Nathaniel broke the seal. Inside was a letter addressed not to Mercer, but to his late father, dated four years earlier. Eleanor leaned nearer, close enough that Nathaniel caught the faint scent of cold air in her hair.
He read the first line, and every trace of warmth left him.
"What is it?" she asked.
Nathaniel handed her the letter. "It appears," he said quietly, "that Blackmir's losses began years before either of us knew there was a crisis."
Eleanor read the letter twice. The paper trembled once in the wind, but her hand did not. "Henshaw warned your father."
Nathaniel's gaze remained on the faded ink. "Apparently. They reported irregular orders from Blackmir and asked him to confirm quantities before accepting another contract."
Samuel looked stricken. "His late Grace was ill that winter. Mr. Mercer handled nearly everything."
Nathaniel folded the letter with deliberate care. "And no one questioned that arrangement afterward."
"You were in London," Samuel said quietly.
Nathaniel looked at him. "That explains my absence. It does not excuse it."
Eleanor's eyes shifted toward him, but she said nothing. That silence followed him for the next three evenings.
They worked after supper in Blackmir's library, where account books accumulated across a long oak table and the fire settled into red embers before either noticed the hour. Eleanor never behaved as though being admitted to the Duke's private rooms were an honor. She asked for invoices, rejected bad arithmetic, and once pushed Nathaniel's own calculation back across the table with a small shake of her head.
"Wrong."
He stared at it. "You might soften the delivery."
"Would that improve the sum?"
"No."
"Then I would only be wasting additional time."
His mouth twitched. "You are remarkably economical. Blackmir should be grateful."
On the fourth evening, rain whispered against the tall windows while Samuel searched the estate office for older correspondence. Nathaniel and Eleanor were alone. She rubbed her fingers together beside the fire. Without comment, he moved the chair nearest the hearth toward her. Eleanor noticed. She also noticed that he did not insist she take it.
After a moment, she sat.
"Why did you write to me?" he asked.
Her hand stilled. "In October?"
The fire cracked softly.
"Because the miller had begun refusing flour on credit, two tenant children were ill, and Widow Carter had already sold her silver spoons."
"Why me?"
"Because it was your estate."
"You could have gone to Mercer."
Eleanor looked into the flames. "I did."
Nathaniel's shoulders tightened. "What happened?"
"He kept me waiting outside the estate office for nearly an hour. Then he told me Blackmir did not alter policy because a farmer's daughter had become emotional."
Nathaniel said nothing.
"I returned the next week with figures," she continued. "He did not read them."
"And then you wrote to me. Four times. Letters I never saw."
Her gaze met his. "No."
Nathaniel crossed to the mantle. For years, he had thought himself a responsible landlord because rents were not excessive and no steward had brought him catastrophe. It occurred to him now how convenient that standard had been.
"I should have known."