Chapter 7 #2
Renforth nodded once. “You will ask whether she has received the ledgers. If she has, you will request that she allow you to compare them against the dates and sums Baines will find.”
Arch disliked being ordered like a lieutenant, but he understood the necessity. “Understood, sir.”
The invitation to Lady Stratton’s ball had been accepted. Miss Vale would attend; his mother had sent her own note to inform him that his escort was expected.
The ballroom, that evening, glittered with orchestrated extravagance.
Chandeliers cast honeyed light over polished floors; silk and satin shimmered with calculated effect; and violins threaded the air with music that invited timed elegance.
Arch entered, accustomed to such spectacle, and immediately scanned the room with more intent than he would care to admit. He saw her before he saw anyone else.
Miss Vale stood near the far edge of the room, beneath a cascade of candlelight that seemed designed for her alone.
Her gown was of a deep emerald silk, cut with an architectural precision that flattered without exhibition.
The colour intensified the green of her eyes, which caught and held light as through a jewel.
Her auburn hair had been deliberately ordered, though a single curl escaped near her temple in defiance of restraint.
The jewellery she wore was not excessive, being simply a slender gold chain with a tear-dropshaped emerald that drew attention to the graceful line of her neck.
She did not smile easily at the gentlemen who circled her.
Arch felt something in his chest tighten in a manner entirely separate from strategy.
One of those gentlemen was known to Arch—tall, polished, and possessed of the sort of handsome composure that appeared to have been bred into him for politics.
He did not lean too close, did not press too hard; he merely spoke and listened as though Miss Vale’s mind were the very thing that had drawn him across the room.
Then, Miss Vale’s expression altered—only slightly, but enough for Arch to observe it: not softness, precisely, but recognition. The gentleman had said something she agreed with.
A moment later, Lady Stratton’s voice, bright with triumph, carried across the cluster of guests: “Mr. Harcourt, you must allow me to claim you for my cousin. Miss Vale, Mr. Harcourt has the most enlightened notions of propriety and reform, but he is a delightful dancer.”
Harcourt’s smile was perfect. “I would be honoured, Lady Stratton. Miss Vale,” he said, turning again to Francesca with a bow that managed to be respectful without being submissive, “I hope you will not refuse me later.”
“Refuse you?” Francesca replied, dryly amused. “That depends entirely upon what you mean to do with my agreement once you have it.”
Harcourt laughed quietly, as if she had pleased him. “I mean to treat it as evidence that sense may exist in the same room as beauty without causing a riot.”
Several women nearby smiled as though they were witnessing a charming little play. Arch did not smile at all.
Then, with a subtle shift that disturbed Arch far more than Harcourt’s elegant attention, a second gentleman stepped in—older, richer by the look of him, and possessed of the unhurried confidence of a man who believed the world had been arranged for his convenience.
His title preceded him the way scent preceded a dowager.
“Ashbourne,” Arch heard someone murmur with approving awe, as if rank were a virtue.
Lord Ashbourne’s bow was exquisitely correct; his gaze, however, had the assessing calm of a gentleman looking over an estate’s acreage. “Miss Vale,” he said, “you are precisely as I was told—quite the most admirable combination of beauty and… determination.”
Arch wondered what he really wanted to say.
“What a curious choice of description, to be sure, but not erroneous. How obliging of the person who described me thus,” Francesca replied.
Ashbourne smiled as though her tartness were a charming pet he intended to tame. “Determination is most valuable in a wife—provided it is properly guided.”
Francesca’s expression did not change, but Arch saw her fingers grip her fan so hard he was waiting for it to snap.
Harcourt’s brows lifted as though he had discovered, at last, something with which he might disagree. “Guidance is not usually offered as a compliment,” he observed mildly.
Ashbourne turned to him with amused contempt. “Neither is idealism practical as policy, Mr. Harcourt.”
The laughter of the circle of people about them was polite and hungry. Arch felt, with sudden clarity, that Miss Vale’s future was being debated like a bill before the House.
