Nathaniel's hand went still beside the chair. "Show me."
Eleanor did not move. "If I do, Your Grace, tomorrow you may have to decide whether you trust a tenant's daughter over a gentleman who has served your family for fifteen years."
"Which gentleman?"
Eleanor's eyes remained on the ledger. "Mr. Julian Mercer."
Nathaniel knew the name immediately. Mercer had supervised Blackmir's purchasing contracts since before Nathaniel inherited the title—a polished man in his forties who could make an invoice sound like a matter of honor.
"You are accusing my estate agent of theft?"
"No." Eleanor finally looked up. "I am telling you the figures deserve questions. Accusations are what people make when they want answers before they have earned them."
Nathaniel's mouth tightened. "You choose your words carefully."
"Women in my position generally survive longer when we do."
The fire gave a low crack. Nathaniel reached toward the ledger, then stopped. "Bring it to Blackmir tomorrow."
Eleanor blinked.
"Bring it. Ten o'clock, council room, with Mr. Mercer present."
"Especially with Mr. Mercer present?"
Her fingers closed over the book. "That seems unnecessarily theatrical."
"You interrupted the financial collapse of a ducal estate without authority. Permit me one indulgence."
The corner of her mouth moved. "Ten o'clock, then."
By morning, every chair around Blackmir's long council table was occupied except one. Eleanor stood just inside the door, wearing the same dark wool dress beneath a plain brown cloak.
Mercer looked at her, then at Nathaniel. "Your Grace, surely Miss Reed need not attend an estate meeting."
Nathaniel glanced at the empty chair. "Sit down, Miss Reed."
The silence that followed was almost physical. Eleanor crossed the room and sat. Nathaniel noticed she did not rush, apologize, or look toward the gentlemen for permission. Samuel placed the ledgers before her.
Mercer leaned back. "Perhaps Miss Reed will explain precisely what she imagined she discovered."
Eleanor opened the first book. "I imagined nothing." She laid three invoices beside one another. "Blackmir paid Henshaw and Sons for grain delivered in September, October, and November."
"Obviously."
"Yet the storage records show less grain arriving each month."
Mercer smiled thinly. "Spoilage. Transportation loss. Anyone familiar with agricultural accounts understands such things."
Eleanor's gaze lifted. "Then perhaps you can explain why the losses are always exactly twelve percent."
Mercer's smile disappeared.
Nathaniel leaned forward.
Eleanor continued. "Spoilage varies. Broken sacks vary. Weather varies. Twelve percent does not vary three months in succession unless someone wants the arithmetic to look ordinary."
One adviser cleared his throat. "Coincidence."
Eleanor slid another page across the table. "Then Blackmir has remarkably disciplined coincidences."
Samuel coughed into his hand. Nathaniel suspected it concealed a laugh.
Mercer's fingers tapped once against the polished wood. "Your Grace, we are allowing a tenant's daughter to interpret commercial records she cannot possibly understand."
Nathaniel looked at Eleanor. Her face remained composed, but her thumb pressed hard against the edge of the paper. There it was—the only sign the insult had landed.
"Miss Reed," Nathaniel said. Every eye turned toward him. "Do you understand them?"
Eleanor's thumb relaxed. "Yes."