Page 5 of The Forger and the Duke
“I beg your pardon,” Mal said, “but this is the first I’ve presented myself to claim it.”
“Nevertheless, the entries indicate the monies have been collected.”
The clerk conducted Mal into a richly paneled room with plush carpet and a fragrant oil lamp lit in one corner against the dull grey London afternoon. Bronze fixtures gleamed with polish. The head of the bank, Thomas Coutts himself, sat behind a large oak desk. He was a neat and unpretentious man, known to be efficient and discreet. He was also known, quite surprisingly, to have married a girl who had been nursemaid in his brother’s household, and the union was by all accounts a happy one.
Not all women who married far above their station came to ruin and early death, as Mal’s mother had. Mal stowed the old bitterness in the back of his mind, where it belonged, and sank into the chair Coutts indicated. His heart sank accordingly at the banker’s expression as he opened a leather-bound account book.
“All of it,” Mal said with disbelief after the banker had finished. “Every bit of income for the quarter. Sybil’s allowance. Mine. The household expenses for Hunsdon House. All withdrawn?”
“All of it,” Coutts confirmed with a solemn nod. “The income from the estates, from the annuities, and from the investments.” He offered a pained smile at Mal’s shocked expression. “I assure you that the transaction seemed legitimate at the time. We hadno reason to suspect that the duke’s steward, Mr. Popplewell, was making these withdrawals without authorization.”
Without Mal’s authorization, certainly, and furthermore without his consent. But he wasn’t the legal guardian yet. The bank had no reason to alert Mal to Popplewell’s doings, and Mal had no recourse to stop him. Coutts’s sympathetic expression told Mal that this wasn’t the first time he’d seen a land steward of a wealthy estate empty all the accounts and abscond with the funds.
More than that, who was it all for? Popplewell must have known he couldn’t get away with looting the inheritance of such a personage as the Duke of Hunsdon, especially since the duke was still a youth, with the fight over his wardship making its slow and expensive way through the courts.
“Whose is the second signature?” Mal asked. “By terms of the trust, no one person is allowed to draw on any significant sums. It was set up so the estate could not be robbed.”
Coutts flinched at the word ‘robbed’ and peered into his book. Mal guessed what he would hear even before the banker spoke.
“The duchess co-signed on the withdrawals. Lady Hunsdon.”
“Sybil,” Mal hissed. He rose swiftly.
“Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Coutts. I am sure Mr. Popplewell and the duchess will be able to account for this irregularity. No doubt they mean to tell me they have transferred the Hunsdon funds into some clever and lucrative investment.”
“No doubt,” Coutts said blandly, rising also. “I am sure it is as you say.”
Mal paused, gritting his teeth. It went against the grain to ask for help. He would rather be dragged by wild horses than admit he’d been made a fool.
“I am sure, Mr. Coutts, that I can rely on the discretion of your bank and your employees to ensure that no furtherwithdrawals are made on any of the duke’s accounts for the duration.” He hoped he had the authority to make such a demand. Coutts knew his guardianship was not yet official, though Mal meant to do everything in his power to make it so, especially now.
“It is an honor to handle accounts for the Duke of Hunsdon, Mr. Grey,” the other man said. “You may trust that you are in good hands.”
Mal stalked out of the bank, seething. Popplewell would not be in good hands, and neither would Sybil, once Mal found them. Just what were they plotting between them? Popplewell was a shifty sort, the previous duke’s man of business, with neither the wit nor the connections to make much of himself. What sort of hold did he have over the duchess to make her concede to his schemes?
Mal headed directly for Hunsdon House, located in a fashionable West End square where the first Duke of Hunsdon, a crony of George I, had claimed a strip of land. Rather than hire a chair, Mal decided his wrath was better served by walking, and it was testament to his glowering expression that, despite the attire marking him as a man of relative means, he was accosted by neither cutpurse nor streetwalker, nor anyone else, as he traversed Haymarket, Piccadilly, Lesser and then Greater Swallow Street into the Palladian environs of Hanover Square.
The knocker was off the door, indicating that Hunsdon House was not receiving callers. Odd; Sybil thrived on social intercourse. She was the kind of woman who couldn’t tolerate a moment alone with her own thoughts. Mal rapped on the stout oak portal with his walking stick. No answer. No porter, butler, or underbutler to take his card. No footman who ought to have leapt into the breach if any of the above were neglecting their posts.
Mal inserted his key and pushed open the heavy door. The house was untidy and bare of occupants. There was no swish of skirts as parlormaids hurried around the lower level or chambermaids saw to the rooms above. No tweenie whisking herself out of sight. No distant bustle from the kitchens or the offices on the ground floors, where one would expect tradesmen to be moving to and fro.
No visitors. No guests.
In the duchess’s suite, the dressing room stood bare. One wardrobe bulged with last year’s gowns and their accoutrements. The other two wardrobes had been picked clean. The duchess’s hats were missing. Her shoes were missing. Her jewels were gone.
Mal returned to the front rooms, searching for the back stairs to the nursery and the children’s rooms above. Several of the tables in the foyer lacked their usual ornaments. Certain valuable items which had been the source of much pride to previous dukes had vacated their customary places in the formal drawing rooms.
The sense of any human habitation in the house was missing.
It dawned on him with a slow, awful realization, like the cold flood of a rising tide. The children were missing, too.
CHAPTER THREE
The house was quiet, just the way Amaranthe liked it.
In the five years since her brother had graduated Oxford and they’d moved to London, Amaranthe had become inured to the near-constant noise: the clattering of carriages and passing pedestrians, the hawking of street vendors, the cries of the street sweeps and errand boys, the endless traffic and daily commerce of a sprawling, burgeoning, restless city. But part of her missed the deep, endless quiet of the country, and she preferred calm while she worked.
Voices drifted up to her parlor from the floor below, the steady thump of Mrs. Blackthorn at work in the kitchen, Eyde’s low murmur as she chatted with the cook, and the small, piping voice of Derwa, Edye’s daughter, as she ran back and forth on her errands. Amaranthe liked the soothing reminder that there was someone else in the house, so long as the voices weren’t clear enough to interrupt her concentration, since after all it was her labors that supported the household.
