Page 23 of The Scandalous Love of a Duke
The flagstone-floored hall was busy with numerous maids and footmen scurrying through it as they went about their duties. One of the young maids jumped when she saw him and dropped an armful of linen. When she bent to pick it up others began noticing his presence. It swept along the hall like a wave as they dropped into curtsies or bowed. He was invading their territory and making them feel uncomfortable – appearing the arrogant Duke.
Well, he had not been arrogant abroad, he had laboured with his men in Egypt and he would go wherever he wished in his own home.
‘Your Grace?’ Finch appeared from a doorway a little ahead of John and bowed.
‘Is Wareham somewhere, Finch?’ John heard the maids and footmen shifting back into movement behind him.
‘He is in his rooms, I believe, Your Grace.’
‘Then send for him. Have him come to his office. I shall wait there.’
‘Your Grace.’ Finch bowed again then disappeared.
The estate manager’s office was at the end of the hall, away from the main thoroughfare.
The door was shut and when John tried the handle, he discovered it locked.
‘Does someone have the key?’ he asked, looking back along the busy hall.
One of the footmen stopped and bowed. ‘Mr Wareham keeps it on his person, Your Grace, but there is a copy of every key in Mrs East’s office. Shall I fetch it?’
‘Please do.’
The young footman bowed and rushed off to the housekeeper’s room. A moment later he was running back with the key.
John took it, and thanked him, remembering that his grandfather had never said thank you to a soul. John felt the tug of war inside him pull. This was an instant of the old John, his mother’s child, but these instants were getting rarer. Kate was right, he had changed, and he would likely change even more.
When John unlocked the door he felt a cold shiver grip him.
This was another room brim-full of bad memories. The whitewashed walls and flagstone floor made it feel cold despite the sun pouring through the windows on two sides.
Shelves full of ledgers lined the other walls, while the middle of the room was dominated by Wareham’s large oak desk.
John had spent numerous hours sitting at it as a child, learning the art of book-keeping. The old duke had schooled John to manage the estates from the age of thirteen. John had spent hours studying such things, to learn how to achieve profit, when to take risks and when to be prudent. Mr Wareham had explained it all.
He crossed to the shelves and scanned the dates on the spines of the ledgers. Wareham began a new one each year and recorded every expenditure and income for the house and the tenancies in these books.
Finding the book for the current year, John slid it off the shelf and carried it to the desk.
He sat and opened the record book.
Columns of transactions ran down each page, all totalled at the bottom.
If Wareham is fleecing me, he was fleecing the old man.
Wareham had worked here for years; like many of his grandfather’s staff. The old Duke had trusted Wareham implicitly, and people who earned his trust were kept. If Phillip had not mentioned it the other night, John would never have considered doubting Wareham.
John’s index finger followed lines of figures on the first page. There was nothing abnormal listed, no unusual purchases or amounts.
Remembering the date of the loan Phillip had queried, John rose to find last year’s ledger.
He pulled it from the shelf and then, at the desk, began flicking through the pages searching for the date.
There were no unexpected sums. Nothing was recorded which would suggest the reason for giving out a loan.
‘Your Grace?’
John looked up.
