Chapter 8
Francesca woke later than she preferred, the pale morning light already pressing through the curtains with an insistence that suggested London had begun its day some time before she had chosen to join it.
For a few quiet moments she remained still beneath the coverlet, listening to the muted sounds of the street beyond the house.
Wheels rolled over stone, a vendor called faintly somewhere down the street, and a carriage door shut.
It would have been a peaceful morning, had her thoughts not returned almost immediately to the ledgers.
With unwelcome clarity, the figures rose again before her mind’s eye.
Dates. Sums. Details which did not align with the rhythm of her own recollection.
After returning from the ball, she had reviewed the duplicate books well into the morning, determined to assure herself that Major Manners had been unnecessarily cautious.
Yet the columns had not arranged themselves obediently into order.
Two discrepancies remained and a third might exist.
She disliked suspicion. It implied that one had been careless with trust, and Francesca had always prided herself on granting it wisely.
She trusted very few people, but those few she trusted she did so completely.
It was the only way she knew to conduct the enormous machinery of the Vale estate without losing herself to endless doubt.
She rose at last, crossing to the small escritoire where the ledgers now rested in a careful stack beside reports and correspondence awaiting her attention.
One letter lay sealed and addressed to Major Manners.
She had kept it deliberately concise. The entries he requested were copied within.
The tone was brisk, almost impersonal. She had no intention of appearing dependent upon his analysis.
She had just reached for the bell to summon her maid when a knock sounded upon the door and Nelly entered with the cautious expression of someone bearing information she suspected might alter the day’s course. “You have a caller, miss,” Nelly said.
Francesca did not immediately turn. “If it is Lord Ashbourne or Mr. Harcourt, you may inform them that I do not receive callers before four.”
“It is neither of them, miss.”
That gave her pause. She turned slowly. “Who, then, seeks so early an interview?”
Nelly hesitated for a fraction of a second, as though aware the name might produce more reaction than she intended.
“Mr. Kendall, miss.”
Francesca felt something inside her react—not alarm, precisely, but a sudden shift of expectation that held her standing, very still, in the centre of the room.
For an instant, relief rose so swiftly it almost displaced the unease that had settled in her mind the night before.
Kendall was sensible and reliable. He had known the estate since childhood.
Whatever irregularities had appeared in the ledgers must surely have some rational explanation he could provide in a matter of minutes.
All the same, beneath that relief another memory surfaced: Major Manners’ voice, quiet and deliberate, as they moved across the ballroom floor.
She drew a slow breath.
“Very well,” she said. “Show him into the morning room.”
Nelly curtsied and withdrew.
Francesca crossed to the mirror and adjusted the ribbon at her collar with more care than the situation warranted.
She disliked that her hands were not entirely steady.
It was absurd to feel unsettled by Kendall’s presence.
If anything, she ought to be pleased. His arrival meant clarity.
Clarity would end this tiresome speculation.
However, Manners’ warning echoed again in her thoughts. Do not confront him without confirmation.
The instruction had irritated her profoundly when first he offered it.
She did not enjoy being cautioned like an inexperienced schoolgirl.
Nevertheless, she understood the logic behind it.
If the discrepancies were innocent, an accusation would create unnecessary distrust. If they were not innocent, a premature confrontation might simply alert the guilty party before she knew all the information.
The difficulty lay in remembering that caution while standing before a man she had trusted nearly all her life. She therefore composed her expression carefully before leaving the room.
Kendall was standing near the tall windows when she entered the morning room, his back partly turned as he examined, with polite interest, a framed landscape upon the wall. He turned at the sound of the door and bowed immediately, his manner as composed as she remembered.
“Miss Vale.” He bowed a second time.
“Mr. Kendall,” she replied.
Seeing him in London, rather than across the oak desk at Vale Hall, produced a strange moment of disorientation.
He looked much as he always had: lean, orderly, with dark hair kept ruthlessly neat and face barbered no matter the time of day.
His calm intelligence had once reassured her through the worst months of her father’s illness.
