Penrose had clearly been fascinated with this two-penny drama, while Rex simply wanted to be done with the day’s business. No previous Duke of Elsmore had ever had to bother his handsome head about two pounds, much less tuppence.

Hence, Rex’s present difficulty. “How did Mrs. Hatfield identify the culprit?”

Penrose paused at the foot of the steps that led to his bank’s impressive double doors. “The young man had taken on a second job copying a silk merchant’s daily receipts each evening. His clothing was rumpled from having been slept in. He was pale, his eyes were slightly bloodshot, and he had a wax stain on the cuff of his shirt though the bank uses lamps rather than candles in the counting room. She not only spotted those details immediately, she also connected them to her missing tuppence. The boy was tired and his work grew sloppy as a result.”

“Mrs. Hatfield sounds impressive.” Also like she’d get on well with the aunties. Rex could picture them, a quartet of unrepentant old besoms, cackling like the Fates over tattle and tea.

“Impressive is the right word. I feel it fair to warn you she does not generally hold aristocrats in high regards, sir.”

“Neither do I, Mr. Penrose. Always a pleasure to make the acquaintance of a woman of sound sensibilities. I’m sure we’ll get on famously.”

*  *  *

“My grandmother, whose good opinion of me ranks among my greatest treasures, pounded a few simple rules into her progeny.” Eleanora Hatfield spoke calmly, as one must when addressing one’s misguided employer. “Foremost among her rules is to never involve myself in the affairs of the peerage. Peers are trouble, and dukes the worst of the lot.”

Quinn Wentworth, who had the great misfortune to be the Duke of Walden, drummed his fingers on the blotter of his massive desk. His nails were clean now, but Ellie had known him when he would have literally dirtied his hands doing any honest work.

“You don’t mind involving yourself weekly with the bank’s wage book, Eleanora Hatfield, and I number among the realm’s peers.”

Ellie wanted to pace and wave her hands, but had learned long ago that women were denied the luxury of speaking emphatically, if they wanted to be taken seriously. Of course, when she spoke moderately, she was also brushed off at least half the time, particularly by her own family.

She remained seated across from the desk, hands folded in her lap. “Correct you are, Your Grace, and look how you thank me for making a single exception to Grandmama’s cardinal rule. You shove me out the door to chase down a missing penny for some fop who cannot be bothered to tally his own estate books.”