Chapter Seven
Daphne knew full well why her family wished to secure British investors. England owned more colonies than any other nation, and despite American naval successes against the crown, Britain’s navy was unmatched in both size and skill. No larger fleet patrolled the world’s oceans. And as her family had to cross those same oceans to maintain their quality of life, it was essential they secured British allies—especially wealthy and bored dukes with unlimited funds.
That fact was why, four days after the duke’s presumptuous request, she grudgingly sat at the duke’s table, in his banquet hall, eating dinner in the midst of not one, but three fireplaces tall enough for a grown man to stand inside. It was why her brother had not stopped smiling since he received news of their invitation, despite Daphne’s reminder that they were toadying to a man related to the king, whose directives had resulted in the death of their brother, Samuel. And it was also why her aunt had fussed, preened, and primped Daphne to new levels of feminine ornamentation in preparation for this visit.
But none of the splendor supported an English duke in his quest to convince her that he was something other than what he appeared. In fact, it did the opposite, drawing attention to the fact that he possessed an extravagant ancestral home, he could afford the most exquisite tailor, and in all likelihood, employed a servant specifically for the purpose of polishing his Hessians so fine that one might see their own reflection in them.
Even his guests were the exact English aristocrats she had envisioned him having, save for Lord Westbrook. Although Westbrook, too, embodied that arrogant English superiority she found so distasteful, his presence was unexpected, given the visible tension between him and the duke. But if the earl was the exception, Lady Isabella and her mother proved the rule. It was becoming increasingly clear, through the constant flattery and anything but subtle praises, that the duchess had selected Lady Isabella as a potential wife for her son.
A son, who, at present, looked decidedly perturbed. She wasn’t certain if it was the way his full lips were pressed together into an uncharacteristically straight line, or if it was the upward thrust of his aristocratic chin, but whatever the cause of his aggravation, his dour expression was in sharp contrast to the smiling faces of the ladies beside him.
Daphne’s gaze must have lingered a bit too long, for he lifted his eyes to hers. Heat swirled in her chest. She could almost see the question forming in their blue depths before his deep voice carried down the length of the table to her spot between Thomas and Lord Westbrook.
“Do you read, Miss Farrington?”
She nodded, fighting the stirrings low in her belly his attention provoked. “On occasion.”
Thomas sat upright beside her. “Daphne is being modest, Your Grace. Our family boasts one of the larger libraries in Boston, and Daphne has read all of the books at least once. She is quite the proficient reader.”
She would have gleefully pulled her brother’s meddling tongue from his mouth, if every eye were not now focused on her. Of course she was a proficient reader. It was what one did to occupy the mind and to learn new things.
Daphne placed her spoon on the table. “I think we would all be far more interested in hearing what you like to read, Your Grace. Do you prefer the Greek classics? Homer, perhaps? Or Plato?”
“I should think His Grace more suited to the newspapers, Miss Farrington,” Lord Westbrook interjected, admiring his glass of wine. “To keep him better informed of commercial ventures and profits.”
Daphne stared at the earl. She hadn’t thought the duke’s interest in trade public information. And judging from the duke’s clenched jaw and irritated expression, she gathered he hadn’t either. The duke’s eyes narrowed. “I’m afraid I’ve never been one for reading. I prefer instead, to spend my time out of doors. I rather enjoy fishing.”
“Fishing?” her brother asked. His face lit up in a way she had not seen since their arrival in London. “I quite enjoy the sport myself.”
The duke glanced at her brother and smiled. “Excellent. We shall go tomorrow. Lord Satterfield made mention that the lakes are overly stocked and in desperate need of attention. Perhaps he could advise us which ones deserve our immediate assistance. He is quite the celebrated sportsman.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Lord Satterfield replied from his seat beside her aunt. “Lord Colwyn is the real fisherman. He holds the record of catching twenty trout with one worm.”
Lord Colwyn’s cheeks flushed red. “That was some time ago, my lord.”
Thomas raised his glass. “I would be honored to see your skills with bait, Lord Colwyn.”
Daphne’s fingers clenched around her napkin. Fishing? Were some slippery river species all it took for her brother to so readily forget the ties the aristocracy held to Samuel’s death? Why, Thomas acted as though these men were old classmates, bonding over something as simple as a trout, rather than supporters of the very government that had killed their brother. And while it might be in the best interest of Farrington Shipping to have Thomas ingratiate himself with these men, his reaction was beyond polite. It was excessive.
