Many, many arrows led from the ducal coffers into other hands, even for the London household. The housekeeper, house steward, valet, ladies’ maids, butler, under-butler, first footman, and head porter all had accounts, some mere pocket change, some enormous. Rex’s sisters and his mother had pin money, and so did the aunties and three lady cousins. The family accounts originated at the bank, but required management at various points along the way.

Four male cousins at university had allowances, and Eddie, Howell, and James, in addition to duties at the bank, also each managed a rural property.

And at every distant holding, another flight of arrows sprang from another pot of ducal gold.

“I can eliminate some of the potential areas of concern,” Rex said, pulling the chart of London boxes to his side of the desk. He took another bite of shortbread and washed it down with sweet, milky tea. “My butler, for example, has never put a foot wrong in forty years of service. I inherited him from my father, and he served as first footman to my grandfather.”

Mrs. Hatfield took the chart back. “We eliminate no one. In fact, you should have somebody check my work when we’ve concluded this exercise.”

The shortbread seemed to help with Rex’s upset stomach, or perhaps actually doing something about his books was helping.

The patient compassion in Mrs. Hatfield’s gaze helped not at all. “I know my staff, madam.”

She took off her glasses and produced a plain handkerchief to polish them. “Your Grace, we have a problem.”

“Please do elucidate.” Without her glasses, her features took on different proportions. Her nose called less attention to itself, her eyes looked larger. Even the contour of her lips softened.

“You know the particulars of being a duke. You’ve spent your whole life learning that role, and it comes to you now as naturally as a hound chases a hare. I can claim the same expertise when it comes to accounting, particularly crooked or inept accounting. You are no more qualified to tell me how to do my job than I am qualified to be a duchess.”

“And yet”—he waved his hand, which nobody save himself bothered to manicure—“you presumed to tell me of the many privileges associated with my office.”

“And you corrected me, because my perspective is limited to that of somebody who is employed by a duke, who has tea with a duchess every Friday, who has observed ducal holdings for years at very close range, and yet, I was in error.”

She stated her error baldly, no mincing about or draping euphemisms all over it. The honesty was refreshing, though, like a tonic, not exactly palatable.

Rex took up one of the pencils from the silver tray and drew a sheet of blank paper near. He crossed an ankle over a knee, used a ledger book for his easel, and began sketching the woman who boldly lectured him.