“I may be young,” she said, “but I read every book in your library about commerce and trade. I saw the ledgers in your study. You are not managing poorly, Lucienne. You are managing carefully. There is a difference.”
He stared at her for a long moment. Then he laughed—a real laugh, rusty and unfamiliar, as if his throat had forgotten the shape of it.
“Four hundred seventy-three thousand dollars,” she repeated. “Show me the ledgers. Let me help.”
—
That night, she knocked on his door carrying a stack of leather-bound books and a pot of coffee. He opened it without hesitation.
They worked until three in the morning, seated across from each other at his desk, numbers swimming across pages. Clarara proved faster at calculations than he expected. She caught errors in the grain accounts, spotted a discrepancy in the timber sales dating back four years.
“Three thousand eight hundred dollars unaccounted for,” she said, tapping the page.
The Duke leaned over. “Impossible.”
“Possible. Look.” She showed him the pattern—small amounts, easy to miss, siphoned off over time. “Someone in your household has been stealing from you.”
His expression darkened. “Mrs. Winter has been with me for twenty years.”
“Then it isn’t Mrs. Winter. But someone with access to these records.”
They sat in silence as the coffee grew cold. Then the Duke said, “You are not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“Someone who would weep and demand to be sent home.”
“I did weep,” she admitted. “On our wedding night. I wept because I thought you had bought me.”
“And now?”
She held up the silver key, which she had brought with her without thinking. “Now I think you gave me something I never had before. A door I could close.”
He reached across the desk and touched the key. “And have you closed it?”
“No,” she said softly. “I have not.”
—
The investigation took two weeks. The Duke handled it quietly, reviewing every household record himself while Clarara pretended to take tea and read novels. She watched the servants with new eyes, noting who seemed nervous, who avoided her gaze, who lingered near the study when they had no reason to be there.
It was the footman—a young man named Thomas who had been with the household for five years. He was caught with three thousand eight hundred dollars hidden in his quarters, along with a letter from a woman in the village who had been pressuring him for marriage.
“I was going to pay it back,” Thomas said, pale and shaking. “I just needed a little more time.”
The Duke stood in the doorway of the footman’s small room, his face unreadable. “Five years. I gave you a home, wages, a future.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“And you stole from me.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Clarara watched from the hallway. She saw something in the Duke’s expression that surprised her—not rage, but sadness.
“Pack your things,” the Duke said quietly. “You will leave tonight. I will not press charges, but you will never work in this county again. If I see your face at Aldderon after sunset, I will call the sheriff.”
Thomas nodded, tears streaming down his face. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Don’t thank me. I am not being kind. I am being tired.”