“What do you like to read, Miss Farrington?” Lord Westbrook asked, ignoring her brother’s display of camaraderie. “Walter Scott? Or perhaps something more exotic, like Coleridge’s opiate-induced Kubla Khan?”
Daphne lifted her eyes. “I am currently enjoying a most riveting treatise on political revolution, titled The Rights of Man, by Thomas Paine.”
Her brother coughed into his napkin, the loud, deliberate hacking of a man either terribly embarrassed by his sister’s literary selections, or suffering from a convulsion of the lungs. She assumed it was the prior, given Thomas was as healthy as an ox and that she, in her candor, had made mention of a completely inappropriate literary selection for the present company.
What had she been thinking?
Lord Westbrook, undeterred by her brother’s display, leaned forward, a wolfish sort of smile on his face. “I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of reading Mr. Paine, though I’d be very interested in hearing you expound on his works.”
“Yes, Miss Farrington,” the duchess crowed from her seat, a cold grin appearing on her face. “Please enlighten us on the details of American civility.”
Daphne fiddled with her napkin. “Not so much American civilities, Your Grace, but rather an argument against hereditary government.”
The duchess’s face fell.
The duke cocked his head. “I believe I have a copy of his book in my library, Miss Farrington. I have not had the pleasure of hearing his work. Would you care to read from it after dinner?”
Daphne near choked on a spoonful of cream bisque. “You wish me to read from Mr. Paine and The Rights of Man?”
He rolled the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. “I don’t see why not. Westbrook is eager to be enlightened and so am I.”
Daphne glanced around the table. Anger, amusement, and curiosity peered back. She had never dreamt the duke would collect titles outside of his hemisphere, and certainly not those of American origin that questioned the very hierarchy his entire life was based upon.
One thing was certain: reading from the blasted book was most definitely not the way to win investors.
“I fear it might not be suitable, Your Grace,” she said, squirming under her brother’s furious glare. “At least not for the present company.”
“Now you have us most intrigued, Miss Farrington,” the duke replied. “Can we not persuade you to reconsider?”
Daphne twisted her napkin around her finger. “Well, I…”
A sharp toe, likely from her aunt or one of her neighboring cousins, dug into her shin.
Swallowing back her yelp, Daphne replied, “As you wish, Your Grace.”
The duke nodded his approval and the duchess frowned her distaste, but neither commented again for the duration of the meal. However, when the time came for everyone to gather and listen to Paine’s argument against hereditary governments, Daphne held back, her slow steps rushed only by those of her stalwart brother, who had made it his mission to near push her into the room, or rather section, of Thornhaven that housed the shelves of books waiting for her retrieval.
“Do not embarrass me again.”
His whispered reprimand tickled her neck, and made the hair there stand on end. She swatted away his words, like she would an irritating gnat. “It was not my intention to embarrass you, Thomas. It was a mistake, a slip of the tongue, a…a—”
Her brother nudged her to the left, past a large wooden desk, and into a darkened row of leather-bound tomes. “You will select a more suitable book, and thank the duke for his generosity before retiring this evening.”
Daphne brushed off her sleeves and straightened her skirt. “I attempted to dissuade him, Thomas. You needn’t be rude.”
“Rude?” Thomas argued. “And how will it appear when you begin to read from Paine’s pages to a room full of aristocrats? The damn book is an argument against them, for God’s sake!”
“You forgot to mention how Paine utilizes the French. If his arguments on the illegitimacy of the monarchy and aristocracy do not offend them, I’m certain the references to the French and their revolution will.”
Her brother ran a hand over his face. “Under no circumstances are you to read from that book, Daphne. Fix this. Now.”
He stalked away, leaving her alone not only to make up a rational excuse as to why she could not read Paine’s treatise, but to navigate her way back to the area of the room where the rest of the group waited.
Peering past where her brother had stood, she discovered that the library was far larger than she had originally perceived, its painted ceiling looming at least three stories above her. Rows of freestanding shelves were arranged throughout the space, creating an intricate maze of pamphlets, books, and…she wasn’t entirely certain.
