The word felt uncertain now. Why had he not asked her?
The question returned again, more painful each time she examined it.
If he required funds—if he believed in the cause as deeply as she—why not speak to her? Why not present his reasoning, his arguments, his necessity?
She would have listened. She might not have agreed, but she would have listened.
Instead, he had taken the money. He was no better than a thief.
Worse still, he had arranged for it to appear as though she was complicit in his dealings.
Her fingers drew circles against the glass.
It might have been forgivable were it merely ambition, or even misguided zeal, but this— If the account were discovered—if the funds were traced—her name would stand at the centre of it, not his. Why?
Why would he implicate her?
The thought resisted her at first. It felt disloyal even to consider it. Loyalty, however, was not blindness. Would she ever know the truth?
She turned from the window. The notion of a trap returned to her with a clarity that surprised her. Arch had said it plainly, as though it were the most natural solution in the world.
Now she had to decide how to perpetrate such a snare.
Francesca had not intended to encounter Thomas Kendall that morning. She had set out with a purpose that was, in itself, entirely reasonable. If she were to propose improvements to her mills—ventilation systems, reinforced gearing, safer housing for machinery—then she ought, at the very least, to understand the materials involved. It would not do to speak of reform in abstractions while remaining ignorant of its practical execution.
The ironworks yard she had been directed to lay just off the broader sweep of Edgware Road, tucked behind a row of respectable but unremarkable buildings. It was not the sort of place Society ladies were apt to frequent, but neither was it disreputable. Men moved steadily through the yard with the assurance of habit, carrying lengths of pipe and fitted joints; the tang of metal and oil hung in the air, and the rhythm of hammer against iron echoed faintly from within the adjoining workshop.
Francesca stepped carefully over a narrow rut in the ground, her maid close behind her, and paused near a long work-table upon which several components had been laid out for inspection.
“This,” the foreman was explaining, with a degree of patience that suggested he had not often been required to instruct a lady, “would allow for greater airflow across the upper floors. It must be fitted correctly, mind, or it does more harm than good.”
Francesca bent slightly to examine the piece, her gloved hand hovering just above the metal. “What may be the cost?”
He named it.
She nodded once, committing the figure to memory. “How much would installation add to that?”
Before the man could answer, a familiar voice spoke from just behind her. “I should not have thought to find you here, Miss Vale.”
Francesca straightened at once and turned. Kendall stood a short distance away, hat in hand, his expression composed, though not entirely free of surprise. Had he followed her?
“Nor I you, Mr. Kendall,” she replied, allowing a note of mild curiosity to enter her tone. “Though perhaps I ought not to be surprised. You have always taken an interest in practical matters.”
He inclined his head. “Where they are concerned with your estate, I make it my business to do so.” There was nothing in the words to alarm, nor yet anything in the tone.
Nevertheless, she felt, rather than saw, the subtle shift beneath them.
“I am considering further improvements,” she said, turning slightly so that the foreman’s table remained within their shared view. “Ventilation, in particular. It seems to be an area in which a modest investment may yield considerable benefit. This place was brought to my attention at dinner last night.”
“That is not a topic I would have anticipated at a Society dinner,” Kendall replied. He stepped nearer, his attention moving briefly over the equipment before returning to her. “Though I wonder whether such matters might have been left to your managers.”
“I prefer not to speak of things I do not understand,” she said evenly. “It invites error.”
His gaze lingered upon her for a moment longer than necessary. “It does.”
The foreman, sensing that his presence was no longer required, withdrew with a respectful nod, leaving them in a quieter corner of the yard.
“I have also been considering what you spoke of before, whether my support might extend beyond structural improvements,” she said, as if the thought had only just occurred to her.
