Chapter 6
The ledger blurred. Ten minutes in, and Phoebe felt she had toiled for hours.
Her gaze drifted to meet the top of his head as he hunched over the tidy list before him. She needed a conversation starter, some way to question him without being overly obvious, only nothing immediately sprang to mind. Where were her wits today?
So cheery the weather after the evening’s storm, she wanted to toss the inventories into the air in a great flurry of paper and drag the man by his cravat out into the gardens to stroll the paths—and she used the word stroll loosely, for what she wanted was to frolic, but the best she could hope for from staid Mr. Ellison was a stroll.
Still, better to stroll than sit. No one should stay stuffed in a study with so fine of weather to enjoy.
Alas, the firm press of his lips and the notch in his brow denoted a man lost to his work, likely having forgotten her presence.
She sighed pointedly.
His quill marched across the page, steady, undisturbed, moving to the next line without the faintest hesitation.
With a huff, she turned her focus back to the list. Why had she volunteered for this tedium?
She would learn nothing of the new earl from invoices or inventories.
Mr. Ellison was purposely giving her the most innocuous tasks imaginable, clearly wise to her intentions and determined to discourage her efforts.
Silver cruets. Those were the items next on her list. She sighed again. Adjusting the sheet before her, she rewet her quill and returned to her steady scratching, copying the list of silver cruets into the ledger.
A shaft of sunlight inched across the table, teasing and tormenting her, an ever-present invitation to partake of the garden walk. She flipped to the next list. Artwork. Folding over the account’s page, she began copying the items.
Drudgery.
Scratch, scratch crept her quill. Scratch, scratch echoed his. Scratch, scratch—her hand stilled. The item just scratched into the accounts was the Earl of Collumby’s portrait. The portrait.
Airily, she said, “I saw his portrait earlier.”
The quill across from her slowed.
“The late earl as St George,” she continued. “A dragon at his feet. One cannot accuse him of modesty.”
She eyed him to gauge his reaction.
His gaze rose to meet hers, his lips curving in the faintest of smiles. “Hardly. He was never content unless lording over something or someone.”
Rather than offer embellishment, he bent his head again, back to work.
Phoebe adjusted her sheet in semblance of productivity and interest before furthering with, “Is that why he quarreled with his heir?” She spared the top of his head a brief glance.
The scrape of his nib hesitated, though this time, he kept his gaze fixed on the ledger. “Not precisely. The quarrel predates the new earl. A marriage deemed… ill-suited. To disavow the unworthy match, the branch was cut away.” His tone was factual, a clerk reciting lineage, not gossip.
But Phoebe wanted more. Slipping her quill into its stand, she folded her hands before her. “Not the new earl’s marriage, then?”
With a shake of his head, he said, “The new earl has yet to take a bride. The guilty party was the late earl’s younger brother.”
Fighting to hide her glee, she added as innocently as she could, her expression conveying only that innocent curiosity, “Our dragon slayer cut off his own brother?”
He inclined his head, but clarified, “Their father. The brother—your almost-betrothed—merely upheld his father’s wishes once he accepted the mantle of the title.”
So many more questions lingered on her lips. She had her opening to discover more. But she knew better than to press, to seem too eager for information on the earl.
“How curious,” Phoebe murmured, tapping a finger against her chin. “And what of you, Mr. Ellison? You’re well informed about family history, speaking of such things with learned ease. Not all clerks are so knowledgeable.”
He looked up, meeting her squarely, their eyes locking for two long breaths before he answered.
“My father taught me well to know as much about a client as possible, namely those bits they wished to remain secret. You see, Miss Whittington, my family traded indigo and cotton in Bengal. My father turned profits into shipping contracts and invested in brokerage houses in London. I grew up with ledgers thicker than sermons.”
Phoebe brightened. “Ah! Then that explains how you knew of my father, the textile king.”
“By name only,” he replied evenly. “His ventures touch every account in the City.”
Relief warmed her. So, he knew the name, but not the recent scandal. She had wondered, not particularly worried so much as curious. Now, if the new earl knew of the scandal or not was another matter, but about that she could concern herself with later.
