He could summon men to his presence, demand accounts, dismiss employees, and determine the fortunes of families whose lives depended upon his estate.
Yet he had not thought to ask the person who knew the girl best whether she was honest.
He had been so concerned with appearing impartial that he had failed to seek the simplest truth.
“Pembroke,” he said quietly, “I have been a fool.”
The butler inclined his head.
“I should not presume to say so, Your Grace.”
“Then I shall say it for you.”
Julian rose.
“Have my horse saddled.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And send word to Mrs. Hartley that Bess Finch is to return to her duties if she wishes, unless she would prefer to remain at home until the matter is resolved.”
The butler bowed.
“Very good, sir.”
Julian hesitated.
“One more thing.”
“Your Grace?”
“Tell Bess I wish to speak with her personally when I return.”
“Shall I explain the reason?”
Julian looked toward Clara's note.
“Yes.”
He drew a breath.
“Tell her I owe her an apology.”
Clara's carriage was halfway to Mereford when the first heavy drops of rain struck the roof.
Mrs. Porter looked anxiously through the window.
“Miss Clara, I do not like this.”
“Nor do I.”
“Then perhaps we should return.”
“Not yet.”
Clara held a small leather notebook upon her lap.
It contained dates, names, and amounts copied from the school accounts.
She had begun to see the pattern.
Payments withdrawn from the school.
Unexplained charges for timber.
Expenses attributed to river improvements.
And the suspicious transfer of nine hundred pounds into the Northern Improvements Fund.
Somewhere, she believed, an original set of accounts existed.
If they could find it, the scheme would become clear.
But Vane had removed the relevant pages.
Why?
Because the originals exposed payments the copies concealed.
And Bess had heard mention of a duplicate.
The carriage approached the old mill.
Clara glanced toward the river.
The water stood unusually high.
Beyond the bridge, a row of fresh wooden posts had been driven into the meadow.
Men were working beside a temporary embankment.
Clara leaned forward.
“Stop the carriage.”
The coachman drew up.
Mrs. Porter looked alarmed.
“Clara!”
“I must speak to those men.”
“Absolutely not.”
Clara opened the door.
“Remain here, Agnes.”
She stepped down into the mud.
A laborer carrying a spade looked up as she approached.
“Good afternoon.”
He removed his cap.
“Afternoon, miss.”
“Are you working for the navigation company?”
“Yes, miss.”
“What are you building?”
“New retaining bank.”
“Under whose instructions?”
“Mr. Vane.”
Clara looked at the river.
The men had begun raising earth along the narrow channel where the water ordinarily escaped into the meadow during heavy rain.
The new wall blocked nearly half of it.
“Will that not increase the water level downstream?”
The laborer shrugged.
“Not my place to say, miss.”
“Who designed it?”
“Engineer from Bristol.”
“Has he inspected it?”