Then Evelyn noticed a loose sheet protruding from the back of the annual summary. She pulled it free. It was a transfer schedule bearing Bellamy's authorization mark beside several returned relief balances. At the bottom was a second signature.
William reached for the page, and his fingers stopped. "That cannot be right."
Evelyn looked from the signature to his face. "Whose name is it?"
His eyes did not leave the paper. "My uncle's."
William took the transfer schedule from her, but instead of sitting, he remained beside the desk.
"Lord Frederick Harrington." His thumb pressed against the signature. "My father's younger brother."
Evelyn waited. William's face had closed in the peculiar way of people who had learned that composure was safest when feeling too much.
"Does he have authority over the estate?" she asked.
"Not now."
"Did he?"
"During my father's final illness, Frederick helped supervise Westbridge for nearly two years." A coal shifted in the grate. William stared at the page. "Bellamy was appointed during that period."
Evelyn's pulse quickened, but she resisted the easy conclusion. "The signature may be genuine without proving your uncle knew what Bellamy was doing."
William glanced at her. "You are defending another man you do not know."
"I am defending evidence from our impatience."
"Our? You are becoming a bad influence."
That earned the faintest curve of his mouth. He returned to his chair.
"Tomorrow we begin with the original vouchers, compare the signatures and the dates, and find where the returned money actually went."
William nodded. "You make a demanding guest, Miss Parker."
"You invited me."
"I am beginning to understand the consequences."
By nine the next morning, Bellamy had produced the requested ledgers, but claimed several older vouchers were stored in an archive room being repaired after damp damage. William did not challenge him immediately. Evelyn understood why: if Bellamy was lying, allowing him to believe the explanation had worked might prove more useful than anger.
They spent the morning comparing what remained. At noon, William ordered lunch brought to the study. By late afternoon, Evelyn had stopped noticing the rain and begun recognizing William's footsteps when he crossed behind her chair. He learned that she tapped her pencil twice before challenging a figure; she learned that he went silent rather than loud when angry.
At seven, a servant lit additional lamps. At nine, William placed a plate beside her without interrupting her calculations.
"Eat."
Evelyn looked at the bread and cold chicken. "Was that another badly phrased invitation?"
"No, that one was an order."
"Your tyranny is becoming domestic."
"Terrifying, isn't it?"
She smiled before she could prevent it. William looked at that smile for a fraction too long. The room seemed to contract around the small circle of lamplight between them.
Evelyn lowered her gaze first. "I found something."
"You usually do."
She turned the ledger. "These balances were supposedly returned to the estate account, but they never reached the main account."
William leaned closer. "Then where did they go?"
"Into a temporary holding account controlled by Bellamy."
"And afterward?"
"The trail stops in these books."
His hand rested beside hers on the page. "So, we need the missing vouchers."
"Yes."
Neither moved. The clock ticked. Outside, wind pressed rain softly against the glass.
William's voice changed when he spoke again. "Why did you write to me?"
Evelyn looked up. "About Mrs. Foster? You did not know her then. Your aunt mentioned another widow, Mrs. Dale. You could have let the committee handle it."
Evelyn rolled the pencil between her fingers. "They had handled it."
"You know what I mean."
She did. Her eyes settled on the flame inside the lamp. "Because I know what it is to be told that a rule is perfectly reasonable by people who never suffer from it."
William said nothing. The silence did not demand more, which somehow made her give it.
"My father left enough for me to live modestly, provided my brother continues honoring the arrangement. Legally, much of what I use is under his control."
William's jaw tightened. "Does he threaten to withdraw it?"
"No. He reminds me that he could." Her smile held no humor. "Usually when I have an opinion."
William's fingers curled against the desk.
"And your aunt?"
"Gives me a room, work, and the courtesy of asking what I think. That should not be remarkable."
"Yet here we are." He looked at her for a long moment. "If you had independent work, what would you do?"
Evelyn blinked. No one had asked her that—not what husband she wanted, not where she might live: what would she do?
"Something useful," she said finally. "Something where noticing matters."
William's gaze softened. "You are very good at noticing."
Her breath caught. He seemed about to say something else when footsteps approached. A servant knocked and entered, carrying a small, locked dispatch box.
"Forgive me, Your Grace. This was found behind shelving in the archive room."
William stood. "Who found it?"
"Mr. Bellamy, sir. He said it should be brought directly to you."
Evelyn and William exchanged a glance; Bellamy volunteering evidence was more unsettling than Bellamy hiding it.
William unlocked the box with the estate key. Inside lay a bundle of old vouchers tied with black ribbon, and on top, a folded note addressed in a firm hand: For the Duke of Westbridge, concerning Miss Evelyn Parker.
William did not touch the note immediately. Evelyn watched the firelight move across the cream paper and felt an absurd urge to laugh.
"Well," she said, "that seems unnecessarily theatrical."
His eyes remained on her name. "Do you recognize the hand?"
"No."
He broke the seal. The note contained only a few lines. William read them once, then his jaw hardened.
"What does it say?"
He handed it to her. Evelyn read silently:
Miss Parker's interest in the relief accounts is not charitable. Her family circumstances are precarious, and she has openly sought a means of securing herself. Consider carefully why an unmarried woman without fortune would place herself in the confidence of an unmarried duke.
Heat climbed Evelyn's throat. There was no signature.
"Efficient," she murmured. "It manages insult, gossip, and cowardice in four sentences."