Daphne leaned down and glanced at the closest binding, a slim, black leather spine with a hand scrawled number that simply read 1818. Curious. As the year had not yet ended, it was odd to see such a book even on the shelf, though the thin ledger had barely hung onto its space, its binding sticking out a good inch farther than the rest of the titles lined neatly on the ledge. It looked as though the book had been pulled for inspection and then shoved haphazardly back into its place. But for what purpose?
Daphne took a quick glance down the darkened aisle, the light from the few candles casting just enough of a glow for her to read the title. If someone were lurking beside her, she would not know it, though from the distinct trill of Henrietta’s laughter, she guessed her family to be at least three rows over.
She was not a prying person. But for some reason the book called out to her, its odd placement and intriguing title luring her into a realm in which she had no right to delve. Her hand reached out to snatch the ledger off the shelf.
Turning toward one of the few slivers of light, she opened the cover and began searching through the pages.
Lines of numbers in the same scrawling hand as the title filled the page. It was obvious the book was a ledger used for some form of record keeping as the numbers emerged in a pattern of simple sums and deductions. Perhaps it was the household accounts, or a slim volume to record the duke’s clothing expenses?
But even superfine wool and exquisite tailoring could not equal the sums at the bottom of the page. The sums were too high and reflected a profit rather than a loss. In fact, the more she peered at the untidy scratches, the more the ledger resembled those she was used to seeing in her father’s office. But his books were void of errors. This one was not.
The small subtraction of a single digit was utilized on every third number, on every fourth line. It was a slight calculation, and easily overlooked, had one not the skill or interest in numbers that she possessed.
If she didn’t know better, it looked as though someone were skimming a profit. But without knowing exactly what the numbers represented, or to whom they belonged…
But she did know. The handwriting was recognizable. The looped eights, the closed fours, and the thin zeroes…she should’ve seen it before, for she had studied this hand and noticed its discrepancies on an earlier contract. A contract meant for her family.
“Miss Farrington?”
She snapped the ledger closed and shoved it back on the shelf. The duke peered down the aisle at her, his face half-hidden in the shadows, his one illuminated eyebrow lifted in questioning silence.
She had to tell him. No matter how much she disliked him or how aggrieved she was by his royal connections, he was still a person. And one who was being cheated by Mr. Burnham.
…
God, he was livid.
He should have known his act of rebellion would be costly. But never had Edward thought his mother bold enough to invite her own guests to his private affair. A woman devious enough to welcome not only Lord Westbrook, her obvious choice of suitor and his prime competitor for the girl he hoped to woo, but also Lady Isabella, all to a party that he had supposedly planned, was far more insidious than he had originally calculated.
There was, of course, nothing he could do to mitigate the situation. It was he who had asked Miss Farrington to his estate for the purpose of displaying his character outside of the duchy. Asserting his position by uninviting his mother’s guests would be the very thing Miss Farrington would expect from an English duke.
And while he groped about for ways to overcome and best his mother’s betrayal, Westbrook engaged in the artful dance of flirtation, charming Miss Farrington with his words of flattery, all whilst enjoying the seat beside her at dinner.
It was only by sheer luck that he had stumbled across the idea of retreating into the library, a room he had hoped would appeal to Miss Farrington’s intellect. It was also where he hoped to escape his mother’s heavy hand and gloating smile.
That he had come across Miss Farrington in a darkened aisle, and very much alone, was the first bit of luck that had come his way all evening.
Her gold-colored hair caught a few flickers of candlelight, making her appear ethereal, as if she were his savior come to rescue him from his current nightmare. Only…her expression did not read as divine, or even angelic. Surprise graced her features, something easily explained given his abrupt arrival; guilt, too, which was harder to explain; and…
Edward swallowed. Out of all the emotions the face could express, pity was not one he had hoped to see animating her face.
“Your Grace,” she said. “I must apologize. I went in search of Thomas Paine and I’m afraid I got lost and stumbled across something most profound—”
In a bold maneuver, he placed a finger to her lips, their lush fullness momentarily distracting him from her horrified apology. Edward could take many things, but pity from a woman he was growing to admire was more than he could bear.
“Please, Miss Farrington. There is no need. If anyone should be giving an apology, it is I. The evening has not gone as I intended.” He let his finger fall, its tip burning from her touch.
