James signaled the waiter for another bottle of wine. “Rounding errors, possibly, or an occasional mis-transcription. What are supervisory reviews for, if not an acknowledgment that no man’s math is infallible? We are Dorsets, after all, and bothering our handsome heads with ciphering the livelong day runs counter to our blue blood.”

“Precisely. We are not clerks.” Clerks were never born to a ducal family headed by a fellow who was very good at being a duke, but too busy squiring the ladies about to trouble much over figures, poor sod. “Were you truly under the weather?”

James remained silent until the waiter had removed the empty plate and observed the little ritual of offering the next bottle of wine. Eddie took the first taste, pronounced it exquisite, and poured James a glass.

“I confess I was more nearly under the hatches,” James said. “You heard about that business with the Butterfield account?”

“Belatedly. Howell and old Ballie had a chinwag once the books were done on Saturday. Howell shared what he knew over supper. Very bad business and I gather it’s being kept quiet. The likes of thee, me, and Howell aren’t even to know of it. I gather the teller might lose his post.”

“And he is one of the honest ones,” James said, sampling the wine.

Eddie needed the honest clerks and the conscientious tellers. No scheme of any duration could go forward profitably unless the bank operated on assumptions of trustworthiness and competence.

“Whoever impersonated Mr. Butterfield invested a deal of effort into the ruse,” Eddie observed. “One must commend hard work and diligence wherever one finds them.”

“I met the teller involved at the pub after the bank closed on Friday. The poor man was distraught, and all too willing to let me stand him to a pint or six.”

At the back of Eddie’s mind, where interest calculations purred along without him expending mental effort, where memories of the fair Madam Bisset sat side by side with musings about her potential as a lender, he felt a stirring.

“James, what scheme are you contemplating?”

James was by nature moderate. He neither flew into a passion over trivialities nor mourned missed opportunity at any length. His quips were humorous without quite shading into sarcasm. His pragmatism was a comfortable counterweight to Eddie’s ambition—most of the time.

“What if Butterfield himself sent a trusted emissary to the bank to close that account?” James asked.

Eddie mentally collected the scraps of information Howell had passed along. “You mean, he sent a supernumerary to the bank in the first instance to close the account, and then he appeared at the bank, claiming fraud? He’d double his money and at no risk to him whatsoever. If the first man is found out, Butterfield can claim he simply didn’t care to brave the elements himself.”