Then impressed.
Augusta recognized the combination.
She had once seen William look at her that way.
Long ago.
Before marriage made admiration practical and therefore less visible.
Julian bowed his head.
“You are right.”
Clara exhaled.
Augusta hated that too.
They were becoming reasonable together.
Dangerous.
A knock sounded.
Before anyone answered, Lydia Ashcombe entered.
Fifty-two.
Widowed.
Small.
Gray beginning at her temples.
She wore dark green silk that had been altered so many times it probably remembered three governments.
Her mask was already removed.
She looked toward Clara first.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Humiliated?”
Clara took time.
“Yes.”
Lydia turned toward Augusta.
“Excellent work.”
Augusta stiffened.
“Mrs. Ashcombe.”
“Lady Harcourt.”
The two women had disliked each other since 1807.
Time had refined rather than reduced it.
Lydia walked toward the desk.
She saw the masks.
“Did you truly tear it from her face?”
Augusta sighed.
“Yes.”
Lydia stared.
Then looked at Julian.
“And you permitted your mother within arm’s reach of my niece after inviting her?”
Julian blinked.
“I did not anticipate—”
“No man ever anticipates his mother accurately.”
Clara almost laughed.
Augusta did not.
Lydia opened her own reticule.
“Mr. Pritchard is downstairs.”
Augusta stared.
“At my ball?”
“He has no mask.”
“That is the least offensive part.”
Lydia smiled.
“I told him to wait in the carriage.”
“After Lady Harcourt decided accountancy belonged in the ballroom, I sent for him.”
Augusta looked toward Julian.
“This is becoming absurd.”
“No.”
Clara said.
“It became absurd when you held my mask above your head.”
Augusta winced.
Fair.
Pritchard arrived fifteen minutes later.
The ball continued outside.
Inside the library, a trust accounting began.
Nothing could have been less romantic.
Columns.
Dates.
Securities.
Coupons.
Interest.
Principal.
Sales.
Repurchases.
Charges.
Augusta learned that scandal became very boring when competent people arrived.
Pritchard was sixty-one, thin, gray, and vindicated in a manner Augusta found personally offensive.
He did not accuse William of grand embezzlement.
That would have been easier to fight.
He described transactions.
Ten thousand pounds sold from Bellamy Consols.
Six thousand.
Four thousand.
Five thousand restored.
Interest paid at varying intervals.
Three payments credited incorrectly as income rather than principal.
A mortgage discharge at Harcourt House funded partly from the trust.
An unsigned memorandum stating the estate intended to restore the balance after sale of woodland in Sussex.
The woodland was never sold.
William changed his mind because timber values rose.
“Did he profit from keeping it?”
Clara asked.
Pritchard nodded.
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Difficult to assign directly.”
“Estimate.”
“Perhaps six thousand over seven years.”
Augusta looked toward him.
“You cannot attribute all appreciation to Bellamy funds.”
“No.”
Pritchard agreed.
“That is why I did not.”
Clara nodded.
Precise.
Julian watched her.
Augusta noticed.
Again.
Lydia noticed too.
Her mouth tightened.