“You lie to yourself, Ellie, my love. That’s worse than lying to all the banks in England. I’ll give Mick your regards when he lets me know where he’s landed.”

She walked away without looking back, and Jack apparently had the good sense not to follow her—this time.

*  *  *

“We can move on from your aunties’ pin money to your London household accounts,” Mrs. Hatfield said. “You dwell in Town now, and you can compare my findings with what’s before your eyes. Then too, fraud anywhere in your books must eventually find its way to the London ledgers.”

Rex paced her small parlor, while outside, a light snow was coating the walkways and streets. “You use the word fraud now.”

“The ledgers suggest willful mishandling of your funds, not simple miscalculations, though I see some evidence of that as well.”

The theater had run late the previous night, with Mama, the cousins, and the sisters chattering merrily the entire time. James and Eddie had joined the party at the interval, bringing several of their friends, all of them prone to uproarious laughter.

“My butler—”

Mrs. Hatfield held up a hand. She wore her version of battle attire today: fingerless gloves and a gray shawl, and she’d again turned back the cuff on her right sleeve. Her dress was dark gray wool, probably chosen because it wouldn’t show ink stains. All she needed was a witch’s hat and a cauldron to complete the portrait of the alchemist at her dark arts.

“Your butler,” she said, “has too much to do and must rely on his station to effect discipline in the ranks. What he gets is the appearance of compliance with his orders and sloppy books.”

The cat watched Rex from a perch on the windowsill. Her expression suggested that sloppy books should be added to England’s long list of capital offenses.

“And my housekeeper?”

Mrs. Hatfield rose from her desk and swung the kettle over the coals on the hearth. “She’s actually your mother’s housekeeper, isn’t she?”

My own mother…“You are working up to another revelation. Who is in the dock this time? My mother? My aunts? My house steward?”

“Come here,” Mrs. Hatfield said, taking one of the two chairs before her desk. “I’ll show you.”

Rex hated that she had to instruct him on the topic of managing his dukedom, but he liked sitting beside her. Eleanora Hatfield had a sense of calm competence that soothed his temper, and just as she was unraveling his books, he enjoyed unraveling her.

The rose scent she wore was fine quality. Perhaps not Parisian, but not cheap shop goods either. She had apparently washed her hair recently, for her usual ruthless bun was looser today and less orderly. She wasn’t wearing shoes but, rather, thick, scuffed slippers over black wool stockings.

Eleanora Hatfield was susceptible to creature comforts.