Forever and a Duke Page 14

  “My entire wardrobe consists of only a few frocks. What are you going on about?”

  “I will commit acts of violence to the premises if we remain here much longer. Now, when I need for this audit to forge ahead with all due speed, Lord Stephen Went-to-Blazes has sabotaged even your formidable accuracy with figures. I won’t have it, Mrs. Hatfield. We’re for Ambledown, where a man can hear himself think and a woman can have peace and quiet.”

  “Leave Town? With you?”

  The notion terrified Ellie even as it tempted her. She knew everybody in the building, even the carpenters and engineers Lord Stephen hired for his renovations. She knew the owners of the chop shop across the street and all of their employees. She knew the street urchins, the bank clerks…

  She was safe in her London world. Safe from the unknown and, more importantly, safe from foolishness.

  “You insist that I be available for regular interrogation,” Elsmore said, stacking the last of a dozen ledgers on the desk. “That means whither thou goest and so forth. We cannot work here, we cannot work at the bank, and you have refused the unoccupied dwelling I offered you earlier. Ambledown is less than two hours away, boasts every amenity, and above all, it is quiet.”

  Above all, Ambledown was beyond the notice of Jack, Lord Stephen, and polite society.

  Don’t do this. The voice in the back of Ellie’s mind sounded very like Grandmama, whose proper upbringing had never become reconciled to the exigencies of life as a disgraced portraitist’s wife. Ellie might ride about Town in the Walden ducal conveyance when the weather was inclement and attract only passing notice. Leaving London with Elsmore was another proposition entirely.

  “You are concerned about the appearances,” he said, “though Lord Stephen’s porte cochere assures that nobody will see you climbing into my coach. The crests can be turned, the shades drawn, and your privacy assured. My sanity, however, is imperiled every moment that we remain in this pounding purgatory.”

  The clerks were like this. Some could work in dim lighting, but not amid noise. Others needed the desk closest to the window, but could focus on their task despite riots in progress on the street below. This one had a messy desk, while that one could not work until he’d sharpened every pencil in his tray, set a cup of tea at his left elbow, and positioned the standish just so.

  “I must have clean blotters,” Ellie said.

  Elsmore stepped closer. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Clean blotters,” Ellie said, more loudly. “I cannot work at a desk if somebody has covered the blotter with figures, doodles, and random scribbling.”

  She could smell the fragrance of Elsmore’s shaving soap, a whiff of springtime amid coal smoke and sawdust. He, by contrast, apparently took no notice of proximity to her. He’d been a more than perfect gentleman today. He’d been preoccupied, answering her questions without any questions of his own, falling silent once he’d replied to Ellie’s inquiries.

  In fact, he’d been indifferent to her, proof positive that for His Grace, a kiss truly could be of no moment.

  “You require clean blotters,” he said, “because a blotter covered with jottings would be a puzzle-scape for you. A compilation of conundrums and riddles, the ultimate distraction. If I promise you clean blotters will you please accompany me to Ambledown?”

  She wanted to smooth her fingers over his lapel—his boutonniere was an orange blossom today—and to lean against him as she had once before, a moment of complete rest and surrender. Resenting his focus on completing the audit was irrational of her, when only a fool would try to work with figures while hammers literally pounded the walls.

  Did the bank clerks feel similar exasperation regarding Ellie’s own obsession with figures? When she nattered on about quarterly reports while the clerks simply wanted a fresh pot of tea?

  “Yes, I will go to Ambledown with you, for a day or two. If you make yourself available to me without interruption, I can accomplish much in a short amount of time.”

  He murmured something she didn’t quite catch.

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Do we take the cat with us or abandon her to the fare available in the alley?”

  Elsmore thought of the cat, but he could ignore the most passionate kiss Ellie had known. Soon, she’d be able to hate him, a vast improvement over pining for him.

  “I’ll leave a note for Lord Stephen’s cook, and Voltaire will feast on cream and cutlets. When shall we leave?”

