And yet… it was the principle of the thing. Stealing at any time was awful, a betrayal of trust. But to do so in the aftermath of the fire, when the house had been in the process of beingrebuilt and the estate had been hemorrhaging money in order to make that happen—that was downright diabolical.
Christiana returned to the little parlor she had commandeered as her private study and rang the bell. A few moments later—perhaps fractionally longer than should have been expected—Mrs. Partridge entered the room. She inclined her head in a parody of respect. “You rang, Your Grace?”
At least, the modiste having made up and delivered clothes, Christiana looked the part of a duchess. “I did,” she said, keeping her voice friendly. “I’m trying to get my head around the household accounts.”
Mrs. Partridge stiffened. The movement was slight, but Christiana had been watching for a reaction. The flicker of the housekeeper’s eyes toward the door, the way her hands tensed fractionally before her.
It seemed Mrs. Partridge, at least, was guilty of something.
“I’ve noticed a large budget for wine and candles,” Christiana continued. “Please explain this to me. I understand His Grace rarely”—never—“entertains.”
Mrs. Partridge blinked rapidly. “Mr. Penwick is in charge of the wine, ma’am.”
Oh, was he now? Mrs. Partridge had no sense of loyalty, it seemed. “I see.” Christiana tapped a finger against the desk. “I will address that with him, then. And the candles?”
At this, Mrs. Partridge’s smile returned, a trifle scornful. “This is a large house, Your Grace, and it requires a great deal of candles to keep it illuminated. Perhaps you do not have ample experience running such an elegant household.”
Christiana would not lose her temper. She wouldnot. But she was goaded into smiling. “Quite right,” she said pleasantly. “I am not. Which is why I calculated the number of rooms—lived in, you understand—and the number of hours per day for which each might be illuminated. I assumed, for the purpose ofthe exercise, that His Grace and Lady Amelia were in separate rooms every evening, and I took into account the additional hours of darkness over winter, and the subsequent fewer hours of darkness over summer. You may see my workings here.” She slid paper covered in calculations across the desk, but Mrs. Partridge barely glanced at it. “In the interest of preserving the grandeur and elegance of the house, I erred greatly on the side of generosity, and yet the number falls short of the total amount you have ordered over the past few years. Can you show me where all the additional candles are stored?”
Mrs. Partridge’s expression soured. “They are in the lamp room upstairs, ma’am.”
“I was there earlier and found only enough candles to sustain five rooms a night at full brightness until the next delivery is scheduled.”
“Then I couldn’t tell you, ma’am.”
“I see.” Christiana folded her hands in her lap. “Then perhaps you can explain the coal.”
“The coal?”
“According to the accounts, we are using a great deal of coal per year, and I was wondering how we might economize. Or, perhaps, there has been a mistake in the accounts?”
Mrs. Partridge’s back turned rigid. “What are you accusing me of, Your Grace?”
“It would be a shame if I were to discover that the bookkeeping here at Somerset Hall had been deliberately fumbled, Mrs. Partridge, particularly when His Grace himself relies on you and Penwick to run things smoothly.” Christiana began to rise. “I do not tolerate thieves.”
The woman gave an outraged squawk. “How dare you?”
“Quite easily, I assure you. You may leave me now. And, if you please, send Penwick to me.”
Mrs. Partridge scowled and whisked away with a rattle of keys. Well, this explained her hostility. Christiana was not merely an unwelcome new mistress; she was a threat to their plot.
What she needed now was evidence beyond all doubt. After all, the bookkeeping here did leave a lot to be desired; there was no cash book recording the sums received or paid on a weekly basis. All she had were the quarterly accounts, which made the day-to-day workings of the house far more difficult to untangle. Hugh, loyal to his servants, would be more likely to assume an error in the numbers rather than a deliberate ploy to separate him from a portion of his wealth.
If there was proof out there, Christiana would find it. As this house’s mistress, it was her responsibility to protect it, and she had every intention of doing so, even if that meant dismissing the culprits.
Chapter Sixteen
Penwick placed thedecanter of brandy on Hugh’s desk, adjusting it several times so it sat perfectly centered. Then, with insufferably precise movements, he removed the glass stopper and turned to give Hugh a bow.
Hugh, who had become familiar with his butler’s oddities over the years, merely sighed. “Did you have something to say, Penwick?”
If possible, the stern man’s face tightened still more. “I would not wish to disturb you, Your Grace.”
“You have already disturbed me.” He waved a gloved hand. “Go on.”
“Well, you see, sir, it’s about Her Grace.”
The one advantage of the burns on Hugh’s face was that he did not have the full range of expression; he did not let his resignation or irritation slip. “How so?”