“It is a wonder you have time for this whilst preparing for a Season.”
“I think perhaps I worry I will not have time once the Season is underway, so I am working more now.”
He smiled at that.
Francesca allowed her gaze to drop—not to the page itself, but to his hand resting upon it, which was controlled and entirely at ease.
How many times had that same hand guided hers across a column, corrected a miscalculation, reassured her when she had doubted herself… and how many times, she wondered now, had it written without her knowledge?
Francesca felt resolved then, with a clarity that admitted no retreat. He was still the man she had known, with the same voice, the same composure, the same careful intelligence. Nothing in his manner suggested disorder or guilt.
Had ambition grown where once there had only been diligence? Had belief hardened into something less flexible, less accountable? Or had she simply never seen him clearly before, content as she had been to trust what was familiar rather than examine what lay beneath it?
“You are quiet,” Kendall said.
She met his gaze. “I am thinking.”
“That has always been dangerous.”
“For whom?” she asked lightly.
“For anyone who mistakes your reserve for compliance.”
A corner of her mouth curved faintly. “Then they would be disappointed.”
“Why the sudden interest, Francesca?” he asked quietly, using her name as he had not done since he had taken over her accounts.
Francesca drew a slow breath, steadying herself. It would not do to indulge speculation without purpose. She required facts, not impressions. Manners had been correct in that, however irritating it was to admit. Still, she could not dismiss what shehad seen—not in the ledger, not in Kendall’s expression, and not in that fleeting, telling moment when she had spoken of funding. She allowed the silence to stretch just long enough to appear thoughtful rather than strategic.
Her thoughts returned to the idea that had formed so clearly only moments before, and now it began to take shape with greater precision. If she presented herself as willing—if she allowed him to believe that she might support his efforts more directly—then he would be obliged to reveal how such support would be used. He would have to name channels, sums and purposes.
“You spoke yesterday,” she said at last, as though returning to an earlier subject, “of the need for support.”
Kendall’s attention sharpened, although subtly done. Francesca held his gaze. “If I wished to do more,” she continued, keeping her tone so composed it was almost idle, “to assist what you described… what would you suggest?”
There was the look again; not greed—never that—but something far more controlled. He had expected her to offer, or, at the very least, he had not been surprised by the possibility.
Kendall inclined his head slightly, as though considering how best to frame what he already understood. “If you wished to assist,” he said, his tone measured and entirely reasonable, “there are several avenues that would prove… effective… without attracting undue attention. Certain publications require discreet patronage to ensure they continue circulation, and there are speakers—very respectable men—who would benefit from modest support in bringing their arguments before a wider audience.”
He paused, watching her carefully. “Nothing improper, I assure you, simply the quiet encouragement of ideas that might otherwise struggle to be heard.”
She would not accuse him without proof. She had given her word, and she would keep it. Yet neither would she remain passive while the truth moved just beyond her reach. If he wished her to be involved, then she would be involved.
She allowed herself a small, humourless smile at that. Major Manners would, no doubt, call it strategy. However, she would not, under any circumstances, be made a fool.
“Very well, then. I would like to contribute, but I want an accounting of every last penny.”
“Then you shall have it. We can do so much together, Francesca.”
There was her name again. He took his leave, and she only felt relief.
Her gaze shifted towards the door through which Kendall had departed not long before. “You should have asked me,” she said softly, though he was no longer there to hear it.
The words did not ease her. If anything, they hardened her resolve.
She sat and penned a note, then asked the butler to have it delivered to Major Manners. He would know where to find him. It was bold, but she had to know the truth.
When Manners received her note, he would understand. He would send someone discreet, someone capable of verifying the expenses without drawing any attention.
