She set down the ledger, studying him. “You pay your servants well to ensure loyalty and discretion. You avoidentertaining because you dislike society, not because of economy. The books are your indulgence. The stable costs are excessive because you’re maintaining horses you never use—likely inherited. And W.H. is someone you support financially without overt acknowledgement.”
His mouth curved. “Impressive. Incorrect regarding the horses, however.”
“Oh?”
“I ride every morning at dawn. The costs are high because I insist on proper care. A well-kept horse is predictable. A neglected one is dangerous.”
“Of course,” she murmured. “Control again.”
“Consistency,” he corrected. “And W.H.?”
“I won’t pry.”
“But you are curious.”
“Desperately.”
He actually laughed—a real laugh, short but genuine. “William Harper. My father’s valet. He’s seventy-three, arthritic, and too proud to accept charity. So I pay him a generous pension for ‘consulting services’ that consist of him telling me monthly that my father would be appalled by my cravat choices.”
“That is… kind.”
“It is practical. He served my family for forty years. Loyalty deserves reward.”
She wanted to argue that it was kindness disguised as practicality, but she was learning to pick her battles. Instead, she asked, “Why are you showing me this?”
“You’re my wife. You should understand our financial position.”
“Our?”
“Yours as well.” He drew forward another ledger. “Your personal accounts—pin money, clothing allowance, discretionary household funds, and a sum for charitable endeavours.”
She scanned the figures—and gasped. “This is… excessive.”
“It is appropriate for the Countess of Rothwest.”
“I could live a year on what you’ve allocated for a month.”
“You couldsurvivefor a year. There is a difference between survival and living.”
He slid an older ledger across the desk. “This is more instructive. My father’s books. Twenty years past. Look at December.”
She opened it. The handwriting was aggressive, impatient. December was a frenzy of losses and gains—wild, uncontrolled.
“Gambling,” she whispered.
“Extensive. He lost thirty thousand pounds in a single night.”
“How did he cover it?”
“He didn’t.” The Duke’s voice had gone flat. “He took his own life instead. Here, in this study. And he left my mother to face the creditors, the scandal, and a thirteen-year-old son who found his body.”
The words hung in the air like ghosts. Celine reached out instinctively, her hand covering his where it rested on the desk.
“I’m sorry.”
“It was twenty years ago.”
“That doesn’t make it hurt less.”
