“You suspect the author of all my irregular books is employed at the bank, don’t you?” he asked, leading Ellie to the sofa.

He spoke so calmly, the import of his words took a moment to penetrate Ellie’s misery—and her pleasure at holding his hand.

“I fear that very possibility. All of the family accounts ultimately run through the bank. If you ask your aunties, they will probably tell you they don’t total those ledgers—whoever you’ve assigned to the accounts at the bank does the actual bookkeeping for them after they make the entries. The same will pertain with your widowed cousin and with your sisters’ pin money. The common factor is not that your womenfolk are cheating you. It’s that their accounting is actually done at the bank.”

Elsmore came down beside her, his hand still in hers. “How did you come to this conclusion?”

“I should have spotted it straight off. Who keeps the actual books is not a detail. I was distracted with my money maps, my schemes, my sums.” With you. She’d missed one of the first aspects of the accountability that made auditing a useful undertaking. She’d tracked who bought the market vegetables, who had pin money, where the duchess’s dresses were made, all while she’d neglected to note who tallied the ledger entries.

“You are not distracted now. Something caught your eye.”

“The handwriting. Numbers are as distinctive to me as literary penmanship when numbers are all I see, and yet…I didn’t see it. All of the entries for the totals in the various accounts—for your sisters, your aunts, your cousins at university, the widows—are made in the same hand. I’ve stared at those ledgers for weeks, and not seen what was in front of my face.”

“You were too busy plotting your escape to France, and over a few old paintings nobody cares two figs about.”

Ellie extricated her hand from Elsmore’s, because apparently she needed to instruct a duke on the realities of scandal for the lower orders.

“What fate do you suppose a disgraced painter faces, Your Grace?” What fate do you suppose awaits that painter’s family? Ellie did not want to embark on this recitation, but neither could she stand the thought that Elsmore would hear the details elsewhere.

“A disgraced painter likely has to travel on the Continent for a time, take lesser work, maybe change his name and produce landscapes or casual art.”

The cat stirred, getting up to stretch with the thorough leisure at which cats excelled. The fire gave out good heat, and the moment would have been cozy except that Ellie’s heart was breaking all over again.