Chapter 15 #2
“Have you, indeed?” Castlereagh asked.
Francesca met his gaze. “Yes, my lord. I have actually begun to initiate some of them.”
“And what do you consider to be most necessary?”
There was a conversational pause of interest among those within hearing.
“Responsibility,” she said, “on the part of those who profit from labour.”
“Naturally, but how?”
“To begin with, clean dormitories, reduced working hours and schools for the children.”
“Does the cost not make such measures prohibitive?” Castlereagh questioned.
“On the contrary, with these improvements we are finding productivity has increased.”
Castlereagh leaned back slightly in his chair. “Indeed? I would be interested to examine your figures.”
“I would be happy to share them with you, my lord.”
Her answers were well thought out, soft spoken, but sure.
Harcourt inclined his head. “Miss Vale’s approach is precisely what modern industry requires,” he said smoothly. “Reform, not as disruption but as refinement.”
Castlereagh listened. Countess Lieven watched with unmistakable interest. Lady Jersey’s expression suggested cautious approval.
Arch also sat back a little. His mother, he thought, was a genius.
She had not hidden Francesca’s inclinations. In not doing so, she had transformed what might have been considered a hindrance into something… intriguing; something worth hearing; something worth supporting.
Arch glanced towards Francesca again, and understood that she was a redoubtable young lady.
Renforth, who was seated at the far end of the table, had spoken little thus far. Arch knew that meant he had been observing everything.
The courses changed. The conversation around Francesca broadened and then narrowed again, returning—inevitably—to reform.
“Improvement must be measured carefully,” Castlereagh said. “There are those who would use it as a pretext for disorder.”
“There are also those who use the fear of disorder to prevent any improvement at all,” Francesca replied calmly.
“There is a necessity for balance, then,” Castlereagh said.
“I believe you mean accountability, sir,” she corrected.
Arch felt something like pride, which he immediately dismissed as an inconvenient and ridiculous reaction.
Following dinner, the transition to the drawing room allowed the atmosphere to shift, though not to dissipate. Conversations became looser and less formal, but no less pointed. Groups formed and reformed, and alliances suggested themselves in the arrangement of chairs.
Arch moved instinctively towards Renforth. The Colonel did not look at him immediately. He waited until the room had settled into its new rhythm, until attention had dispersed.
Then, quietly, he said, “It is confirmed.”
Arch did not turn his head. “The payments?”
“The ‘improvements’ correspond to actual purchases,” Renforth said. “Equipment was ordered and installed. The mills are, by all accounts, in excellent condition.”
Arch felt relief—brief and unwelcome. “And the discrepancy?”
“Only part of the authorized amount reached the factories.”
Arch fixed Renforth with a hard gaze. “What happened to the remainder?”
Renforth’s voice lowered further. “Transferred into an account still in her name.”
Arch stilled. “That is… deliberate—”
“Yes.”
“—which makes it calculated,” Arch said quietly. “If traced—”
“She would be implicated,” Renforth finished the sentence.
A beat of silence fell between them. “How can she prove she knew nothing of it?” Arch asked.
Renforth’s expression did not change. “She cannot—not easily.”
A colder and longer silence followed while Arch pondered this news.
“We are endeavouring to exonerate her,” Renforth added. “I have a man tracing the account’s origin and access points. If we can demonstrate that she did not initiate the transfers—”
“If,” Arch repeated.
Renforth inclined his head slightly. “If,” he said again, with the quiet weight of a man who understood how rarely certainty was granted in such matters.
Arch kept his gaze fixed upon the far wall, where Lady Jersey was engaged in a low conversation with Princess Esterházy.
Their expressions were composed, their words no doubt more pointed than their tones suggested.
The room, for all its elegance, had taken on a different aspect.
It no longer appeared merely a social gathering.
It was a field of battle—polished and perfumed though it was—and perilous.
“What news do you have of Kendall?” Arch asked.
“He is connected sufficiently to concern us, we are working on gathering proof.”
Arch exhaled slowly. “He uses her name to shield the account and her reputation to legitimize it. If it is discovered—”
“She becomes the patron of radicalism,” Renforth said, “willingly or otherwise.”
Arch’s gaze shifted then, almost against his will, across the room to where Francesca stood.
She had moved towards the hearth, where Countess Lieven and Lady Upton were engaged in a conversation that appeared, to any casual observer, to concern nothing more dangerous than Society’s endless negotiations of influence and taste.
Francesca listened more than she spoke, her posture composed and her attention exact.
There was no sign—none—that she stood upon the edge of something that could ruin her.
“How do we proceed?” Arch asked.
“We proceed as planned,” Renforth continued. “You maintain her confidence; we gather proof. I think the most prudent action would be to enlist their help.” He indicated the powerful gentlemen gathered in the room. “Let them know now what we suspect.”