  “How soon can you be packed?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  Chapter Nine

  Belonging to three exclusive clubs was both a pleasure and a necessity for Eddie the Elegant Dorset. His place of business was the bank, which would hardly do as a venue for a man gaining a reputation for brokering discreet financial transactions. Membership in the best clubs was within reach only because Eddie had ducal connections, but he wanted those memberships assured for his sons as well.

  For his daughters, vouchers to Almack’s were the sine qua non of gentility, while for his wife…

  No need to travel down that path yet. Madam Bisset was far too interesting a companion for the nonce.

  Lord Bartleby, by contrast, was as dull as day-old pudding. He was a reliable customer though, never needing too much money for too long, and usually repaying promptly.

  “How was your steak?” Eddie asked. “Done to a turn, I do hope?”

  “Quite good,” his lordship replied, pouring the last of the port into his glass. “Unlike the present state of my finances.”

  “Oh, dear,” Eddie murmured. “Speaking as one who has experienced the occasional run of bad luck, you have my sincere sympathies. Is there anything I might do to help?”

  A burst of laughter came from a table across the club’s dining room. The Thomlinson heir was doing homage to his third bottle of claret in little over an hour. He was abetted by two of his cronies, though their drinking was more moderate than his.

  Perhaps Thomlinson was working up his nerve to approach Eddie for a loan. He had the look—anxious, hearty, drunk at midday. The poor lad was newly down from university and likely playing too deeply. All the lordlings and cits-in-waiting did, and Eddie the Elegant was ever so willing to help.

  “One doesn’t like to impose,” Bartleby said, keeping his voice down, “but two thousand on the usual terms would be much appreciated.”

  The usual terms—never reduced to writing—were fifteen percent interest for ninety days. Five percent found its way into Eddie’s pocket as broker at the time the balance was lent, ten percent went to the lender, who was happy to earn in ninety days twice what the usury laws permitted for a year’s interest.

  While Bartleby was happy to have his little problem solved for a mere fifteen percent. All quite civilized, and only outside the bounds of decency in the opinion of high sticklers and solicitors, who were denied any revenue from such arrangements.

  “I’m delighted to be of service,” Eddie said. “Is the need urgent?”

  “Not yet. By this time next week it will be.”

  “Never let it be said that I allowed such a vexation to trouble you for an entire week, my lord. Let’s meet for lunch again on Friday, and I’m sure I’ll be able to alleviate your present inconvenience.”

  Bartleby finished his wine and rose, extending a soft, manicured hand. “You are a proper brick of a fellow, Eddie Dorset. Much obliged.”

  Eddie got to his feet and shook hands, mentally sorting through his list of potential lenders. A half dozen titled ladies came to mind. God knew the lot of them had the blunt, but then so did Madam Bisset. He considered the advantages of connecting his current fancy piece with the lucrative business of informal lending. Madam understood money as only a working woman could, and she would one day need more than wit, charm, and loose morals to keep her in coal and candles.

  “You are contemplating a scheme,” James said, sliding into the chair Bartleby had vacated. “Based on your smile, the scheme has the potential
to be profitable.”

  Eddie kept his expression genial, because one did when in public. “I fear young Mr. Thomlinson is only now realizing that a quarterly allowance is supposed to last three long, dreary months. I’m sitting here looking helpful and harmless.”

  “He gambles.” James set Lord Bartleby’s plate aside. “I thought we avoided the gamblers if at all possible.”

  “Everybody gambles. You yourself took an enormous risk by dodging work on Saturday. If I hadn’t collected your ledgers from beneath Ballentyre’s nose, Howell might have found a deal of irregularities in your accounts.” Howell had, in fact, reviewed one of James’s ledgers, apparently one of the tidier ones.

  James signaled the waiter for another bottle of wine. “Rounding errors, possibly, or an occasional mis-transcription. What are supervisory reviews for, if not an acknowledgment that no man’s math is infallible? We are Dorsets, after all, and bothering our handsome heads with ciphering the livelong day runs counter to our blue blood.”

