Page 73 of Counting on Love

“My lord,” Alice gulped with a nod of her head, then stepped quickly back.

Georgiana realized she needn’t fear an interview. The Earl was in no position to ask questions. And this was the Taverstons’ father. It made her want to weep.

Lady Iversley said, “We’ve just come from church. The children will be returning soon.”

“Brindle.”

“Yes,” she said. “Mr. Brindle gave the sermon.”

The Earl tried to say something else but coughed. The cough turned into a fit. Lady Iversley rubbed and patted his shoulder while he attempted to regain his breath.

Mama said, “The girls and I will leave you for now.”

“Yes,” Lady Iversley said. “That’s best. I think the Earl should sleep for a while.”

*

The day grew even drearier. The carriage returned with all the siblings except Jasper, whose presence was required at some meeting or other with one of the local farmers. The rest filed into the dining room, bedraggled and tired.

Lady Iversley had absent-mindedly ordered a cold buffet to be served: assorted meats, cheeses, breads, and pickles. Georgiana saw a fleeting look of dismay on Crispin’s face. His hand hovered a moment over the cheeses before he recovered and put only a small pile of pickles on his plate.

Table conversation suffered as they tried ignoring the Earl’s decline and the miserable weather. Lady Iversley grumbled about the church service. Although the prayers and hymns were comforting, she could not make heads nor tales out of Mr. Brindle’s sermon. That unleashed several minutes of unenthusiastic speculation and half-hearted argument until Reginald gave a succinct and meaningful summary of what the man had been trying to say—which was, boiled down, simply that separation from God was painful, and could be avoided through the renunciation of sin.

Georgiana was floored, though Crispin and Olivia merely smirked.

“Well, why didn’t he just say so,” Lady Iversley said, miffed. “Instead of muddling about.”

“He should have used Malachi for his text instead of Job. Malachi is more direct. Job is always a muddle.”

Reginald’s offhand remark made Crispin snort and mutter, “Oh, yes, well, Malachi.”

The conversation shifted to things the villagers had said and potential activities for the morrow. The meal did not last long. Afterward, everyone parted either to rest or to visit with the Earl if he was awake. Georgiana slipped off to the library.

The Principles of Analytical Calculation called to her, much as the ancient Greek manuscript must call to Reginald. But, like him, she wouldn’t let herself be distracted. She had work to do. Propping The Italian on the edge of the desk, then closing the curtain halfway, she arranged the ledgers in the order she had decided upon and opened the one on the top.

She spent an hour checking figures and noted a few oddities. Was Cambridge tuition truly nearly twice that of Oxford? And what was this ‘Binnings property’ purchased four years ago? But she was just being nosy. She was supposed to be looking for what was missing, not what was there. And then she heard footsteps and the door to the library opened wider. Georgiana shoved the ledgers aside and stuck her nose in the novel.

“What do you think of Father Schedoni?” It was Reginald. Georgiana set down the book.

“What should I think? What does Olivia think?”

He came into the room. “It’s chilly in here. You should have had someone light the brazier.”

“I honestly didn’t notice.” She had felt damp rather than cold.

He went to drag the second chair closer to the desk, close to her. He sat down. Now she felt warm.

“Have you found anything?”

“Maybe. Nothing I can make anything of.” She tapped her finger on the table, then asked, “Do you keep—you and your brothers—keep your own accounts?”

“I do.” For a moment, he looked awkward. Then he shrugged and said, “Mine aren’t very complicated. I couldn’t speak for Crispin or Jasper. Why?”

“Would your father have kept his own? Before he became Earl?”

“If he did, I don’t know where the books would be. Why do you want to know? What are you thinking?”

“Nothing yet. It was just a thought, but it doesn’t matter.” If it was the Earl hiding something, rather than Bradwell embezzling, she might find a clue if he’d once kept his own books.