He stepped forward with measured confidence and bowed when he reached her and his mother, whom he kissed dutifully on the cheek. “Mother, Miss Vale.”
“Major Manners,” the latter replied, and though her tone was composed, he detected the faintest flicker of relief.
“I do hope this dance is unclaimed,” he said, extending his hand.
Harcourt’s gaze slid to Arch. Whilst not hostile, it was keen, as though taking note of a new piece on a chess-board. Ashbourne’s look was slower, colder, and carried the disdain of a man who did not consider him worthy.
“Do you?” she asked. “I had thought myself in danger of being monopolized by gentlemen who wish to instruct me on matters I already comprehend.”
“Then I shall attempt novelty and refrain from instruction.”
A corner of her mouth curved. “Very well.”
They took their place upon the floor as the music changed. Arch bowed with careful propriety; she dipped into a graceful curtsy. When they moved, he noted, they did so easily, as though well practised.
“You have been elusive,” he said lightly, guiding her through a turn.
“That was not my intention, Major,” she returned. “I have been occupied.”
“With ledgers?” he asked in the same measured tone, as though discussing the weather.
Her eyes glanced to his, keen but not surprised. “You are bold to raise the subject of accounts in a ballroom.”
“I prefer conversations that matter, wherever they occur.”
She did not answer immediately. The music carried them in a graceful arc before she spoke. “I have received the duplicates.”
“What do they reveal?”
“There are discrepancies,” she admitted quietly. The word obviously cost her something.
He did not allow triumph or alarm to show. “How many are there?”
“Two more are confirmed, and possibly a third. They are small in isolation but less so in repetition.”
“Do you recall any dates?” he asked, keeping his tone almost idle.
She named them under cover of the music, her lips barely moving. He noted them with the precision of a soldier memorizing coordinates.
“I would like to compare those dates with movements elsewhere,” he said.
“Elsewhere?” she repeated.
“With meetings, transfers and correspondence,” he said evenly. “Patterns reveal themselves when aligned.”
She studied him as they turned again beneath the chandeliers. “Do you believe there is a pattern?”
“I believe it is prudent to discover whether one exists.”
She exhaled slowly. “You will not confront him, will you?”
“No, not without confirmation,” he replied.
She hesitated, then nodded once. “I will send you a full list of entries in the morning.”
For a moment they danced in silence. He was aware, acutely and unhelpfully, of the warmth of her hand in his, the controlled rise and fall of her breathing, the composure she wore like armour and the intelligence that sharpened it.
“You enjoy this, do you not?” she said softly without accusation.
“The dance?”
“No, the hunt.”
He allowed himself the faintest smile. “I cannot deny it.”
“By the same token, sir,” she replied, “I prefer not to be deceived.”
“Then we share a similar, desired ending, if somewhat different intentions as to the manner of achieving it.”
The music slowed towards its conclusion. Arch found himself reluctant for it to end, an admission that was becoming a pattern. As the final notes faded and he escorted Miss Vale to his mother, he released her hand with careful reluctance.
“Until tomorrow,” he said quietly.
“Until tomorrow,” she echoed.
He stepped away, and almost at once Stuart appeared at his side with the unobtrusive efficiency of a man who knew precisely when to intrude. Stuart did not look towards Miss Vale. He did not change his expression.
“Kendall has arrived in Town,” he murmured.
Arch kept his gaze fixed ahead and did not allow his posture to alter. “When?”
“Within the hour,” Stuart replied. “He called upon Sir Percival.”
Around him, the music resumed. Laughter rose. Miss Vale moved once more into Society’s orbit, as luminous and composed as before.
“He was sent away, I hope,” Arch said quietly.
“Yes,” Stuart answered. “Baines is following him.”
Arch returned his gaze briefly to the emerald figure across the room. “Then we shall ensure he does not gain access to the house unobserved. I shall alert Sir Percival.”