She leaned forward, lashes low, voice lilting with curiosity. “But if you were brought up steeped in trade, what made you pursue law instead?”
Mr. Ellison stiffened. For the briefest moment, he faltered, as though stepping with the wrong foot or transposing numbers while reconciling an account.
In a flash, he recovered. Turning back to his work, quill fresh with ink, he exuded calm as he said absently, “Numbers and law are kin enough. Both thrive on order. It seemed a… natural decision.”
Phoebe bit back a triumphant smile. She had rattled him! Oh, how delicious.
What had upended the apple cart, she could not say, but that was unimportant. All that mattered was she had rattled him.
He cleared his throat, quill resuming its scratch. “Enough of me, Miss Whittington. Better you tell me—what flower suits you best? I would wager orange blossoms.”
“Lilac, actually. But you may keep your guess if you like it better.”
Graeme’s chambers were modest by Collumby standards, well-appointed, but shorn of the ostentation that smothered the guest suites.
No gilded chairs or carvings here, only a plain writing desk, a narrow hearth, and shelves already filled with orderly stacks of books and papers.
Likely once the private quarters of a tutor, with its easy access to the old study.
They served his purpose now, however temporary: function, not finery, a refuge from the house’s grandeur he had yet to grow accustomed to.
Were such luxuries what Miss Whittington aspired to? They must be, to have accepted such an unusual arrangement with the old earl. From trade though she came, he could imagine her parading through gilt and velvet far more easily than he could imagine himself inhabiting it.
Ah, but then why had he written to his family that they would love it here? Perhaps they would. He suspected so. He wished it so.
Pulling out the desk chair, he sat heavily, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
The conversation with Miss Whittington replayed itself unbidden.
Her eyes teasing with mischief, her questions about trade.
And then… and then the slip. A mere word, but enough to jolt him.
Careless. He had not worn another man’s name long enough for it to feel natural.
Had she noticed his flinch? Yes. He had seen the spark in her eyes.
What she made of it, only the Lord knew.
That was not what unsettled him most. No, it was her delight in rattling him. She had been so visibly pleased to see him falter that he almost smiled at the memory. Almost.
He tugged at his cravat. A moment to himself, to distract his thoughts from how close he had come to inviting her for a stroll in the garden, and then he would—
With a muttered oath, he shoved back the chair and retied his neckerchief. Forgetting a meeting was unlike him. That she had unsettled him enough to make him forget was the greater offense.
The corridors outside were narrow and dim, pierced only by slender, slit windows.
A draft carried the scent of rain. He descended the stairs and slipped through the jib door, the heart of the house opening around him.
The minstrel’s hall stretched vast and echoing, its beams vaulting like the ribs of a cathedral.
His stride quickened until he reached the new library.
A rap at the door. “Ellison here, when convenient.”
“Come in,” answered the steward.
The room smelled of leather and varnish, some shelves lined but most scarcely touched. Littering the floor, stacks of books stood like soldiers awaiting muster.
Behind a desk sat the steward, younger than Graeme expected but still wizened by age, no signs of agitation at having been kept waiting.
“A matter requires your attention, sir,” he said before clearing his throat.
“One of the tenants in Acton Burnell has fallen six months into arrears. Ordinarily, I would appeal to the earl, but—”
“You appeal to me,” Graeme finished evenly. “I speak with the earl’s authority.”
The man’s grey head bobbed, nodding with relief. “Just so. Shall I begin proceedings for eviction?”
Letting his gaze fall to the ledger pressed towards him, Graeme studied the figures, his thumb tracing the margin.
“No. Not yet. Draft a notice and add interest. If he defaults again, then we press with increasing earnest. Until then…” His attention drifted to the windowpanes, the sunny afternoon shadowed by a passing cloud—or an arriving storm.
“It profits neither the earl’s purse nor name to cast a family into the rain. ”
The steward bowed his head. “As you say, sir.”
Graeme returned the ledger and turned once more to the window. Sure enough, another storm gathered on the horizon. Shame. The day had been so bright. At least Lobelia Hall was still bathed in a veil of light, the last fragments of sun before the encroaching rain.
Now, if only he could armor himself against the storm of a certain pair of bold eyes.