She drew a slow breath.
“Very well,” she said. “Show him into the morning room.”
Nelly curtsied and withdrew.
Francesca crossed to the mirror and adjusted the ribbon at her collar with more care than the situation warranted. She disliked that her hands were not entirely steady. It was absurd to feel unsettled by Kendall’s presence. If anything, she ought to be pleased. His arrival meant clarity. Clarity would end this tiresome speculation.
However, Manners’ warning echoed again in her thoughts.Do not confront him without confirmation.
The instruction had irritated her profoundly when first he offered it. She did not enjoy being cautioned like an inexperienced schoolgirl. Nevertheless, she understood the logic behind it. If the discrepancies were innocent, an accusation would create unnecessary distrust. If they were not innocent, a premature confrontation might simply alert the guilty party before she knew all the information.
The difficulty lay in remembering that caution while standing before a man she had trusted nearly all her life. She therefore composed her expression carefully before leaving the room.
Kendall was standing near the tall windows when she entered the morning room, his back partly turned as he examined, with polite interest, a framed landscape upon the wall. He turned at the sound of the door and bowed immediately, his manner as composed as she remembered.
“Miss Vale.” He bowed a second time.
“Mr. Kendall,” she replied.
Seeing him in London, rather than across the oak desk at Vale Hall, produced a strange moment of disorientation. He looked much as he always had: lean, orderly, with dark hair kept ruthlessly neat and face barbered no matter the time of day. His calm intelligence had once reassured her through the worst months of her father’s illness. His clothes were perfectly respectable though not fashionable, and his expression carried that same thoughtfulness she had always associated with competence.
He smiled slightly. “I am glad to see you.”
“I am glad to see you as well,” she said honestly, adding, with a touch of puzzled amusement, “although I must confess I was not expecting you.”
He accepted the observation without embarrassment. “Nor did I intend to surprise you.”
“What brings you to London?” she asked, directing him to the chair opposite.
“Business,” he said simply as he sat down.
Francesca raised an eyebrow. “Is there something of concern with respect to the estate?”
“No, indeed. Nothing at all.” He did not elaborate.
She studied him for a moment. “Your last letter gave no suggestion of your intention to travel.”
“I did not know I would be doing so until two days ago.”
“May I enquire what has changed?”
He folded his hands loosely. “Meetings.”
“Meetings?” she repeated, hoping he would be more forthcoming.
“I must speak with several reform groups whose work may affect the mills in Manchester,” he said. “You know, as well as I do, that the current agitation among workers is not confined to one county. If legislation begins to progress in Parliament, it will affect estates like yours first.”
The explanation sounded entirely reasonable, but she needed to know more.
Francesca leaned back slightly in her chair. “So you have come to London for political reasons?”
“Yes, and to participate where it may prove to be useful.”
She allowed her lips to curve faintly. “You are becoming ambitious, Thomas.”
“I prefer to think of it as being humane.”
“What, precisely, does your involvement entail?”
