“Ballentyre always reviews your weekly tallies?”

“And I review his, which is becoming a thankless task.”

“What about Eddie and James?”

“They trade ledgers, as Ballentyre and I do.”

The family swell and the family man-about-town traded ledgers. A month ago, Rex would have shrugged and gone whistling on his way. He could hear Eleanora Hatfield warning him that shrugs goeth before a fall.

“If you would be good enough to have your ledgers brought to my office, I’ll begin there.”

Howell piled a third volume on top of the first two. “Elsmore, you might not like what you find here at the bank either.”

“I don’t expect perfection, Howell, but I do expect us to uphold the trust our customers place in us, and they are not paying me to waltz.”

*  *  *

“Eleanora, êtes-vous en bonne santé?” The Duchess of Walden held out a plate of cinnamon biscuits to go with her polite question.

“I am in good health, thank you, Your Grace. No sweets for me.”

The duchess sat back and stroked the ears of the hound seated at her knee. “No sweets, two sips of tea, longing glances at the window, and you haven’t attempted a word of French since you arrived. I have never before seen you daunted, Eleanora. Not when your sister nearly died in childbed, not when you had to battle Lord Stephen for a peek at his estate ledgers, not when His Grace demanded you travel about the realm as his personal avenger of financial sloth and inaccuracy.”

I was daunted. I am almost always daunted, but I could admit that only to Elsmore. “Perhaps a megrim or a head cold stalks me.”

“Or a broken heart?”

The dog, an enormous black hellbeast, came over to Ellie’s chair, sat, and put its chin on her knee.

“I never cry.”

The dog gazed up at her, and that—kindness, even from a dumb animal—had a tear slipping down her cheek.

“I hate this.”

“But you love Wrexham, Duke of Elsmore.” The duchess spoke gently, which only sent a second tear following in the path of the first.

“His familiars call him Rex. It suits him. I must never see him again.” Ellie fished out the handkerchief he’d given her, the one she took with her everywhere. She didn’t use it to wipe her eyes—her tea napkin served for that purpose. Instead, she traced the crowned unicorn rampant on his coat of arms.

“Did he tell you that you must never see him again?”

Oh, this hurt. This gentle peeling away of layers of heartache hurt and hurt and hurt. “He did not. I’m thinking of moving to France or at least of returning to York.”

“You aren’t thinking at all.” The duchess handed Ellie the half-finished cup of tea, and Ellie drank, not because her hostess was a duchess, but because she was Jane, wife of Quinn Wentworth, and the mother of his three daughters.