“And if Kendall suspects we know?”
“Then he will accelerate his plans,” Renforth said. “That may serve us—if we are prepared.”
At that moment, as if drawn by some instinct neither of them could name, Miss Vale turned. Her gaze moved across the room and found Arch.
Something passed between them. It was as though she sensed, without knowing, that the ground beneath her had shifted.
She excused herself from the Countess with a grace that suggested both confidence and intention, and crossed the room towards them with measured composure. Lady Upton watched her go with a look that was almost satisfied.
“Major Manners, I do not believe we have been introduced.” Francesca inclined her head towards Renforth as she approached.
“Miss Vale, may I introduce Lord Robert, who prefers to be styled Colonel Renforth.”
Renforth inclined his head. “Miss Vale.”
“Sir Percival has spoken of you,” she responded, “although I suspect not in terms that would interest me half so much as your own.”
A faint change of expression—approval, perhaps—touched Renforth’s expression.
“Then I should endeavour to be more interesting than your expectations,” he said.
“I should like that very much,” she replied.
Arch watched her carefully. There was no alarm in her manner, no outward sign of unease. If she suspected anything, she concealed it with a discipline that rivalled his own.
“Major Manners has been of some assistance to me of late,” she added, with a glance that held more meaning than her words conveyed. “I begin to understand that his… associations may be of equal use.”
Renforth’s gaze shifted briefly to Arch, then back to her. “Major Manners is a capable officer, miss.”
“I am discovering that, sir,” she said.
There was a pause—not awkward, but charged with assessment and understanding.
Renforth spoke first. “Miss Vale, you have made a most notable impression this evening.”
“I am relieved to hear it,” she replied lightly, “although I suspect the impression may yet be revised.”
“Impressions often are,” he said. “The question is, whether they deepen or diminish.”
Her eyes held his. “I have no intention of diminishing.”
“Nor, I think, will you,” Renforth said quietly.
Something in his tone shifted subtly.
Her gaze moved—just briefly—to Arch. “I wonder,” she said, “whether I might request a measure of clarity, when it becomes… necessary?”
Renforth held her gaze for a long moment. “When it becomes necessary,” he said, “you shall have it.”
It was not a promise, not precisely.
Francesca inclined her head. “Then I shall consider myself reassured, sir.”
Arch almost laughed mockingly at that.
Reassured. If she only knew—
—but she did not; not yet. That, he realized, was both to their advantage and their greatest danger.
Lady Upton, clearly watching it all, allowed herself the smallest, most satisfied smile.
Miss Vale excused herself then and retraced her steps to the wider company, her composure seemingly intact and her presence now more firmly established than it had been upon her arrival.
She proceeded to speak in depth with Countess Lieven; she answered more questions from Castlereagh with measured confidence; she listened—truly listened—to Lady Jersey, which Arch suspected was a rarer courtesy than most people understood.
Princess Esterházy spoke quietly to her husband, who nodded, and following their example, the guests began to take their leave.
Arch saw Sir Percival conversing with his father, and his mother chatting with his brother.
With his relatives thus occupied, he took the opportunity to pull Miss Vale aside. He led her along the passage to just beyond the small morning parlour, where the lamps were turned down low and it was unlikely they would be overheard.
“You look as though you do not wish to discuss the success of my introduction,” she remarked.
“I do not,” he said.
She did not pretend to be surprised. “Then you had better tell me what troubles you.”
He glanced once along the corridor, then stepped nearer—not close enough to presume, but close enough that no word need travel beyond them.
“We have confirmed the discrepancies,” he said. “Improvements were made and equipment exists. Your mills are in excellent condition.”
She exhaled—once—relief quivering before it was mastered. “Then—?”
“Only part of the authorized sums paid for equipment.”
The relief vanished.
“What has become of the remainder?” she asked, her voice wavering.
“It has been transferred,” Arch replied, “into an account held in your name.”
For a moment, she did not move. “My name?” she repeated.
“Yes.”
A silence followed, not of confusion but of calculation.
“If that account is ever traced,” she said at last, “then it will appear I have funded… something unlawful.”
“It could potentially be viewed as treasonous, depending on how it is used.”
She turned away then, taking two measured steps before stopping, as if motion alone might contain what thought threatened to unravel.
“How am I to prove that I knew nothing of such an account?”
Arch did not mince the truth. “We are still gathering evidence against him.”
She closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again, composure settling over her like armour newly fastened. She looked back at him, something fierce and unmistakable in her expression. “If my name is being used, I will not stand idle while it is turned into a weapon.”
A faint, unwilling satisfaction stirred within him. “No,” he agreed. “We will not.”
They took their leave. Arch wished he could offer her more assurance. He did not think she would be held responsible for Kendall—enough people could testify on her behalf. However, it would be good for her to have the support of powerful people. She might well need it in the days to come.