  “Precisely. We are not clerks.” Clerks were never born to a ducal family headed by a fellow who was very good at being a duke, but too busy squiring the ladies about to trouble much over figures, poor sod. “Were you truly under the weather?”

  James remained silent until the waiter had removed the empty plate and observed the little ritual of offering the next bottle of wine. Eddie took the first taste, pronounced it exquisite, and poured James a glass.

  “I confess I was more nearly under the hatches,” James said. “You heard about that business with the Butterfield account?”

  “Belatedly. Howell and old Ballie had a chinwag once the books were done on Saturday. Howell shared what he knew over supper. Very bad business and I gather it’s being kept quiet. The likes of thee, me, and Howell aren’t even to know of it. I gather the teller might lose his post.”

  “And he is one of the honest ones,” James said, sampling the wine.

  Eddie needed the honest clerks and the conscientious tellers. No scheme of any duration could go forward profitably unless the bank operated on assumptions of trustworthiness and competence.

  “Whoever impersonated Mr. Butterfield invested a deal of effort into the ruse,” Eddie observed. “One must commend hard work and diligence wherever one finds them.”

  “I met the teller involved at the pub after the bank closed on Friday. The poor man was distraught, and all too willing to let me stand him to a pint or six.”

  At the back of Eddie’s mind, where interest calculations purred along without him expending mental effort, where memories of the fair Madam Bisset sat side by side with musings about her potential as a lender, he felt a stirring.

  “James, what scheme are you contemplating?”

  James was by nature moderate. He neither flew into a passion over trivialities nor mourned missed opportunity at any length. His quips were humorous without quite shading into sarcasm. His pragmatism was a comfortable counterweight to Eddie’s ambition—most of the time.

  “What if Butterfield himself sent a trusted emissary to the bank to close that account?” James asked.

  Eddie mentally collected the scraps of information Howell had passed along. “You mean, he sent a supernumerary to the bank in the first instance to close the account, and then he appeared at the bank, claiming fraud? He’d double his money and at no risk to him whatsoever. If the first man is found out, Butterfield can claim he simply didn’t care to brave the elements himself.”

  “And the bank would never breathe a word of it, beyond the grumblings among the directors. It could work.”

  Doubling one’s money was a lovely prospect, particularly when accompanied by the words at no risk. “Whoever attempted this plan would have to choose his bank carefully. He would need an institution with a spotless reputation.”

  “Purer than the driven snow and determined to remain that way.”

  James was choosing his mark, in other words, and he wasn’t about to share the details with Eddie, which was for the best. Handling a few private loans outside of business hours was one thing; defrauding another institution ventured beyond the risks Eddie was willing to take.

  The conversation drifted to James’s recent trip to Peebleshire—why Elsmore hung on to a drafty Scottish castle was a mystery—and Cousin Rachel’s possible interest in Lord Jeremy Bledsoe.

  “You don’t suppose Bledsoe will come up to scratch, do you?” Eddie asked as they finished the bottle.

  “Her followers never do,” James said. “A pity, that.” Bland, smiling James was looking entirely too pleased with himself.

  “James, what aren’t you telling me?” Eddie trusted James, more or less, but he also did not take James entirely into his confidence.

  “Would I keep secrets from my favorite cousin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Exactly,” James replied, “and I don’t inquire too closely into your affairs either. Best for all concerned that way, don’t you agree?” He helped himself to more wine that Eddie would pay for, lifted his glass a few inches, and smiled. “To the Dorset family fortunes, long may they thrive.”

  Eddie joined the toast, because in all sincerity, thriving family fortunes were good for business, and good for Eddie the Elegant too.

  * * *

  A peer of the realm should not feel that a temporary remove ten miles into the countryside was a narrow escape from hostile forces, but Rex certainly did. He’d commandeered the traveling coach that morning because the heavier vehicle was preferable for navigating London streets muddy with melting snow.

