The Duke's Obsession (Entangled Scandalous)

by Frances Fowlkes

  “You forgot to mention how Paine utilizes the French. If his arguments on the illegitimacy of the monarchy and aristocracy do not offend them, I’m certain the references to the French and their revolution will.”

  Her brother ran a hand over his face. “Under no circumstances are you to read from that book, Daphne. Fix this. Now.”

  He stalked away, leaving her alone not only to make up a rational excuse as to why she could not read Paine’s treatise, but to navigate her way back to the area of the room where the rest of the group waited.

  Peering past where her brother had stood, she discovered that the library was far larger than she had originally perceived, its painted ceiling looming at least three stories above her. Rows of freestanding shelves were arranged throughout the space, creating an intricate maze of pamphlets, books, and…she wasn’t entirely certain.

  Daphne leaned down and glanced at the closest binding, a slim, black leather spine with a hand scrawled number that simply read 1818. Curious. As the year had not yet ended, it was odd to see such a book even on the shelf, though the thin ledger had barely hung onto its space, its binding sticking out a good inch farther than the rest of the titles lined neatly on the ledge. It looked as though the book had been pulled for inspection and then shoved haphazardly back into its place. But for what purpose?

  Daphne took a quick glance down the darkened aisle, the light from the few candles casting just enough of a glow for her to read the title. If someone were lurking beside her, she would not know it, though from the distinct trill of Henrietta’s laughter, she guessed her family to be at least three rows over.

  She was not a prying person. But for some reason the book called out to her, its odd placement and intriguing title luring her into a realm in which she had no right to delve. Her hand reached out to snatch the ledger off the shelf.

  Turning toward one of the few slivers of light, she opened the cover and began searching through the pages.

  Lines of numbers in the same scrawling hand as the title filled the page. It was obvious the book was a ledger used for some form of record keeping as the numbers emerged in a pattern of simple sums and deductions. Perhaps it was the household accounts, or a slim volume to record the duke’s clothing expenses?

  But even superfine wool and exquisite tailoring could not equal the sums at the bottom of the page. The sums were too high and reflected a profit rather than a loss. In fact, the more she peered at the untidy scratches, the more the ledger resembled those she was used to seeing in her father’s office. But his books were void of errors. This one was not.

  The small subtraction of a single digit was utilized on every third number, on every fourth line. It was a slight calculation, and easily overlooked, had one not the skill or interest in numbers that she possessed.

  If she didn’t know better, it looked as though someone were skimming a profit. But without knowing exactly what the numbers represented, or to whom they belonged…

  But she did know. The handwriting was recognizable. The looped eights, the closed fours, and the thin zeroes…she should’ve seen it before, for she had studied this hand and noticed its discrepancies on an earlier contract. A contract meant for her family.

  “Miss Farrington?”

  She snapped the ledger closed and shoved it back on the shelf. The duke peered down the aisle at her, his face half-hidden in the shadows, his one illuminated eyebrow lifted in questioning silence.

  She had to tell him. No matter how much she disliked him or how aggrieved she was by his royal connections, he was still a person. And one who was being cheated by Mr. Burnham.

  …

  God, he was livid.

  He should have known his act of rebellion would be costly. But never had Edward thought his mother bold enough to invite her own guests to his private affair. A woman devious enough to welcome not only Lord Westbrook, her obvious choice of suitor and his prime competitor for the girl he hoped to woo, but also Lady Isabella, all to a party that he had supposedly planned, was far more insidious than he had originally calculated.

  There was, of course, nothing he could do to mitigate the situation. It was he who had asked Miss Farrington to his estate for the purpose of displaying his character outside of the duchy. Asserting his position by uninviting his mother’s guests would be the very thing Miss Farrington would expect from an English duke.

  And while he groped about for ways to overcome and best his mother’s betrayal, Westbrook engaged in the artful dance of flirtation, charming Miss Farrington with his words of flattery, all whilst enjoying the seat beside her at dinner.

