“The dance?”
“No, the hunt.”
He allowed himself the faintest smile. “I cannot deny it.”
“By the same token, sir,” she replied, “I prefer not to be deceived.”
“Then we share a similar, desired ending, if somewhat different intentions as to the manner of achieving it.”
The music slowed towards its conclusion. Arch found himself reluctant for it to end, an admission that was becoming apattern. As the final notes faded and he escorted Miss Vale to his mother, he released her hand with careful reluctance.
“Until tomorrow,” he said quietly.
“Until tomorrow,” she echoed.
He stepped away, and almost at once Stuart appeared at his side with the unobtrusive efficiency of a man who knew precisely when to intrude. Stuart did not look towards Miss Vale. He did not change his expression.
“Kendall has arrived in Town,” he murmured.
Arch kept his gaze fixed ahead and did not allow his posture to alter. “When?”
“Within the hour,” Stuart replied. “He called upon Sir Percival.”
Around him, the music resumed. Laughter rose. Miss Vale moved once more into Society’s orbit, as luminous and composed as before.
“He was sent away, I hope,” Arch said quietly.
“Yes,” Stuart answered. “Baines is following him.”
Arch returned his gaze briefly to the emerald figure across the room. “Then we shall ensure he does not gain access to the house unobserved. I shall alert Sir Percival.”
CHAPTER 8
Francesca woke later than she preferred, the pale morning light already pressing through the curtains with an insistence that suggested London had begun its day some time before she had chosen to join it. For a few quiet moments she remained still beneath the coverlet, listening to the muted sounds of the street beyond the house. Wheels rolled over stone, a vendor called faintly somewhere down the street, and a carriage door shut.
It would have been a peaceful morning, had her thoughts not returned almost immediately to the ledgers. With unwelcome clarity, the figures rose again before her mind’s eye. Dates. Sums. Details which did not align with the rhythm of her own recollection. After returning from the ball, she had reviewed the duplicate books well into the morning, determined to assure herself that Major Manners had been unnecessarily cautious. Yet the columns had not arranged themselves obediently into order. Two discrepancies remained and a third might exist.
She disliked suspicion. It implied that one had been careless with trust, and Francesca had always prided herself on granting it wisely. She trusted very few people, but those few she trusted she did so completely. It was the only way she knew to conductthe enormous machinery of the Vale estate without losing herself to endless doubt.
She rose at last, crossing to the small escritoire where the ledgers now rested in a careful stack beside reports and correspondence awaiting her attention. One letter lay sealed and addressed to Major Manners. She had kept it deliberately concise. The entries he requested were copied within. The tone was brisk, almost impersonal. She had no intention of appearing dependent upon his analysis.
She had just reached for the bell to summon her maid when a knock sounded upon the door and Nelly entered with the cautious expression of someone bearing information she suspected might alter the day’s course. “You have a caller, miss,” Nelly said.
Francesca did not immediately turn. “If it is Lord Ashbourne or Mr. Harcourt, you may inform them that I do not receive callers before four.”
“It is neither of them, miss.”
That gave her pause. She turned slowly. “Who, then, seeks so early an interview?”
Nelly hesitated for a fraction of a second, as though aware the name might produce more reaction than she intended.
“Mr. Kendall, miss.”
Francesca felt something inside her react—not alarm, precisely, but a sudden shift of expectation that held her standing, very still, in the centre of the room.
For an instant, relief rose so swiftly it almost displaced the unease that had settled in her mind the night before. Kendall was sensible and reliable. He had known the estate since childhood. Whatever irregularities had appeared in the ledgers must surely have some rational explanation he could provide in a matter of minutes.
All the same, beneath that relief another memory surfaced: Major Manners’ voice, quiet and deliberate, as they moved across the ballroom floor.
