Chapter Nine

T he study door was ajar, so she didn’t feel as though she was snooping. After all, she didn’t want to see all his financial records – just get an idea of the sort of man he was, economically.

If she had learnt anything from the gossip of the wives and widows in London, it was that it was not uncommon for a man to seem like everything was in order but secretly gamble away large sums of money, leaving a title penniless or a widow destitute.

When men knew of her dowry, she was always concerned they were merely interested in her to increase their fortunes or pay off outstanding debts. But she realised that if she were looking to marry a man, she would like to find one who was sensible with his money. He didn’t have to have a great fortune, although she was used to a certain level of luxury. But she hated the thought of a man wasting his money – and hers, once they were married – in gambling hells.

And so, as she wandered the castle that afternoon, wondering how long she ought to keep up the ruse of having no memory, the open study door was far too tempting.

She slipped through the small gap, her slim frame not disturbing the door at all, and quickly checked to make sure the Duke was not somehow within. She was confident she had seen him riding away, his impressive horse taking him speedily across the estate, but it still wouldn’t do to stumble across him unexpectedly.

As expected, the study was empty, and there were several documents on the desk.

She might only have had an education in sewing, dancing, and art, but she had seen plenty of ledgers at Amblewood Castle. Her father employed a man of business to deal with such things, and when Penelope grew tired of her own company, she would sometimes ask him to explain what all the neat rows of numbers were and what they meant.

Because anything that related to her beloved Amblewood was interesting to her – even mathematics.

She was very happy to be a woman; she liked fine dresses, dancing, and painting beautiful scenes. But there were many things about being a man that also appealed to her – the freedom to make choices, to go where one pleased without being questioned, and the ability to inherit.

For she thought that if she could inherit Amblewood after her father was gone and live there for the rest of her days, she would be quite happy to remain a spinster. She did not wish to marry the wrong man, but she wasn’t sure she was bothered about marrying at all – except for the fact that it was rather a necessity for a woman in her situation.

Presuming he would not be back for some time, she took a seat at his desk, the smell of cigar smoke and whiskey permeating the air. Her eyes scanned rows of figures, which seemed to be household expenses. Another page showed the rents from the tenant farmers, and another the Duke’s personal expenses. There seemed to be no sign of gambling debts, at least in his official records, which Penelope was pleased to see. He seemed like an eminently sensible man, if rather gruff, and she was glad to find she had not been entirely wrong in judging his character.

His largest personal expense appeared to be at the modiste, and for a moment, that did surprise her – until she remembered his comments about his sisters. She supposed that exorbitant figure was for his sisters’ dresses and other accoutrements for their time in London.

Well, it seemed he had the money to spend, and she was pleased he was a good brother, even if he seemed to think his sisters were silly. She flipped back to the household expenses, a nagging feeling in the back of her mind that there was something she had missed.

She glanced down at the itemised descriptions and found nothing amiss. All the usual necessities were there: candles, sheets, fabric, salt. And yet the figures attributed to each seemed far larger than she would have expected. She double-checked the dates, wondering if it was for a larger period than she expected – but no, these were the accounts for the previous month.

How odd. She had seen the accounts at Amblewood many times and so knew roughly the costs of running such a castle. Dunloch wasn’t particularly bigger than Amblewood and was, in fact, less inhabited. Could goods really be so much more expensive just over the border in Scotland?

It all seemed rather mysterious, but at least it didn’t reflect badly on the Duke. Another test passed, although this time, he hadn’t even needed to be present.

"You do have a habit of ending up in places you shouldn’t be, don’t you?" the icy voice of the Duke said, making Penelope jump out of her skin. How long had she been staring at the ledger to not have heard him return?

She jumped up, knocking the book onto the floor in her haste. "I am so, so sorry, Your Grace," she stuttered, hastily picking the ledger back up and replacing it on the table. "I was merely exploring the castle and wandered in here, and..."

"Thought you would look through my personal finances," the Duke said, striding towards the desk. "With your propensity to find yourself where you do not belong, I wonder sometimes whether you are a spy – perhaps sent by some British official who does not trust me – and not a lost English girl with no memory of her name or her family."

"I’m not a spy," Penelope insisted quickly, realising she had once again messed up – but this time by making him suspicious of her intentions. She had to admit, it did look rather strange.

"It’s just…" She grasped desperately for an idea to explain the chain of events without him thinking she had some nefarious purpose. "I saw the ledger, and some sort of memory came to mind. I don’t really know why, but I feel like I’ve dealt with ledgers such as these before..."

The Duke scoffed. "I find it unlikely, my lady, that you have been poring over ledgers wherever your life normally is. Women have little knowledge of such matters, you see."

Penelope’s blood began to boil. She knew women generally didn’t manage the finances, but it certainly wasn’t because they were incapable. In fact, she didn’t understand why women were so often overlooked in household management – especially when they were the ones dealing with the items on a day-to-day basis.

"I think you’ll find, Your Grace, that there’s something amiss with your records."

His eyes narrowed. "Is there, indeed?"

Penelope stuck out her chin defiantly. "Yes. The cost of the items bought for the household is massively inflated. Somewhere, someone is making a tidy profit out of you."

He frowned, then strode over to the desk, flipping the ledger open to the correct page and jabbing his finger at it. "Show me."

His brusque attitude made her a little nervous, and she was wary of how much she could say without giving away that she knew exactly who she was and where she’d come from.

"I just... I feel I know the costs of these items for a castle like this," she said with a feeble shrug. "And these are double, if not triple, what I would expect to be spent in a month on things like candles and salt. Who does the ordering, Your Grace?"

He frowned before answering. "The housekeeper, Mrs Simmons." For a moment his eyes were focused on the figures before him, and then he looked back at Penelope. "But I do not understand why she would be inflating figures, or why this change would have happened when she has ordered for the castle for years…"

"Perhaps her circumstances have changed," Penelope said softly. "Or maybe costs here are much higher than…wherever I come from." She bit the inside of her lip, very aware that she had nearly messed everything up again by admitting that she lived in England, and knew the prices there.

"The figures have seemed…out of alignment, for the last two months. I did not know where the inconsistencies were coming from…"

He met her eyes, and a shiver ran through her at the heated look he was giving her. She wasn’t sure if it was anger, or frustration, or something else, but it made her quite forget why she was here and what she had been saying.

"It seems I need to speak to Mrs Simmons. Thank you. Even if you should not have been in here…I appreciate your insight."