  It was only by sheer luck that he had stumbled across the idea of retreating into the library, a room he had hoped would appeal to Miss Farrington’s intellect. It was also where he hoped to escape his mother’s heavy hand and gloating smile.

  That he had come across Miss Farrington in a darkened aisle, and very much alone, was the first bit of luck that had come his way all evening.

  Her gold-colored hair caught a few flickers of candlelight, making her appear ethereal, as if she were his savior come to rescue him from his current nightmare. Only…her expression did not read as divine, or even angelic. Surprise graced her features, something easily explained given his abrupt arrival; guilt, too, which was harder to explain; and…

  Edward swallowed. Out of all the emotions the face could express, pity was not one he had hoped to see animating her face.

  “Your Grace,” she said. “I must apologize. I went in search of Thomas Paine and I’m afraid I got lost and stumbled across something most profound—”

  In a bold maneuver, he placed a finger to her lips, their lush fullness momentarily distracting him from her horrified apology. Edward could take many things, but pity from a woman he was growing to admire was more than he could bear.

  “Please, Miss Farrington. There is no need. If anyone should be giving an apology, it is I. The evening has not gone as I intended.” He let his finger fall, its tip burning from her touch.

  “Nor has mine, I’m afraid.” She let out a long breath. “There is something I must bring to your attention.”

  Edward’s insides roiled, his fears of her rejection and pity surfacing as Miss Farrington stared down at her ungloved fingers.

  “I discovered a discrepancy,” she continued, her voice barely audible. “I’m not normally a prying person, and I pray you’ll forgive me for my intrusion, but I think your trust has been most shamefully abused, Your Grace.”

  “Oh?” He could think of nothing else to say. His mother’s antics must be far more obvious than he had first imagined.

  She turned and pulled a slender black volume from his collection. “As I said before, I’m not one to read through personal ledgers. Well,” she paused, a light flush coloring her cheeks, “save for my father’s. But I have his permission to check them for errors.”

  “Ledgers, Miss Farrington?” What had ledgers to do with his mother’s rude behavior?

  She sighed, her shoulders heaving in a visible sign of her frustration. “Yes, Your Grace.” She opened the book and held it to a small sliver of light peeking through the gaps of the shelved books. “Here,” she said, pointing to a small numeral scrawled on the page. “This three should not be here.”

  Edward tried to focus on the misplaced numeral. He honestly tried. But the light scent of honeysuckle combined with the flutter of a pulse on Miss Farrington’s exposed and cream-colored neck had him otherwise engaged.

  “Your Grace?”

  “Yes,” he replied, clearing his throat and redirecting his attentions to her tapping finger.

  “This” —she pointed to another three— “is also misplaced. One subtracted from five is four, and not the three this ledger displays.”

  “Rightly so, Miss Farrington.” He did not doubt her arithmetic. “It appears to be a simple error.”

  She scrunched her pert little nose. “And I’m sure it is meant to appear that way. But it isn’t an accident. The same err
or repeats itself in a consistent pattern. See here.” She turned the page, her arm brushing against his. “The calculation is wrong again here, with a three misplacing a four.”

  God, she was close. He could see the light dusting of freckles across her nose, and the fringed shadow cast by her thick dark lashes. If he just leaned over, his lips would be upon hers…

  “Your Grace!” She hissed. “Do you not recognize this hand?” She lifted the book so he could take a closer glance.

  Pulling himself away from her inviting silhouette, he peered down at the untidy sums. It was just a ledger, similar to all the others he was forced to oversee and approve. And like all the others, he dismissed it with a shrug of his shoulders.

  “I have many men in my employ, Miss Farrington. I cannot identify each of their hands.”

  She stared at him aghast. “I highly recommend that you learn. Especially when they are cheating you out of your own funds. This, Your Grace,” she said, “is the hand of Mr. Burnham. And I can prove it.”

  “Mr. Burnham?”

