Clara knew of it.
A copying press stood in the smaller office beside the stable yard. It was used to transfer fresh ink onto dampened sheets for duplicate records.
“What of it?”
“Mr. Vane had the key.”
Clara's thoughts raced.
Forged correspondence.
Copied signatures.
Missing ledger pages.
A duplicate hidden somewhere.
She looked at Bess.
“Do you know who else has access?”
“Only Mr. Vane and the estate clerk.”
“Where is the clerk?”
“Gone to Oxford, miss.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
Clara rose.
“Thank you, Bess.”
The maid looked frightened.
“What will you do?”
Clara glanced toward the doorway.
“Find someone who knows the difference between an accusation and proof.”
That afternoon, Clara wrote a letter to Mr. Whitford, the independent solicitor Julian had summoned.
She enclosed copies of the suspicious documents, a brief account of Bess's conversation, and a request that he come without delay.
Then she sent a note to Julian.
It contained only three sentences.
Your Grace, I believe the theft was arranged to prevent us from examining the estate accounts.
Bess overheard Mr. Vane and Sir Edmund discussing a duplicate record.
I intend to discover where it has been concealed.
She sealed the note.
Then paused.
For a moment, she considered adding something personal.
An apology for her anger.
An assurance that she did not think him heartless.
Perhaps even a reminder of the pleasant evening they had spent together.
But she could not make herself do it.
Trust was not a sentiment to be offered merely because affection had begun.
It required conduct.
She had told Julian so beside the river.
Now she must hold him to the standard she had set.
She gave the note to Mrs. Hartley.
Then asked for her traveling cloak.
Julian read Clara's letter in the library.
By the time he reached the final sentence, his expression had changed.
He summoned Mr. Pembroke.
“Where is Miss Langley?”
The butler hesitated.
“She has gone to the village, Your Grace.”
“Alone?”
“With Mrs. Porter and the coachman.”
Julian looked toward the window.
Rain clouds were gathering over the northern hills.
“Has she said when she will return?”
“No, Your Grace.”
Julian folded the note.
Then he looked at the elderly servant.
“Pembroke.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Have you known Bess Finch long?”
“Since she was a child.”
“Do you believe her capable of theft?”
Mr. Pembroke considered the question.
“No, Your Grace.”
“Why?”
“Because in the seven years she has served this household, she has returned every misplaced coin, confessed every broken cup, and once walked four miles through snow to bring Mrs. Hartley a purse she had accidentally left in the village.”
Julian was silent.
Pembroke continued.
“She is impertinent, certainly. Sometimes inattentive. Her standards of polishing are not always exemplary. But she is honest.”
Julian looked at him.
“Why did you not say so this morning?”
The butler's expression changed.
“I was not asked, Your Grace.”
The answer struck like a blow.
Julian slowly sat down.
A duke could command a household of eighty servants.