14
Richard paced the length of his study, his steps agitated, the soft tread of his boots muffled by the thick carpet. Behind him, seated at his desk, Miss Theodosia bent over his account books, her head tilted in concentration, and her brows drawn into a tight line. The quill in her hand scratched across the page as she made another notation, pausing now and then to compare figures between the receipts and the leather-bound ledger.
It had been this way for over an hour—perhaps longer—and the silence, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of paper, was beginning to fray his nerves.
Finally, unable to bear the suspense any longer, Richard halted and turned to face her, his voice more clipped than he intended. “Well?”
She sighed, setting the quill aside and leaning back in her chair. “You are not going to like what I’m about to tell you.”
A sinking feeling settled in his stomach. “What is it?”
Her expression sobered, her eyes meeting his. “I fear that your man of business has been embezzling funds from your estate.”
The words struck him like a blow. He blinked, momentarily stunned, before straightening with disbelief. “That is impossible. Mr. Benson would never do such a thing. He’s been with the family for years, and he was my father’s man.”
“I understand,” she said gently. “But the figures don’t lie.”
“My father trusted him implicitly. And so have I,” Richard declared, his tone growing defensive. “Your calculations must be wrong.”
She didn’t flinch. Instead, she calmly reached for a receipt from the pile beside her and held it up. “This document shows a charge of ten pounds from the haberdashery. But here”—she flipped open the ledger and pointed—“it’s recorded as one hundred and ten pounds.”
His brow furrowed. “That has to be an error. A clerical mistake.”
“I thought the same,” she admitted. “But it isn’t isolated. There’s a pattern—consistent discrepancies, always rounded in a way that benefits the ledger. The errors are too numerous and too specific to be accidental.”
“How long?” he asked, his voice low.
“From what I can determine,” she said, “since shortly after your father’s death.”
Richard dragged a hand down his face, his mind whirling. “You must be wrong. This can’t be true.”
“I wish I were,” she replied, sincerity etched into every line of her face. “But based on my review, I believe Mr. Benson has stolen well over ten thousand pounds.”
“No,” he said again, his voice a whisper of disbelief. “I don’t believe you.”
She nodded slowly, as though she had anticipated the reaction. “I thought you might say that. Which is why I’ve documented every discrepancy. If you’ll allow me, I can show you precisely what I found.”
He hesitated, then gestured for her to continue, though his eyes remained wary.
She stood, holding out both the receipt and the open ledger. “This line here,” she said, pointing. “Ten pounds owed. And here in the ledger, it’s recorded as one hundred and ten pounds.”
He peered at the figures, squinting slightly. Numbers had always eluded him, swimming on the page, but even he could make out the damning difference.
Still, he resisted. “Perhaps… perhaps someone else recorded it incorrectly. A clerk. A simple transcription error.”
She met his gaze, firm but not unkind. “It happens too often to be a simple error. Always in Mr. Benson’s hand. And always in his favor.”
Richard’s jaw tightened. “You expect me to believe that I’ve been so blind? That I’ve allowed this to happen under my nose?”
“That is not what I’m saying,” she replied. “You had no reason to suspect deceit. You trusted him. That is not a flaw, my lord—it is the mark of someone who believes the best of people.”
“You think me incompetent,” he snapped.
She took a measured breath. “I think you are angry. Hurt. And I understand both. But I would never call you incompetent.”
“You didn’t have to,” he muttered.
“Please,” she said. “Don’t take my word alone. Look at the records yourself. Ask your steward. Cross-check these amounts with estate expenditures. The truth will be evident.”
