"You have told me repeatedly what does not concern me. My father's name concerns me."
His gaze moved along the crowded passage. "There is a small supper room beyond the stairs."
The room was empty except for covered dishes and a silver urn. Wickliffe shut the door but remained several paces from her.
"The society was established twelve years ago," he said. "Your father helped secure its first subscriptions. It provides small, discreet loans to widows and women of respectable families who cannot obtain ordinary credit."
"I know. Papa believed charity should help people regain their footing, not require them to remain grateful forever."
"Three months ago, the treasurer, Mr. Silas Vane, disappeared. So did nearly £11,000."
Penelope stared at him.
"The committee asked me to investigate privately," Wickliffe continued. "My aunt founded the society with Lady Bromwich. We hoped to recover the money before the missed payments became known. Mrs. Bell is one of the borrowers; her quarterly allowance is due next week. And the rumors..."
"Vane once served as a clerk in my estate office. I recommended him."
Understanding came swiftly. "People believe you helped him take the funds."
"Some do. Others merely enjoy the possibility."
"Why has no one gone to the magistrates?"
"Because the subscription ledger contains the names of the borrowers as well as the patrons. Public proceedings would expose women who came to the society precisely because they had nowhere else to turn. Several could be ruined socially before they are ruined financially."
Penelope looked down at her father's name. Grief, familiar and tender, moved through her. During his last illness, Edmund Hartwell had worried less for his own suffering than for the unfinished good he would leave behind.
"What are these papers?"
"Copies of subscription records. Vane altered the original accounts. I am tracing each payment through household receipts."
"Then you require someone who knows the subscribers."
"I require an accountant."
"You require both. Mama and I have attended every important drawing room in London for three seasons. I know who changed bankers, who dismissed a steward, whose companion manages the household accounts, and which ladies pretend not to know one another."
"Miss Hartwell—"
"No, that is not an argument."
"It may become unpleasant."
"So was Sir Walter's lecture on eggs."
His mouth almost yielded. "Your mother already considers me heartless."
"Mama's opinions are subject to revision. She uses pencil for uncertain cases and ink for mine."
"Then you had better help me prove her wrong."
He studied her, and for once Penelope saw no coldness in his face. She saw worry, fatigue, and a reluctance that seemed rooted not in disdain, but in fear for her.
"One week," he said. "You will review the records in your mother's presence. You will make no inquiries alone."
"Agreed."
"You concede too quickly."
"Only when I have obtained what I want."
The music began again beyond the door. Lord Wickliffe looked at her as if she had become, quite suddenly, the most dangerous person in London.
Mrs. Hartwell received the news with a silence so complete that Penelope wondered whether the shock had deprived her of speech. Then her mother rose, crossed to the writing desk, and brought out the list.
"I knew it," she said.
"Knew what?"
"That there was something mysterious about Lord Wickliffe. Men do not acquire that particular expression by losing at cards. It requires either a tragic attachment or missing charitable funds."
Wickliffe, seated stiffly upon the sofa, appeared uncertain whether he was being mocked. "Mrs. Hartwell," he began, "I must emphasize the need for discretion."
"My lord, I carried Penelope through an entire season without telling anyone that Lady Davenham's diamond necklace was pasted. I can keep a confidence."
"How did you know it was pasted?" Penelope asked.
"It turned her neck green."
Thus began four days of ledgers, calling cards, and revelations. The Hartwells' morning room became a private office. Wickliffe brought copies of bank drafts and subscription lists; Penelope arranged them by household; Mrs. Hartwell supplied social intelligence while pretending to embroider.
"Lady Oswin's payment ceased in February," Penelope said on the first afternoon.
"Her husband died in January," Mrs. Hartwell replied. "The estate went to a nephew who reduced her jointure."
"Yet the ledger shows that she paid £50 in March," Wickliffe said.
Penelope examined the entry in green ink. They searched backward. Every suspicious payment had been entered in the same green ink, though the supposed dates extended across two years.
"Vane created false subscriptions to disguise withdrawals," Penelope said.
Wickliffe leaned over her shoulder. "And used the names of women unlikely to challenge the records."
His sleeve brushed hers. The contact was slight, but Penelope became absurdly aware of it. She could see the fine lines at the corner of his eyes and smell rain upon his coat. He straightened first.
At the fifth and final engagement, a garden party at Richmond, Mrs. Hartwell presented Penelope to the last gentleman upon her list: the Honorable Mr. Lionel Fane. Mr. Fane was kind, intelligent, and possessed of an excellent sense of humor. He also spoke of his childhood friend, Miss Amelia Cross, with such unconscious devotion that Penelope understood within ten minutes why he had never married.
"You are in love with her," Penelope said.
He nearly dropped his glass of punch. "I beg your pardon?"
"Miss Cross. You have mentioned her seven times."
"Have I?"
"Eight now."
His face altered as astonishment gave way to reluctant hope. "She thinks me incapable of seriousness."
"Then do something serious."
Across the lawn, Mrs. Hartwell watched Mr. Fane hurry toward Lady Cross's party and sighed. "Another one gone," she murmured.
"You promised to burn the list."
"Yes, darling. I did not promise not to mourn it."
Wickliffe stood beneath a cedar tree speaking with Lady Bromwich. Even at a distance, Penelope recognized the tension in his shoulders. When Lady Bromwich left, Penelope joined him.
"Another payment has failed," he said quietly. "Unless we replace £2,000 by Monday, the society must suspend its loans."
"Can you not provide it?"
"I already have." He said it without self-importance.
Penelope thought of the gossip that called him grasping and cold. "How much?"
"Enough that further payments from me would look like an attempt to purchase silence."