Matthew.
Clara read the letter slowly.
Then looked up.
“Your brother knew.”
Julian nodded.
“He was beginning to suspect something.”
“Did he speak to you?”
“No.”
His expression darkened.
“We were not close in the last years of his life. I thought him unnecessarily anxious about estate matters. He thought me irresponsible for remaining in the army.”
Clara said nothing.
Julian looked down at the letter.
“I believed he had failed to manage the estate. That he had left me a hopeless burden.”
“Perhaps he was trying to prevent it.”
“Yes.”
His voice was quiet.
“I wish I had listened.”
Clara touched his arm.
“Julian.”
He looked at her.
“Your brother cannot hear your apology,” she said gently. “But the people he tried to protect can benefit from what you do now.”
Julian folded the letter.
For the first time in three years, thinking of Matthew did not leave him merely with resentment and guilt.
It gave him direction.
By noon, Mr. Nicholas Whitford arrived from Oxford.
He was a small, sharp-eyed solicitor of sixty-three, with a weathered leather case and the brisk manner of a man who believed that most human difficulties could be improved by accurate documentation.
He listened to Julian and Clara without interruption.
Then asked to see the evidence.
For three hours, they worked in the library.
Mr. Whitford examined the forged letters, the suspicious transfers, the draft marriage settlement, and the surviving estate accounts.
When he reached the seventh clause of the settlement, he removed his spectacles.
“Your Grace, Miss Langley, this is an extremely dangerous instrument.”
Clara leaned forward.
“In what respect?”
“It attempts to give the managers of the improvements fund authority over property that ought to remain under the protections of Mrs. Langley's original settlement.”
“Would it succeed?”
“Not without legal complications. Certain provisions are plainly questionable. But it would provide sufficient appearance of authority to create very serious difficulties.”
Julian's face hardened.
“And Sir Edmund prepared it.”
“His solicitor did, upon his instructions.”
Clara drew a breath.
“Can we prevent the transfer?”
“Certainly. Miss Langley has not signed it.”
Julian looked relieved.
Mr. Whitford continued.
“But that does not answer the question of what money has already been taken.”
He opened his case.
“I have made inquiries.”
From within, he withdrew several documents bearing the seal of an Oxford banking house.
“The school trustees authorized withdrawals from the reserve fund on four occasions. The sums were paid into an account controlled by Mr. Vane as manager of the Northern Improvements Fund.”
Clara looked at the figures.
“Nearly three thousand pounds.”
“Yes.”
“And where has it gone?”
Mr. Whitford looked grave.
“Some was spent upon materials. Some appears to have been used to meet interest on estate obligations. A considerable amount was transferred to an account held by Sir Edmund Cross.”
Julian rose abruptly.
“Cross?”
“Yes.”
“For what purpose?”
“That is not yet clear.”
Clara felt cold.
Her father's most trusted friend.
Her mother's appointed trustee.
The man who had guided her affairs since she was a girl.
He had been taking money from the very school her mother had established.
Mr. Whitford looked at her kindly.
“Miss Langley, I believe we must prepare ourselves for an unpleasant discovery.”
Before Clara could answer, the door opened.
Mr. Pembroke entered.
“Your Grace. Miss Finch requests an audience.”
Julian looked up.
“Send her in.”
Bess appeared moments later.
She looked exhausted but determined.