“Nor has mine, I’m afraid.” She let out a long breath. “There is something I must bring to your attention.”
Edward’s insides roiled, his fears of her rejection and pity surfacing as Miss Farrington stared down at her ungloved fingers.
“I discovered a discrepancy,” she continued, her voice barely audible. “I’m not normally a prying person, and I pray you’ll forgive me for my intrusion, but I think your trust has been most shamefully abused, Your Grace.”
“Oh?” He could think of nothing else to say. His mother’s antics must be far more obvious than he had first imagined.
She turned and pulled a slender black volume from his collection. “As I said before, I’m not one to read through personal ledgers. Well,” she paused, a light flush coloring her cheeks, “save for my father’s. But I have his permission to check them for errors.”
“Ledgers, Miss Farrington?” What had ledgers to do with his mother’s rude behavior?
She sighed, her shoulders heaving in a visible sign of her frustration. “Yes, Your Grace.” She opened the book and held it to a small sliver of light peeking through the gaps of the shelved books. “Here,” she said, pointing to a small numeral scrawled on the page. “This three should not be here.”
Edward tried to focus on the misplaced numeral. He honestly tried. But the light scent of honeysuckle combined with the flutter of a pulse on Miss Farrington’s exposed and cream-colored neck had him otherwise engaged.
“Your Grace?”
“Yes,” he replied, clearing his throat and redirecting his attentions to her tapping finger.
“This” —she pointed to another three— “is also misplaced. One subtracted from five is four, and not the three this ledger displays.”
“Rightly so, Miss Farrington.” He did not doubt her arithmetic. “It appears to be a simple error.”
She scrunched her pert little nose. “And I’m sure it is meant to appear that way. But it isn’t an accident. The same error repeats itself in a consistent pattern. See here.” She turned the page, her arm brushing against his. “The calculation is wrong again here, with a three misplacing a four.”
God, she was close. He could see the light dusting of freckles across her nose, and the fringed shadow cast by her thick dark lashes. If he just leaned over, his lips would be upon hers…
“Your Grace!” She hissed. “Do you not recognize this hand?” She lifted the book so he could take a closer glance.
Pulling himself away from her inviting silhouette, he peered down at the untidy sums. It was just a ledger, similar to all the others he was forced to oversee and approve. And like all the others, he dismissed it with a shrug of his shoulders.
“I have many men in my employ, Miss Farrington. I cannot identify each of their hands.”
She stared at him aghast. “I highly recommend that you learn. Especially when they are cheating you out of your own funds. This, Your Grace,” she said, “is the hand of Mr. Burnham. And I can prove it.”
“Mr. Burnham?”
Edward pulled the ledger from her grasp and took a second glance at the numbers scrawled across the page. Now that she had pointed them out, he could see that the errors were in the thousands, as in thousands of his pounds. He flipped the book over and studied the spine with the ink-splotched year as its title. He ran his fingers over the dusted pages, his stomach turning over at the severity of Miss Farrington’s accusation.
“This year’s ledger for foreign investments,” he muttered in explanation. “I wonder…” He pulled 1817 from the shelf and handed it to her. “I do not see numbers in the same way as you. I wonder if those same errors fill these pages as well.”
“You trust my arithmetic?” she asked, her eyes filled with surprise.
“I have no reason to doubt you, Miss Farrington. It was you who brought this to my attention, and as you have proven yourself on an earlier occasion to have superior ciphering skills, I trust you implicitly.”
She blinked, her eyes fluttering open and closed at his compliment. “I…I…well, let me see.” She flipped open the ledger and glanced at the pages, her finger running down the columns of last year’s East India tea imports.
“I’m afraid so,” she whispered, her head shaking from side to side. “The same calculations start at the beginning of the year.”
He retrieved the volume and placed it back on the shelf. He turned, his eyes focused on hers. “Tomorrow, I want, or rather, I would ask if you might go through the last seven volumes and calculate exactly how much money you believe was taken. I would like to know the full amount as soon as possible.” His gaze held hers. “I would be most grateful.”
Miss Farrington nodded, her eyes glancing back to the shelf. “But what about the eighth volume, Your Grace?”
Edward snatched the ledger reading 1810 from the shelf and tucked it under his arm. “This one is mine. Tomorrow, Miss Farrington. Please bring me the totals at your earliest convenience.”