  The choice was fortuitous, given that Mrs. Hatfield—he must not think of her as Eleanora—had agreed to spend a few days at Ambledown. Her acquiescence to an arguably improper excursion was either a testament to her common sense—nobody could do accurate work amid pounding hammers—or proof that she wanted to finish Rex’s audit as quickly as possible.

  “Your coach is even more splendid than His Grace of Walden’s,” Mrs. Hatfield said. “I am tempted to open a ledger and get back to work.”

  Rex did not tell her that a lap desk folded down on her side of the forward-facing seat.

  “You can surround yourself with ledgers when we reach Ambledown. For now, explain to me that business about the larcenous rounding.”

  “Compound rounding, which is only productive when accounts are handled in quantity. I rarely see compound rounding schemes in domestic books, but it’s a common ploy with commercial ventures.”

  “Are you cold?” She wore a scarf and gloves in addition to her cape, and remained swaddled in the lot of it.

  “It’s winter, Your Grace, and we are traveling. Ergo, I am cold.”

  Rex hadn’t stopped by Dorset House to procure a brazier of coals, nor had he had the bricks fitted into the floor heated. Daylight was precious, and his need to vacate London urgent, once he’d made the decision to bolt.

  “You are traveling with a duke of some means,” he said, lifting the seat of the opposite bench. “We do not like to be cold. Share a lap robe with me.”

  She gave him a look presaging the predictable arguments.

  Rex extracted a wool blanket of blue and black plaid from the chest built into the coach seat. “Do you choose lung fever over pride, Mrs. Hatfield? I’d thought you more sensible than that.”

  “Are there two blankets?”

  “Yes, and if you are under both of them, sitting next to me, you will be warmer than if you try to make do with one. Honestly, madam, what do you think I’ll attempt in a moving coach with a woman whose financial expertise is all that stands between me and impending scandal? You could ruin me with a word.”

  Rex reminded himself of that fact regularly, though it did nothing to drum the memory of her kisses out of his idiot mind. In a curious reversal of status, she had the power to ruin him every bit as effectively as he could ruin her.

  Not that he would. Ever. For any reason.

  She scooted two feet to the right, so she was sitting next to Rex but not touchin
g him.

  “Your imagination is prodigiously overactive,” she said, as Rex draped the first blanket over their knees. “Minor irregularities with your books won’t occasion scandal.”

  “Last week it was fraud and embezzlement. Now it’s minor irregularities?”

  He draped the second blanket atop the first, the wool carrying the scent of the cedar panels lining the chest in which it had been stored.

  “I tell you in strictest confidence, Your Grace, that the Walden ducal finances were in a state of utter chaos when the current titleholder inherited. Nary a property was managed honestly. Those not plundered outright were being slowly bled to death by the crooks and charlatans in His Grace’s employ. We will set your situation to rights with nobody the wiser, but you must be patient.”

  “I cannot afford to be patient.”

  The coach halted at one of the many turnpike gates encircling London. Rex pulled down the shade on his side of the vehicle, Mrs. Hatfield having already done so on hers.

  “I’m glad you understand that time is of the essence, Your Grace. The longer you turn a blind eye to the swindlers picking your pocket, the bolder they become. That a fraud was perpetrated on your bank is most discouraging.”

  She left off fussing the blankets and scooting about, like a cat circling on a bed before choosing where to curl up.

  “You equate the problem at the bank with the irregularities in my books?” Rex surely hadn’t. One was neglect, the other bad luck, and ne’er the twain should meet.

  “The coincidence is troubling.”

  God save me. If Eleanora Hatfield was troubled over a coincidence, it wasn’t a coincidence. “I’ll tell you what’s troubling. Lord Jeremy Bledsoe seeking to pay my sister his addresses is troubling.”

  “He’s not suitable?”

  “He is suitable. My sensible, prudent sister has likely fallen for his lordship, and once they’ve shared a few waltzes—a few more waltzes—the solicitors will begin the negotiations. The dower properties will be examined under multiple quizzing glasses, and the only estate I can honestly vouch for is Ambledown.”