  Edward pulled the ledger from her grasp and took a second glance at the numbers scrawled across the page. Now that she had pointed them out, he could see that the errors were in the thousands, as in thousands of his pounds. He flipped the book over and studied the spine with the ink-splotched year as its title. He ran his fingers over the dusted pages, his stomach turning over at the severity of Miss Farrington’s accusation.

  “This year’s ledger for foreign investments,” he muttered in explanation. “I wonder…” He pulled 1817 from the shelf and handed it to her. “I do not see numbers in the same way as you. I wonder if those same errors fill these pages as well.”

  “You trust my arithmetic?” she asked, her eyes filled with surprise.

  “I have no reason to doubt you, Miss Farrington. It was you who brought this to my attention, and as you have proven yourself on an earlier occasion to have superior ciphering skills, I trust you implicitly.”

  She blinked, her eyes fluttering open and closed at his compliment. “I…I…well, let me see.” She flipped open the ledger and glanced at the pages, her finger running down the columns of last year’s East India tea imports.

  “I’m afraid so,” she whispered, her head shaking from side to side. “The same calculations start at the beginning of the year.”

  He retrieved the volume and placed it back on the shelf. He turned, his eyes focused on hers. “Tomorrow, I want, or rather, I would ask if you might go through the last seven volumes and calculate exactly how much money you believe was taken. I would like to know the full amount as soon as possible.” His gaze held hers. “I would be most grateful.”

  Miss Farrington nodded, her eyes glancing back to the shelf. “But what about the eighth volume, Your Grace?”

  Edward snatched the ledger reading 1810 from the shelf and tucked it under his arm. “This one is mine. Tomorrow, Miss Farrington. Please bring me the totals at your earliest convenience.”

  Chapter Eight

  Daphne was not amused.

  Nor was she very awake, given the number of hours she had spent pouring over the duke’s ledgers, running numbers, and calculating the gross total of his loss to the last half-pence. Daylight had begun to peek through her windows by the time she had completed her calculations. And just when she had thought to slip under the covers for a brief nod, her maid had come to dress her for the morning.

  A morning she had spent traipsing across the estate in search of a duke, who, despite his request for her to see him at her earliest convenience, was nowhere to be found. That was, until she searched the one place he had spoken of with interest at last evening’s meal.

  So it was with neither smile nor patience that she now stood on the edge of the lake, toes tapping against the rocks, waiting as the elusive duke tied up his boat and handed his fishing supplies to the servant boy assisting him.

  The duke’s boots crunched over the gravel shore as he came to stand beside her. “I can only assume your findings were quite substantial, given your presence this early in the morning, Miss Farrington.”

  Daphne shoved a loose tendril of hair back into her bonnet. “I fear I do not have good news.”

  The duke gave a grim nod as he joined her. “Regardless of whether it is good or bad, I wish to hear it. If Mr. Burnham has been stealing, I would like to know exactly how much damage he has inflicted on the estate.”

  Daphne started toward the path and sighed. She hated being the bearer of bad news. No one deserved to be betrayed, especially by someone he obviously trusted. But how did one convey that a presumably loyal employee was nothing more than a thief? And a thief of quite a substantial sum at that?

  “Miss Farrington?” he asked, keeping an easy pace beside her. “I assure you I can handle any ill tidings you bear.”

  It was best not to prolong the inevitable. He had, after all, requested her assistance. This was a business transaction, nothing more.

  Why, then, did she feel such an overwhelming urge to protect him from the poor news she carried?

  Daphne took a deep steadying breath. “Very well. If my calculations are correct, and I have no reason to doubt that they are, Mr. Burnham has been skimming off approximately two thousand pounds a year.”

  An absurd amount of money. Two thousand pounds. More than adequate to support a large family comfortably for a year. With servants. And a carriage.

  Which, given some thought, seemed curious. When she had last seen Burnham, his coat had been worn and tattered, his office dank and dilapidated. Nothing about the man or his surroundings bespoke wealth. But then, perhaps he had sported the coat to ward off suspicion that he was a man who could afford, thanks to his cleverly hidden deductions, something much more refined.

