He stepped forward with measured confidence and bowed when he reached her and his mother, whom he kissed dutifully on the cheek. “Mother, Miss Vale.”
“Major Manners,” the latter replied, and though her tone was composed, he detected the faintest flicker of relief.
“I do hope this dance is unclaimed,” he said, extending his hand.
Harcourt’s gaze slid to Arch. Whilst not hostile, it was keen, as though taking note of a new piece on a chess-board. Ashbourne’s look was slower, colder, and carried the disdain of a man who did not consider him worthy.
“Do you?” she asked. “I had thought myself in danger of being monopolized by gentlemen who wish to instruct me on matters I already comprehend.”
“Then I shall attempt novelty and refrain from instruction.”
A corner of her mouth curved. “Very well.”
They took their place upon the floor as the music changed. Arch bowed with careful propriety; she dipped into a graceful curtsy. When they moved, he noted, they did so easily, as though well practised.
“You have been elusive,” he said lightly, guiding her through a turn.
“That was not my intention, Major,” she returned. “I have been occupied.”
“With ledgers?” he asked in the same measured tone, as though discussing the weather.
Her eyes glanced to his, keen but not surprised. “You are bold to raise the subject of accounts in a ballroom.”
“I prefer conversations that matter, wherever they occur.”
She did not answer immediately. The music carried them in a graceful arc before she spoke. “I have received the duplicates.”
“What do they reveal?”
“There are discrepancies,” she admitted quietly. The word obviously cost her something.
He did not allow triumph or alarm to show. “How many are there?”
“Two more are confirmed, and possibly a third. They are small in isolation but less so in repetition.”
“Do you recall any dates?” he asked, keeping his tone almost idle.
She named them under cover of the music, her lips barely moving. He noted them with the precision of a soldier memorizing coordinates.
“I would like to compare those dates with movements elsewhere,” he said.
“Elsewhere?” she repeated.
“With meetings, transfers and correspondence,” he said evenly. “Patterns reveal themselves when aligned.”
She studied him as they turned again beneath the chandeliers. “Do you believe there is a pattern?”
“I believe it is prudent to discover whether one exists.”
She exhaled slowly. “You will not confront him, will you?”
“No, not without confirmation,” he replied.
She hesitated, then nodded once. “I will send you a full list of entries in the morning.”
For a moment they danced in silence. He was aware, acutely and unhelpfully, of the warmth of her hand in his, the controlled rise and fall of her breathing, the composure she wore like armour and the intelligence that sharpened it.
“You enjoy this, do you not?” she said softly without accusation.
