She did not pretend to be surprised. “Then you had better tell me what troubles you.”
He glanced once along the corridor, then stepped nearer—not close enough to presume, but close enough that no word need travel beyond them.
“We have confirmed the discrepancies,” he said. “Improvements were made and equipment exists. Your mills are in excellent condition.”
She exhaled—once—relief quivering before it was mastered. “Then?—?”
“Only part of the authorized sums paid for equipment.”
The relief vanished.
“What has become of the remainder?” she asked, her voice wavering.
“It has been transferred,” Arch replied, “into an account held in your name.”
For a moment, she did not move. “My name?” she repeated.
“Yes.”
A silence followed, not of confusion but of calculation.
“If that account is ever traced,” she said at last, “then it will appear I have funded… something unlawful.”
“It could potentially be viewed as treasonous, depending on how it is used.”
She turned away then, taking two measured steps before stopping, as if motion alone might contain what thought threatened to unravel.
“How am I to prove that I knew nothing of such an account?”
Arch did not mince the truth. “We are still gathering evidence against him.”
She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again, composure settling over her like armour newly fastened. She looked back at him, something fierce and unmistakable in herexpression. “If my name is being used, I will not stand idle while it is turned into a weapon.”
A faint, unwilling satisfaction stirred within him. “No,” he agreed. “We will not.”
They took their leave. Arch wished he could offer her more assurance. He did not think she would be held responsible for Kendall—enough people could testify on her behalf. However, it would be good for her to have the support of powerful people. She might well need it in the days to come.
CHAPTER 16
Despite all that was on her mind, Francesca did not wake at her usual hour. For once, neither London nor her own estates intruded immediately upon her thoughts. The curtains admitted a pale light, as though the morning itself had elected to proceed with caution after the exertions of the previous evening. She lay still for several moments, aware first of the unfamiliar indulgence of rest, and then—slowly—of the return of memory.
First, she recollected the political dinner and the conversation that had not dismissed her. Then she considered the patronesses who had found her curious, followed by the truth Major Manners had spoken in the quiet afterwards.
There was an account in her name and proof that funds had been diverted. It had to have been implemented by Thomas.
She closed her eyes again, though there was no returning to sleep. Politics, she thought, was exhausting—not only because of the care when speaking and listening, but also because of the constant negotiation between what one wished to believe and what one must accept.
Yet she felt a quiet, reluctant satisfaction. She had not been dismissed. They had listened to her… Francesca Vale.
It was more than she had expected.
If she could move even one of them to act, then perhaps reform need not remain a matter of pamphlets and polite indignation. Perhaps improvements might even become real.
She exhaled slowly and sat up. First, however, there was Thomas to be dealt with.
She rose and crossed to the window, drawing the curtain aside. London moved below with its usual composure—carriages, pedestrians, the measured rhythm of a city that never slept.
She had known Thomas nearly her entire life. He had been—she stopped the thought before it could complete itself, but it echoed silently anyway.Trustworthy.