  The duke’s brows rose. “Quite a substantial amount indeed.”

  Daphne’s slippers tapped over the paved stone path. “The sum becomes even more impressive when you multiply it by the number of years he has been helping himself to your coffers. I had seven ledgers, Your Grace.”

  “It seems Mr. Burnham has gathered quite a fortune for himself.”

  Daphne glanced at the duke. There was no droop in his lips or hunch to his shoulders. The man appeared physically unaffected by the loss of fourteen thousand pounds…but then he was a duke. A man who, from what she had seen in his account books, earned on average thirty thousand a year on foreign investments alone. Heaven only knew what he brought in from his land and tenants. Fourteen thousand was probably of little consequence to the man. Pin money for a duke.

  Daphne pulled her eyes away and focused them once again on the path leading up to the house. “One wonders what Burnham hopes to do with such a large amount. He has been amassing a fortune over an extensive period of time. Does he wish to invest in the same markets as you? Or is he hoping to purchase something—his own land, perhaps?”

  The duke’s expression darkened. “While all those questions are worthy of attention, at present, I am more concerned with Burnham’s crimes than with his future intentions. I assume you have written down the calculations that will prove all this?”

  “Yes, of course. Though…” Daphne hesitated. Where only seconds before the duke had appeared his usual regal self, his mouth was now drawn, his eyes refusing to meet hers. His usual aristocratic posture gave him an authoritative, if not commanding, air and witnessing him as anything less than a confident duke was disconcerting.

  She had an overwhelming yearning to reach out and comfort him. To trace her finger along his jaw and erase the tension caused by her own findings. To wrap her arms around his broad shoulders and comfort him for Burnham’s betrayal…

  “Yes, Miss Farrington,” he asked, quelling her thoughts. “What is it?”

  Other than the fact that she had gone momentarily mad? The duke was English. He was…well, he was…handsome. Endearing. And exceedingly distracting. And she needed to return to the house and away from him forthwith.

  Daphne tugged on the loose ribbo
n of her bonnet. “My calculations are only complete through the seven ledgers you gave me. In order to present a thorough finding, I would need to see the book you withheld in the library.”

  The duke’s jaw hardened. “That isn’t necessary. Seven ledgers are more than enough to present our case and to ensure Burnham will never keep another gentleman’s accounts.”

  “Are you certain? It won’t take me long to go through its pages. An hour or two should be sufficient.”

  “No.” His voice was firm and unyielding.

  But why? He had readily handed over the other ledgers…why deny her the last? Was Burnham not involved in the accounting? Or was there something he wished to hide?

  “But I don’t understand, Your Grace. I can—”

  He spun her by the shoulders so that she faced him, his firm hands planting her in front of his towering form. “I trust that you can do anything when you put your exceptionally clever mind to the task, Miss Farrington. I do not question your abilities. In fact, I envy them. You are an extremely intelligent woman. But I do not require your talents on the last ledger. Its contents are…” He paused and cast his eyes to the ground before returning them to hers. “They are not relevant to the proceedings.”

  Daphne stared up at the duke, her heart pounding against its rib cage, her body rigid for fear that if she moved, he might retract the compliments he had so readily given. She could not recall any man calling her clever, and if one had, it had not been said in an admiring light. But the duke valued her intelligence? Envied her mathematical abilities? Such statements were nothing short of extraordinary.

  “You think me clever, Your Grace?”

  His face softened and a small smile teased at his lips. “Very much so, Miss Farrington.” He lifted a hand to one of the errant curls that had yet again fallen from the confines of her bonnet. Her breath caught as he twirled the lock of hair around his forefinger, the slight flick of his wrist teasing her like a slow waltz. “I’ve never met anyone with such a talent for numbers as you possess. I find your intelligence to be” —he slid his finger from the strand he had twisted— “inspiring.”