Wonderful.
“Go back to the ballroom.”
“No.”
“You have guests.”
“They have gossip.”
“They don't need me.”
“Amelia.”
“Father took her money?”
Augusta opened her eyes.
“Your father saved this family.”
Amelia stared.
Those were not equivalent statements.
She had inherited Julian’s irritating habit of hearing omissions.
“What did he take?”
Augusta lowered her voice.
“Not here.”
Amelia laughed once.
“Apparently that is our family motto.”
Then she walked away.
Augusta stood alone for three seconds.
Perhaps four.
Then she went to the library.
Julian had already lit the lamps.
Clara stood near the fireplace with her back to the room.
Her blue gown looked painfully plain among dark shelves and gilt frames.
She had not put the mask back on.
Julian placed it on the desk.
Beside it lay a leather document case.
Augusta stopped in the doorway.
That case belonged to her late husband.
She knew the brass clasp.
“Where did you get that?”
Julian looked up.
“Father’s estate room.”
“You had no reason to open—”
He laughed.
“I inherited the estate.”
“Apparently I had every reason.”
Augusta closed the door.
Clara turned.
Her face was composed now.
Too composed.
Augusta preferred tears.
Tears could be categorized.
Anger could be answered.
Composure required a different kind of courage.
“I did not know Lord Harcourt intended to speak publicly,” Clara said.
Augusta stared.
“Do you expect gratitude for that?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Julian said:
“Mother.”
Clara lifted one hand.
“No.”
She looked toward Augusta.
“I came because your son asked me to hear what he had found.”
“Here?”
“At a masquerade?”
Clara’s mouth tightened.
“I refused three invitations to meet privately.”
Augusta looked toward Julian.
He said nothing.
Clara continued.
“I did not think it wise to meet an unmarried gentleman alone regarding a financial matter that could become a scandal.”
“So you chose his ballroom.”
“I chose a place containing witnesses.”
That silenced Augusta.
Clara continued.
“I also brought my aunt.”
“Mrs. Ashcombe is here?”
“In the card room.”
Augusta almost laughed.
Of course.
Lydia Ashcombe had survived twenty years of genteel poverty by appearing harmless while observing everything.
Julian opened the leather case.
“Sit.”
Augusta stared.
“Do not command me.”
“Then remain standing.”
He looked toward Clara.
“Miss Bellamy?”
“I will stand.”
Wonderful.
Entire family of stubborn people assembling around her.
Julian removed a ledger.
Augusta recognized it.
Sir William’s private estate accounts.
Not the steward’s books.
Not household expenses.
The volume he kept in his study and never allowed clerks to remove.
“How long have you had that?”
“Three weeks.”
“You should have brought it to me.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew your father’s affairs.”
Julian looked directly at her.
“Yes.”
“That is why.”
The accusation sat between them.
Augusta removed her gold mask.
Slowly.
If everyone else had abandoned the game, she would too.
She placed it beside Clara’s white one.
Two empty faces on the desk.
“Begin.”
Julian opened the ledger.
“Edward Bellamy died in 1807.”
Clara’s expression shifted.