Chapter 14
Richard paced the length of his study, his steps agitated, the soft tread of his boots muffled by the thick carpet.
Behind him, seated at his desk, Miss Theodosia bent over his account books, her head tilted in concentration, and her brows drawn into a tight line.
The quill in her hand scratched across the page as she made another notation, pausing now and then to compare figures between the receipts and the leather-bound ledger.
It had been this way for over an hour—perhaps longer—and the silence, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of paper, was beginning to fray his nerves.
Finally, unable to bear the suspense any longer, Richard halted and turned to face her, his voice more clipped than he intended. “Well?”
She sighed, setting the quill aside and leaning back in her chair. “You are not going to like what I’m about to tell you.”
A sinking feeling settled in his stomach. “What is it?”
Her expression sobered, her eyes meeting his. “I fear that your man of business has been embezzling funds from your estate.”
The words struck him like a blow. He blinked, momentarily stunned, before straightening with disbelief. “That is impossible. Mr. Benson would never do such a thing. He’s been with the family for years, and he was my father’s man.”
“I understand,” she said gently. “But the figures don’t lie.”
“My father trusted him implicitly. And so have I,” Richard declared, his tone growing defensive. “Your calculations must be wrong.”
She didn’t flinch. Instead, she calmly reached for a receipt from the pile beside her and held it up. “This document shows a charge of ten pounds from the haberdashery. But here”—she flipped open the ledger and pointed—“it’s recorded as one hundred and ten pounds.”
His brow furrowed. “That has to be an error. A clerical mistake.”
“I thought the same,” she admitted. “But it isn’t isolated. There’s a pattern—consistent discrepancies, always rounded in a way that benefits the ledger. The errors are too numerous and too specific to be accidental.”
“How long?” he asked, his voice low.
“From what I can determine,” she said, “since shortly after your father’s death.”
Richard dragged a hand down his face, his mind whirling. “You must be wrong. This can’t be true.”
“I wish I were,” she replied, sincerity etched into every line of her face. “But based on my review, I believe Mr. Benson has stolen well over ten thousand pounds.”
“No,” he said again, his voice a whisper of disbelief. “I don’t believe you.”
She nodded slowly, as though she had anticipated the reaction. “I thought you might say that. Which is why I’ve documented every discrepancy. If you’ll allow me, I can show you precisely what I found.”
He hesitated, then gestured for her to continue, though his eyes remained wary.
She stood, holding out both the receipt and the open ledger. “This line here,” she said, pointing. “Ten pounds owed. And here in the ledger, it’s recorded as one hundred and ten pounds.”
He peered at the figures, squinting slightly. Numbers had always eluded him, swimming on the page, but even he could make out the damning difference.
Still, he resisted. “Perhaps… perhaps someone else recorded it incorrectly. A clerk. A simple transcription error.”
She met his gaze, firm but not unkind. “It happens too often to be a simple error. Always in Mr. Benson’s hand. And always in his favor.”
Richard’s jaw tightened. “You expect me to believe that I’ve been so blind? That I’ve allowed this to happen under my nose?”
“That is not what I’m saying,” she replied. “You had no reason to suspect deceit. You trusted him. That is not a flaw, my lord—it is the mark of someone who believes the best of people.”
“You think me incompetent,” he snapped.
She took a measured breath. “I think you are angry. Hurt. And I understand both. But I would never call you incompetent.”
“You didn’t have to,” he muttered.
“Please,” she said. “Don’t take my word alone. Look at the records yourself. Ask your steward. Cross-check these amounts with estate expenditures. The truth will be evident.”
“And why should I believe you? For all I know, you could be inventing this entire tale.”
It was evident that her patience had cracked slightly by the inflection in her voice. “To what end? What would I gain by fabricating theft? I care for this household. For the people who depend on you. And whether you believe it or not, I care what happens to you.”
The room fell silent.
After a long moment, Richard reached for the documents, and he studied the numbers again. He didn’t want to believe her, but deep down, he could see it. The evidence was damning. And it pointed to betrayal from someone he had once considered above reproach.
He dropped the papers to the desk and let out a slow breath. “You better be right. If you are wrong…” His words trailed off.
“I’m not,” she replied. “I’m sorry. I truly am.”
