Rex resumed his seat. His solicitors muttered about cits in trade, standards being abandoned, and England always needing her farmers, and yet, land rents had been dropping since the war had ended. Mrs. Hatfield advised diversification, while she refused to render aid.

“Other sources of the bookkeeping problem,” he said slowly. “Sources such as theft?”

“Embezzlement, theft, graft, schemes…yes. When a sum such as you have mentioned is leaking from your books, you are very likely being fleeced.”

That conclusion had hovered at the edge of Rex’s mind like a persistent housefly, an explanation that fit the facts but not the logic or the intuition.

“Then that’s all the more reason why you must help me. If somebody familiar to me is stealing from the family coffers, I cannot be expected to see the patterns you allude to.”

She closed her eyes and she might have murmured something in French. “To untangle your situation could take months, and I do not have months to lend you.”

“I do not have months to borrow from you either. Repairing my yacht, as you term it, has become urgent. We’ll resolve it before the Season has ended.” His mother, sisters, aunties, and cousins sailed with him on that yacht. Taking on more water was unacceptable.

Mrs. Hatfield’s glower was back. “We shall do no such thing. I have a job, and my first loyalty is to Wentworth and Penrose. I have no desire to become your financial bullyboy, restoring order to your books by main force.”

No bullyboy had ever approached his duties with such an air of feminine exasperation. No bullyboy had such fine brown eyes or had the power to distract Rex with an ink-stained thumb.

Mr. Hatfield was a lucky fellow, and not simply because his household books were in order.

“May I trust your discretion, madam?”

She tested the point of her pencil against her fingertip. “A bit late for that, Your Grace.”

She was trying not to smile. The battle was waged mostly in her eyes, though a certain quirk of her lips betrayed the conflict as well. Rex batted aside a desire to make her smile, not only because that pursuit was irrelevant to the present discussion, but also because he’d likely fail.

“I am of an age to marry,” he said.

She waved a hand in a do-go-on motion.

“I have no younger brothers, and thus must take a wife. My sisters in all likelihood will take husbands before I myself am married.”

“The aristocracy marries. This is hardly a confidence, Your Grace. You’ve mentioned any number of cousins employed on your various properties, several at your bank. I’m sure one of them is eager to oblige if you fail to produce a legitimate son. Fortunately, you have aunties to ensure your choice of duchess is sound, and I wish you the joy of your courtship.”