Page 75 of Counting on Love

Chapter Twenty-One

The day could not get any drearier. When Georgiana decided, by the clock on the wall, that it must be nearing teatime, she took herself to the ladies’ parlor, hungry, tired, and hoping to find Reginald there. He was not. She was the first to arrive. She settled on the davenport, close to the fire, watching the flickering tongues behind the grate.

Finally, she had something to report. And she wanted very badly to give him good news. The discrepancies had ceased to occur about three to three-and-a-half years ago. It was impossible, of course, to be sure of anything in the last eight months; Reginald had only entered the bills and receipts he was given. But those were now tidied and tabulated, and he could, if he wished, hand those books over to the new steward without being embarrassed by them. If this new steward were to look back over the last three years, he would find nothing amiss.

She had learned something else, but it was not worth reporting. At least, she didn’t think it was. In the earlier books, the servants were listed individually by name rather than by job performed. Later, they were lumped into categories and only the highest-ranking servants were named.

One early name had jumped out at her. Lucy Carter. There was no one with the initials C.B. After three years, Lucy disappeared and instead, C.B. appeared, no name, just initials, but only for a year. Just like the “gifts.” Georgiana had no idea what it all meant, if anything. She was afraid Reginald would think she was mad, poring over the servants’ entries. Servants came and went in large households. Likely that was why Bradwell gave up keeping track of them.

Yet something about it bothered her.

So. Did Reginald want her to keep looking? Perhaps he would rather remain ignorant of what they might find. Blackmail and bribery had been ironic hypotheticals. But what could the true explanation be? And did it matter? Reginald said it seemed unimportant now. Maybe it was.

Not Reginald but rather Crispin came striding into the room. His hair was damp and there was mud on his boots. He stripped off his gloves, warmed his hands before the fire, and then sprawled down next to her, laying soggy gloves on the arm of the davenport.

“Good afternoon,” she said, aware that her voice held a note of disapproval. “You are wet.”

He grinned at her. “I took my chances with the weather, but it didn’t work. Here you still are. Where is everyone else?”

“I don’t know. But you needn’t worry. I won’t ask any impertinent questions.”

His eyebrows flew up. “Are you referring to the thing to which you are not allowed to refer?” His indignation seemed more mocking than sincere, but she was not in the mood for teasing, so she made no answer. He sat up straighter and drew his knees together. “I have found that drilling my men in foul weather is better for morale than letting them huddle in the wet, complaining. It works for officers as well.”

That was an interesting insight into Crispin’s character. The man had more layers than an onion. “Are you a hard taskmaster?”

“Yes.” He drummed his hands restlessly on his knees. “After tea, I will march you all out into the rain.”

“Even Jasper?” she asked, smiling now, because she was teasing even if he was not. “Does he take orders from you?”

“Jasper has not yet returned. I went out to the stables to sing to my horse—”

“To what?”

“Mercury is high-strung. He doesn’t like heavy rain. While I was there, I saw that one of the grooms had taken a horse into the village for Jasper to ride back. The horse is still gone.”

Georgiana shook her head. “Will you march us all out to the stables to sing after tea?”

Now a smile did spread over his face. “Mercury would love to hear you sing. Will you?”

“I can never tell if you are joking.”

“It takes practice. But I think not the stables. I think we should all go out to the folly. It was built to mimic the ruins of an abbey. Rain improves the atmosphere of decay.”

“Still can’t tell.” She was never bored talking with him. Probably because he was not courting her.

“The last bit was all serious. Except that Mother would not approve of such an outing, so I don’t really think we should go. Now, you tell me: how did you spend this wearisome afternoon?”

“Reading.” That was close to the truth.

“Ah, did you? You found something worthwhile in our library?” His nose wrinkled skeptically. But she had a sudden idea.

“No, it was a book I’d brought from home. A novel.” She blinked and looked down at her hands. She hoped she was blushing at least a little. She meant to appear a little silly and embarrassed to be so. “I’m…to be honest, I’m a little lost.”

“I think authors do that intentionally.”

“But maybe you can help.” She went on quickly before she lost her nerve. If he knew anything about the old servants, perhaps she could surprise an answer from him. “There is a rather shadowy figure in the novel. The men refer to her only by her initials: C.B.. Do those initials mean anything to you?”

He bit his cheek. A gleam came into his eyes. “I suspect they are referring to Miss Blanche.”