And for the first time, Richard found he believed her.
He hung his head. The truth had struck like a blow to the chest, knocking the breath from his lungs. He knew now what he must do—there was no avoiding it—but the knowledge hollowed him. He had placed his faith in the wrong man, and the betrayal stung more bitterly than he cared to admit.
As he grappled with the enormity of it, he felt the gentle pressure of a hand resting lightly on his sleeve. Miss Theodosia stood beside him, her touch steady and unflinching.
“It will be all right,” she said, her voice a balm against the storm gathering within him.
“How could I have been so blind? So utterly stupid?” he asked, his voice rough with emotion.
He expected censure, or worse—pity. But when he looked into her face, there was only warmth, only understanding. Her eyes held none of the judgment he feared.
“You must not blame yourself,” she responded.
His lips curled into a bitter line. “Then who should I blame?”
A flicker of wry amusement touched her mouth. “I would start with Mr. Benson.”
Her attempt at humor was met with silence. He didn’t have the heart to return the smile, though he recognized the effort behind it. Not now. Not when everything he had believed about his business, his instincts, had been turned on its head.
Her fingers tightened slightly on his arm. “You are a good man. Honorable. Trusting someone does not make you a fool. What happened is not your doing.”
He looked down at her hand that was still resting against his sleeve. Every nerve seemed to come alive beneath her touch. He should chide her for being too familiar. But he couldn’t. He didn’t want to. Her touch was the only thing anchoring him to the moment, keeping him from unraveling completely.
“I should have seen it,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “I should have known.”
“It is not wrong to place your faith in someone,” Miss Theodosia said. “You trusted me enough to allow me into your home as Olivia’s companion—and again when you asked for my help with your accounts.”
Richard winced. Her words were meant to console, to reassure.
But instead, they pierced him with guilt.
It wasn’t as simple as she believed. He hadn’t truly trusted her—not fully.
Not with the gnawing suspicion that she still concealed the truth about Mr. Smith.
And she, in turn, had no idea that she had been summoned to London under false pretenses.
Her position in his household had been orchestrated, not offered in good faith.
He should tell her.
No.
He couldn’t. Not yet.
If she knew, if she left now, they would lose their only advantage. The trail to Mr. Smith was already faint; without her, it would vanish altogether. His silence, however distasteful, was necessary.
A faint breeze stirred through the window, carrying the soft scent of lavender to his senses. It clung to her—subtle, clean, and distinct. He inhaled deeply. It was her. Unmistakably her. He wanted to draw it deeper into his lungs, to remember it, to remember this—whatever this was.
Her voice pulled him back. “What are you going to do now?”
He looked at her. The question was practical, but her tone was not. He felt a powerful urge to take a step closer, to close the space between them. To cup her face in his hand and—
Good gads! What was he thinking?
He could not afford distractions, least of all this one. Kissing her would be madness. Dangerous, entangling madness.
Steeling himself, he cleared his throat and replied with far more resolve than he felt. “I need to speak to Mr. Benson. At once.”
“I think that is wise,” she responded. “Would you like me to stay with you when confronting him?”
He paused, surprised by how much he wanted her there. “Would you mind?”
“Not at all.”
Out of the corners of his eyes, he caught sight of the maid standing discreetly by the door. He was suddenly, keenly aware of just how close they stood. How improper it was. But he could not bring himself to move.
Fortunately, Miss Theodosia appeared to sense the growing tension between them—or perhaps she possessed better judgment than he did—for she took a step back, releasing his sleeve at last.
“I should probably go see if your sister requires anything,” she said, her words sounding rushed.
Richard gave a curt nod. “I think that is wise.”
She attempted a smile, but it faltered at the edges. “If you need anything from me, my lord, you have only to ask.”
“I appreciate that,” he replied, more stiffly than he intended. “You’ve already been of great help.”
“Yes, well… good day,” she said.
As she started walking towards the door, Richard called out after her. “Thank you.”
Glancing over her shoulder, she gave him a small, genuine smile this time. “I should be the one thanking you. I find I rather enjoy combing through ledgers and solving puzzles. There’s something comforting in numbers since they always tell the truth, eventually.”
He chuckled, despite himself. “You are an odd one, Miss Theodosia.”