He wrote a list of his own: every assurance note in the book; every letter sent; every sum received as "arrangement fees" that had somehow never reached a formal estate account. When he finished, the list was long enough to make him put his head in his hands like a schoolboy. Then he straightened, because dukes were not permitted the luxury of looking like schoolboys for long, and sent for his new man of business—a Mr. Alden Pryce, recommended by Croft as "tedious, which is a compliment."
Pryce proved tedious in the best sense. He asked questions that had answers in ink. He did not smirk. He did not speak of sport. Lucien found himself almost grateful for dullness.
The ledgers arrived over three days, carried by Croft's clerk in a locked case that smelled faintly of oil and dust. Isolde read them in the Fenwick parlor with the curtains half drawn, Lady Harriet sewing nearby in a silence that was companionship rather than absence. Rain ticked at the windows. Somewhere below, the kitchen maid sang a tune Isolde did not recognize and then forgot to finish.
The handwriting was Vale's: neat columns, bland phrases, sums that climbed. Names appeared—younger sons, a baronet's heir, a naval lieutenant on half-pay—each with a crest-mark and a note about "encouraging promptness." Peregrine's entry was not the largest. It was among the cruelest in its timing: advances made when he was already sinking, letters sent to two clubs suggesting that Fenwick credit was "under ducal review," a phrase that sounded protective and acted like a noose.
Isolde copied names into her own book with a pencil that needed sharpening twice. She did not cry on the pages. She had cried in March, in April, in the empty weeks when grief still expected the door to open and Peregrine to come in complaining about the rain. What she felt now was colder and more useful.
On the afternoon of the second day, Croft arrived with additional papers: copies of letters Vale had sent under phrases like "for the preservation of good order" and "at the interest of the house." One letter to a tailor. One to a wine merchant. One, most damning in its politeness, to the steward of a club Peregrine had loved, recommending that "Mr. Fenwick's expectations not be indulged until certain private matters are composed."
"Composed," Isolde said aloud. "As if a person were a sentence."
"In law," Croft said gently, "people often are. That is why we write carefully."
Lady Harriet set down her sewing. "We will need Prudence sooner than I like. If these names become public through the wrong mouth, we will have a riot of reputations and no repair."
Isolde nodded. "I will call on her. Or rather, you will, and I will sit where I can watch her decide whether she is our friend today."
Harriet almost smiled. "You are learning the town."
"I am learning that the town is a card table with better curtains," Isolde said.
On the second evening, Lady Prudence called of her own accord, bringing ratafia and an expression of theatrical innocence that fooled no one who had known her longer than a season.
"My brother the judge," she announced, settling her blue-grey skirts, "says that secondary seals used to imply noble guarantee without warrant can be treated as a species of fraud if the facts are tidy. He also says dukes prefer tidy facts to public trials. Harriet, you look like a woman planning a campaign."