She opened a ledger from last spring. “Look here. Do you see any patterns?”

Rex saw a progression of numbers, each entry neatly labeled and dated. Coal, candles, paper, a set of livery for a new footman, boot black…

“I see a typical ledger.”

“Exactly what you’re supposed to see, and if you merely checked this or that column, probably fairly accurate. But look at my totals versus the ones your steward, secretary, or under-butler did.”

She had penciled tiny figures at the foot of each column. For the most part, the totals were the same, occasionally they were off by a couple of pounds.

“Always a two-pound variance,” he said.

“Which suggests somebody is working the three-for-five substitution.”

“You call these frauds by name, like old friends.” While she referred to Rex as Your Grace. Always, Your Grace, with an occasional prim little sir tossed in for reinforcement. Nearly everybody called Rex sir or Your Grace, so why did it bother him that Eleanora Hatfield did as well?

“Old enemies,” she said. “I have a theory that most dishonest schemes started off as honest mistakes. Somebody mistakes a three for a five—it’s easy to do. Then they realize that they’ve overstated the total owed by two pounds, and nobody has questioned that figure. The merchant is paid in full according to the merchant’s books, and the two pounds finds an appreciative home in the pocket of a thief.”

“I detest where this is leading.”

She set the ledger on the desk. “My audits lead to the truth, Your Grace. Be glad whoever did this accounting didn’t try to work the seven-for-one substitution. Those totals add up faster. I happen to know what coal and candles cost last spring because I keep Lord Stephen’s books for this building. The only other way to spot the problem is to compare the exact figures entered with what was on the merchant’s invoice.”

She recalled the price of coal and candles—to the penny—from six months ago. “First my womenfolk are trafficking in dresses, now my secretaries—or somebody on my payroll—is fleecing me. I have the sense worse news lies ahead.”

The kettle began to whistle, provoking the cat to scowling and switching its tail.

Mrs. Hatfield was out of her chair, swinging the kettle off the coals in the next instant. “Voltaire, you are a fraud. This kettle whistles at least twice a day, and only for the duke do you affect these histrionics.”

Mrs. Hatfield certainly didn’t bother with any histrionics, which was a pleasant change. “Are you hungry?” Rex asked. “I missed luncheon and could do with a sandwich or two. I could pop across the street in a trice.”

He expected her to demure out of perpetual self-sufficiency, but instead she went to the window. “This snow might mean business. I love a snowy Sunday.”