Arch felt relief—brief and unwelcome. “And the discrepancy?”
“Only part of the authorized amount reached the factories.”
Arch fixed Renforth with a hard gaze. “What happened to the remainder?”
Renforth’s voice lowered further. “Transferred into an account still in her name.”
Arch stilled. “That is… deliberate?—”
“Yes.”
“—which makes it calculated,” Arch said quietly. “If traced?—”
“She would be implicated,” Renforth finished the sentence.
A beat of silence fell between them. “How can she prove she knew nothing of it?” Arch asked.
Renforth’s expression did not change. “She cannot—not easily.”
A colder and longer silence followed while Arch pondered this news.
“We are endeavouring to exonerate her,” Renforth added. “I have a man tracing the account’s origin and access points. If we can demonstrate that she did not initiate the transfers?—”
“If,” Arch repeated.
Renforth inclined his head slightly. “If,” he said again, with the quiet weight of a man who understood how rarely certainty was granted in such matters.
Arch kept his gaze fixed upon the far wall, where Lady Jersey was engaged in a low conversation with Princess Esterházy. Their expressions were composed, their words no doubt more pointed than their tones suggested. The room, for all its elegance, had taken on a different aspect. It no longer appeared merely a social gathering. It was a field of battle—polished and perfumed though it was—and perilous.
“What news do you have of Kendall?” Arch asked.
“He is connected sufficiently to concern us, we are working on gathering proof.”
Arch exhaled slowly. “He uses her name to shield the account and her reputation to legitimize it. If it is discovered?—”
“She becomes the patron of radicalism,” Renforth said, “willingly or otherwise.”
Arch’s gaze shifted then, almost against his will, across the room to where Francesca stood.
She had moved towards the hearth, where Countess Lieven and Lady Upton were engaged in a conversation that appeared, to any casual observer, to concern nothing more dangerous than Society’s endless negotiations of influence and taste. Francesca listened more than she spoke, her posture composed and her attention exact. There was no sign—none—that she stood upon the edge of something that could ruin her.
“How do we proceed?” Arch asked.
“We proceed as planned,” Renforth continued. “You maintain her confidence; we gather proof. I think the most prudent action would be to enlist their help.” He indicated the powerful gentlemen gathered in the room. “Let them know now what we suspect.”
“And if Kendall suspects we know?”
“Then he will accelerate his plans,” Renforth said. “That may serve us—if we are prepared.”
At that moment, as if drawn by some instinct neither of them could name, Miss Vale turned. Her gaze moved across the room and found Arch.
Something passed between them. It was as though she sensed, without knowing, that the ground beneath her had shifted.
She excused herself from the Countess with a grace that suggested both confidence and intention, and crossed the room towards them with measured composure. Lady Upton watched her go with a look that was almost satisfied.
“Major Manners, I do not believe we have been introduced.” Francesca inclined her head towards Renforth as she approached.
“Miss Vale, may I introduce Lord Robert, who prefers to be styled Colonel Renforth.”