His clothes were perfectly respectable though not fashionable, and his expression carried that same thoughtfulness she had always associated with competence.
He smiled slightly. “I am glad to see you.”
“I am glad to see you as well,” she said honestly, adding, with a touch of puzzled amusement, “although I must confess I was not expecting you.”
He accepted the observation without embarrassment. “Nor did I intend to surprise you.”
“What brings you to London?” she asked, directing him to the chair opposite.
“Business,” he said simply as he sat down.
Francesca raised an eyebrow. “Is there something of concern with respect to the estate?”
“No, indeed. Nothing at all.” He did not elaborate.
She studied him for a moment. “Your last letter gave no suggestion of your intention to travel.”
“I did not know I would be doing so until two days ago.”
“May I enquire what has changed?”
He folded his hands loosely. “Meetings.”
“Meetings?” she repeated, hoping he would be more forthcoming.
“I must speak with several reform groups whose work may affect the mills in Manchester,” he said. “You know, as well as I do, that the current agitation among workers is not confined to one county. If legislation begins to progress in Parliament, it will affect estates like yours first.”
The explanation sounded entirely reasonable, but she needed to know more.
Francesca leaned back slightly in her chair. “So you have come to London for political reasons?”
“Yes, and to participate where it may prove to be useful.”
She allowed her lips to curve faintly. “You are becoming ambitious, Thomas.”
“I prefer to think of it as being humane.”
“What, precisely, does your involvement entail?”
“I have the intention of attending a number of salons and private gatherings where reform is discussed with somewhat greater frankness than in Parliament.”
“Salons,” she said thoughtfully.
He nodded. “They will be similar to the one you have already attended.”
She met his gaze. “Mr. Tidd’s salon.”
“Yes, among others.”
For a moment they regarded one another across the small distance of the room, the conversation hovering delicately between familiarity and something more cautious.
Kendall spoke again first.
“I had hoped to find you still interested in such discussions.”
Her fingers rested lightly on the arm of the chair. “I am interested, yes.”
“Are you wishful, still, to be involved?”
“That depends on where the discussion leads.”
His expression softened with quiet approval.
“I thought you might feel that way.” He leaned forward slightly.
“There is a gathering tomorrow evening which may interest you. Several industrial reformers will be present, along with two members of Parliament who are quietly sympathetic to the idea of factory regulation.”
Francesca considered this. Ordinarily, she would have agreed without hesitation. Political conversation energized her more than half the entertainments London offered, yet the memory of the ledgers lingered stubbornly in her mind. Two discrepancies, possibly three, could not be ignored.
She forced herself to keep her tone neutral. “You seem well informed for someone just arrived.”
“I have correspondents,” he said lightly.
That was entirely expected, she reflected.
He corresponded with her almost daily, after all.
Still, something in his composure made her study him more carefully than she might once have done.
Kendall had always been measured. Today he seemed almost…
vigilant… as though London itself were a board upon which pieces had begun to move, and he was calculating his next.
“You have not yet said how the estate fares,” she said.
“Well as far as I am concerned. I assumed you would tell me if there were new difficulties.”
“And should there be none such?”
“Then you would not trouble me with unnecessary detail.”
She allowed herself a small smile. “You know me very well.”
“I have known you since you were a young girl.”
“Yes,” she said quietly, “you have.” The familiarity should have been reassuring.
Instead it complicated matters, because if Manners was correct—if any of the discrepancies in those ledgers pointed towards Kendall—then the betrayal would not be merely professional.
It would reach far deeper than mismanaged accounts.
She refused to believe that without proof.
“How are you enjoying Society? Dancing until dawn every morning, I make no doubt!”
“Some days I do, to be sure, but I have been staying busy reviewing the accounts,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “including those from before Father’s death.”
Kendall nodded without surprise. Had he already been told? “A wise habit to cultivate.”
“I believe so, particularly when one is managing the estate alone.”
His expression grew thoughtful. “You are not entirely alone.”