. It was sensible—irritatingly sensible. “If they match, what then?”
“Then the alteration occurred before it reached them.”
“In consequence of which the field is narrowed to Kendall and the bank.”
“Yes.”
She walked slowly towards the window, needing movement to sort her thoughts. The street beyond carried its ordinary noise: wheels upon stone, a vendor’s distant call, the life of London proceeding with supreme indifference to her dawning uncertainty.
“Kendall has managed these accounts since just before my father’s illness,” she said quietly. “He attended our household as a boy. His father taught him every ledger Vale Hall ever kept.”
“That history therefore makes him trustworthy,” Major Manners observed.
“It does,” she answered firmly, before adding, more quietly, “or it did.”
He did not move closer. He did not attempt to offer comfort. She appreciated the restraint.
“If this is an error,” she continued, “it may be zeal rather than malice.”
“Zeal can be as dangerous,” he said, “particularly when paired with ideology.”
Smartly, she turned back to him. “Do you believe this is political?”
“I think money travels where belief directs it,” he replied evenly.
She knew that was true. She had directed her own funds towards ventilation improvements and housing for her workersbecause she believed conditions must change. If Kendall believed reform required agitation rather than negotiation…
She closed her eyes briefly. “He attends salons,” she said. “He has introduced me to several, including the one yesterday.”
“Does he attend often?” Major Manners asked.
“I do not know for certain,” she said slowly. “I believe so. He seems to be well informed about them.”
“Informed is rarely passive,” he said.
Her pulse quickened again. She disliked the direction of her own thoughts. She disliked even more that they were aligning with his.
“If we pursue this,” she said at last, “we must do so carefully. There must be no confrontation until proof exists, and no accusations.”
“Agreed.”
“If proof does exist,” she continued, holding his gaze now deliberately, “then I will address it myself.”
His expression shifted slightly. It held no objection, just consideration. “Very well,” he said, “but you will not do so alone.”
That was the first assertion which had edged towards protection rather than procedure.
