Page 34 of Sir Durham’s Disarming Asset

A clerk pulled open the door and bowed them into the reception area, where a little man with spectacles and a cough sat with half a smile. He was on his feet in a moment, his eyes rolling over the women with shock.

“Guttentag, Mein Herr.” