Jack sat back in the lavish leather chair that graced the earl’s library—his library—and stared at Clarence Fuddleston for a long moment before trusting himself to speak. “Are you telling me that money has been disappearing from my grandfather’s coffers for two years? How was this never noticed?”
Fuddleston shook his head and removed his spectacles, polishing them with a handkerchief before perching them back on his nose. “Blackington handled the books for your grandfather’s estate for fifty years before he died two years ago. Stallings has maintained them since, and, after this discovery, I believe we should review everything with a fine-tooth comb. Had you not asked me about recent horse purchases, we might never have known.”
“Am I to assume, then, that the stable master and the accountant have been working together to rob the estate?” Jack envisioned tying both men to the mast and extracting his pound of flesh with a whip.
Fuddleston met Jack’s gaze with frank regard, his eyes blinking owlishly from behind his round spectacles. “It would appear so, my lord. I’m afraid your grandfather never asked me to look into the finances—and I’ll admit, I never thought there would be cause to do so.”
Jack had spent the bulk of his adult life in close association with other men and had developed a keen ability to read their intentions. He studied the little man quietly for a moment, noting that Fuddleston did not fidget under his scrutiny. “I should like you to assume the position, Fuddleston, if you’ve an interest in it.”
Fuddleston blinked. “The position, sir?”
“Of stable master.”
Fuddleston’s mouth hung slack, and Jack found he couldn’t maintain a stern expression. He smiled. “I jest, good man. I extend the position of accountant, solicitor, and my personal man of affairs. I need someone I can trust, as I am swimming about in a sea of confusion most of my time here in London.”
Fuddleston closed his mouth, brows raised high. After a moment or two of silence, he nodded once, definitively. “I accept, my lord. Most gratefully.”
“You will take a day or so to alert your other clients, I would assume? I’ll pay you handsomely to work exclusively for this estate. Provided there’s any money left after those scurvy rats leave.”
Fuddleston’s lips twitched. “As far as I can discern, the missing amounts are minimal.”
“But then, I suppose it is the principal of the thing, is it not?”
“Most definitely, my lord. Their actions are reprehensible.” Jack’s new accountant nodded and lifted his chin a notch. Of one thing Jack was certain: Clarence Fuddleston might be an odd duck, but he would be a man of integrity to the day he died.
After excusing himself, Jack made his way through the town house and out to the mews with a mind bent on murder. By the time he found the object of his quest, he was near to boiling over. The stable master watched him approach with something resembling a sneer, which he smoothed over with what seemed considerable effort.
“Griffin,” Jack said, his voice deadly calm, “you’re fired.” If he hadn’t been so angry, he might have found humor in the man’s stunned expression.
Griffin opened his mouth and closed it a few times before finally sputtering, “I know the stable, m’lord, and it’d be a mistake ye’re makin’ to let me go.”
Jack studied the man for a long moment, long enough that Griffin finally shifted under his scrutiny. “I have proof positive, Mr. Griffin, that you have been stealing from this estate. Given that, coupled with the fact that you abuse the horses, I see absolutely no reason not to dismiss you. You’re fortunate I’m not having you thrown into prison, which I’m still of a mind to do if you don’t vacate immediately and never return.”
Griffin’s nostrils flared, although his expression had paled considerably. “Ye don’t belong here,” he finally exploded. “Ye’re the laughingstock of the whole town.”
“And you would know this because you move in such illustrious circles, I presume.” Jack drew upon the few memories he had of his father and tried to channel his stature and confidence. It helped alleviate some of the insecurity he felt at Griffin’s insult. It didn’t help matters much that Griffin probably had heard such things—gossip amongst servants always flowed in a steady stream. Even Jack knew that much.
Griffin glared at Jack before turning and making his way to the back room. Jack watched as the door slammed shut and wondered if the man would be foolish enough to cause problems. A sound just behind him interrupted his musings, and he turned to see Pug standing there, his features tense.
“Is it true, then?” Pug asked. “Griffin is leaving?”
Jack frowned and turned his full attention to the boy. “He is,” Jack told him. “What of it, Pug?”
Pug shrugged, and Jack recognized the attempt to feign nonchalance. “No reason.”
“Has there been a problem?” Jack asked.
“No.” Pug looked at a spot just beyond Jack’s shoulder and shrugged again. His refusal to meet Jack’s eyes had always been a telling response.
Jack inched closer and placed a hand on Pug’s shoulder, determined to hide his rising anxiety from the boy. “What has he done to you?”
Pug shook his head. “Nothin’. Just smacked me around some.”
Jack’s anger surged and he tamped it back down. “Are you certain that was all?” Jack had made a point of drilling into his sailors the fact that Pug was not to be molested in any way. Young, defenseless boys were often a target of the depraved. That the boy might have to fear the same thing in his new life did not sit well with Jack.
Pug nodded and finally looked up at Jack. “Truly. That’s all.”
Jack squeezed the boy’s shoulder a bit. “He’s leaving, at any rate. And you’ll tell me if you encounter issues with anyone else.” He smiled, trying to lighten the mood. “Nobody is allowed to ‘smack you around’ but me. Is that understood?”
Pug grinned and ducked his head. “Yes, sir.”
Jack heard the back door open again and turned as Griffin stormed his way out of the stables, casting a dark glance at both Jack and Pug as he left. Pug inched closer and Jack put an arm about his shoulders.
“That’s the last of him.” Jack gave the boy one final pat. “You go on into the house and eat your lunch. Then I’ll be needing you to straighten my cravats, or do whatever it is that valets do.”
Pug grinned again and saluted before running off. Jack watched the empty space for a moment before drawing his brows together in thought. He couldn’t very well be with the boy every minute of the day, but he didn’t like the fact that Pug had experienced trouble and Jack had been none the wiser. Pug wasn’t a sheltered lad—he’d spent a good portion of his young life aboard ship with some of the roughest men life had to offer. For him to have been afraid of Griffin spoke volumes.
Jack made his way back to the office to draft an official letter of dismissal for the accountant and decided that after firing his second employee of the day, he would stop by Anthony Blake’s residence to see if his new friend could recommend a good stable master.
Ivy sat with her parents in the family dining room and spooned some fruit into her mouth, chewing carefully and trying to act as though they weren’t staring at her.
“You want to fund a what?” her mother said, quiet.
Ivy fought a wince; when her mother was displeased, she was quiet.
“A reformation home for wayward girls,” Ivy said, her tone light. “A training program for housemaids.”
Ivy’s father regarded her with brows raised but remained silent.
“Ivy, that is quite possibly the most ridiculous bit of nonsense you’ve concocted to date,” her mother said, turning her attention to her food.
Ivy felt her face heat. “It is a most worthy cause.”
“And you would then peddle these girls out to our friends? Suppose one of them robs the house or assaults a family member?”
Ivy couldn’t imagine for the life of her why a young girl seeking employment as a housemaid
would assault a family member, but she bit back a retort. It wouldn’t do to be sassy with her mother. For one, it was improper. For two, Mama had a way of making things difficult.
“With training, such things should not occur,” Ivy said. “It is an excellent solution to one of London’s most plaguing problems.”
“And it is not for us to dirty our hands with,” her mother said. “We will not throw money at a scandalous project doomed to fail.”
Ivy took a breath and briefly closed her eyes. “I do not believe it is doomed to failure. And your friends would be most impressed at your charity.”
“We will speak no more of it.”
And with that, the subject was closed.
Ivy finished the rest of the meal in silence, her frustration reaching new heights with each tick of the large clock in the hallway. Her eyes burned with tears she knew she could not allow escape, and she kept them open wide as she stared at her plate, willing the moisture to recede. Against her will, one tear escaped and trailed down her cheek, and she fought back a sniffle. It had always been her curse; Ivy’s emotional outlet was tears—tears of anger, joy, sadness—and that was extremely inconvenient when living with a woman who preferred to show no emotion at all.
“Pull yourself together, Ivy,” her mother said as she signaled for the footman to clear her dishes. “Frankly, I’m surprised at you. I cannot imagine what has gotten into your head—you know very well that what you do now will affect the success of your Season. You do not have the luxury of playing do-gooder to a band of unfortunates.”
“Caroline made certain of that, didn’t she?” Ivy said and very nearly clapped her hand over her mouth.
Her mother’s lips tightened, and Ivy’s father sat, as always, silent. “We will not speak of it,” her mother said in icy tones that brooked no argument.
“I should like to be excused,” Ivy murmured, not meeting her mother’s eyes for fear that her own would give away her anger.
Her father nodded his assent, and Ivy left the dining room. She dashed upstairs to her bedroom, grabbed her writing portfolio and reticule, and hurried back down the stairs to the front door, where she gave instructions for a carriage to be brought around. After telling the driver to take her to her grandmother’s house, she sat back into the carriage and allowed her tears free reign, hoping she would be able to disguise all evidence of them by the time she reached Nana’s.
It was not to be. Although she did a fair job of mopping her face up with a lacy handkerchief, the moment she saw her grandmother in the sitting room, she dissolved into tears all over again. It took several fits and starts, but she eventually poured her heart out onto her grandmother’s shoulder as the older woman held her close and patted her back.
“I’m tired of paying for Caroline’s mistakes,” she cried. “And we don’t even know where she is! My parents do not care one whit for her welfare, and I just realized today, we have no earthly idea where she is. Our own flesh and blood!”
“Caroline is well enough,” Nana said, and Ivy lifted her head to look at her.
“Do you know for certain?”
“Of course. I know exactly where she is. Did you think I would leave her to the wolves? I daresay it might be just a matter of time before the ne’er-do-well abandons her, but she is physically safe, at least.”
Ivy’s tears flowed again. “You see? You’ve taken the time to see that she’s well. My own parents could not care less about her. And she may well end up like Gilly and the others—they need help immediately, and my parents refuse to offer it!”
“Gilly?” Olivia’s brows drew together.
Ivy told her about the visit she’d made with Sophia and of Sophia’s intentions to create a training school and home for young women who had fallen upon hard times. “And my mother refuses to lend a shilling to the cause,” she finished and pounded a fist against her thigh. “She is more concerned with keeping up appearances than with doing good for those who are forced to do unspeakable things just to eat!”
Nana cupped the side of Ivy’s face with her hand and smiled. “And there is my Ivy,” she said and rubbed her thumb along Ivy’s cheek. “The spirited little one I used to know.”
“Does me absolutely no good,” Ivy grumbled and wiped again at her eyes.
Nana produced a handkerchief, and Ivy attempted to dry her tears for the second time. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Nana said with a chuckle. “A determined force can change the world.”
“If the force’s mother approves.” Ivy rolled her eyes, feeling very much like a pouty child.
Nana sobered and held Ivy’s face in her hands. “I will help fund the project.”
“Really?” Drat, the tears reappeared with a vengeance.
“Truly.” Nana nodded and gave Ivy a gentle smile.
“I don’t know that we will need it,” Ivy admitted, “as Sophia will propose it to Jack, and I daresay he has enough capital for a hundred such endeavors, but I should very much like to be a part of it. I want to do something . . . amazing. To make a difference. Not just handing out advice on proper behavior.”
Nana clasped Ivy’s hands in her own and gave them a squeeze. “Nothing you have done to date has been a waste,” she said. “The skills you possess will be more useful now than ever. If we want these young women to succeed, they will need to learn everything you have to teach them.”
Ivy nodded and tried to stop sniffling. It was most unbecoming. “I do believe I am gaining more from this experience with the Elliots than they are.”
Nana kissed Ivy’s cheek and gave her hands a final squeeze before standing. “I daresay it is entirely mutual.” Something in the woman’s eyes gave Ivy pause.
“You are plotting something nefarious, Nana.”
“I would never. Come, now, and let us pay a visit to Mary Elliot. I must speak with her regarding an art showing.”
“You have that look about you,” Ivy said as she stood and smoothed her dress. Wiping her eyes a final time with the handkerchief, she glanced at her grandmother, who was the very picture of innocence.
“I’ve no idea what you mean.”
“It is the same look you wore for a week before you tricked me into writing a column for pay.”
“And that has been very good for you,” Nana said with a wink. “I don’t regret it for a moment.”
Chapter 17
If a friend should fall ill, sometimes the best
course of action is to simply offer support.
Mistress Manners’ Tips for Every-day Etiquette
A week had passed since Jack had relieved Griffin, the stable
master, and Stallings, the accountant, of their duties, and life seemed to be running relatively smoothly. Pug and Millie, the irreverent maid, formed an odd friendship, and Jack was glad for it. The girl had taken on an elder-sister role with the boy, and although he pretended irritation, Pug lit up when he saw her. Jack had arranged for a tutor to work with the boy four days a week. Pug was less than thrilled with the new routine, but he laughed when Jack threatened to throw him overboard if he try to skip his lessons.
As for Jack’s part, he was a bit more at ease with the nearly constant presence of Clarence Fuddleston, who was, oddly enough, a calming influence on his nerves. Just when he thought he might have a decent handle on the ridiculous earl business, something would inevitably surface to throw him again into the dark. One thing was becoming clear—if an earl wanted to take a hand in day-to-day matters rather than merely turn things over to the solicitor or accountant, there was certainly enough to keep him busy.
When Jack and Fuddleston had reviewed the books, they had uncovered enough discrepancies to necessitate Stalling’s arrest; the bulk of the stolen funds were nonrecoverable, but thankfully he had been altering the ledgers in small enough amounts that the estate was not bankrupt. Far from it, in fact. Jack had been forced, more than once, to consciously close his dropped-open mouth as he reviewed his assets with Fuddleston, who handled the whole of it withou
t batting an eye. Of course the little man would be used to staring at such huge amounts; he had worked for the upper classes his entire adult life. Jack had the satisfaction, only once, of catching Clarence off guard—when he proposed a salary that was clearly above and beyond anything the man was expecting.
Reflecting on the rapid changes his life had taken, Jack relaxed one evening in the dressing room that adjoined his bedroom and propped his feet on a footstool next to the fireplace. It was warm and comfortable; he had just finished a good meal after spending the day on the back of a horse, which would most certainly have him sore by morning. He had ridden a few times in his life, enough to have a rudimentary feel for it, but the lessons Lady Ivy was insisting upon were more grueling than he would ever have anticipated. She maintained that when hunting season rolled around and he was at the country estate with his family, it would be quite the thing to invite at least a dozen of their closest friends—of which they currently had none, he had pointed out—to spend a fortnight enjoying games, food, and the traditional fox hunt. He would be ill equipped as the lord of the manor if he could not ride well, and how would his mother and Sophia fare in Society if he so clearly lacked the necessary social graces?
Jack closed his eyes, a half-drunk glass of port in his hand, and reflected on Lady Ivy’s activities of the past week. She had been a flurry of energy, inviting Mary and Sophia to his home so that they might all review peerage, which had bored Jack nearly to tears. She had invited them daily to tea and had accepted their invitations on Jack’s behalf to join them for tea at their house. She instructed him continually on his table manners, watching him like a hawk so that he was very nearly ready to stop eating in her presence altogether, but he felt absurdly pleased when he did something that met her satisfaction and she gave a slight nod of approval.
She had an intensity of late that he sensed stemmed from her burgeoning project with Sophia as they developed plans for their boarding school for young women who needed a boost. When Sophia had first approached him with the idea, he had not been at all surprised that his sister would want to pursue such an endeavor. When she had told him that Lady Ivy was to be her partner, however, he had been stunned. The more he observed her, though, the more he realized she was certainly equal to the task. If he weren’t careful, he might start to admire Lady Ivy much more than was wise.
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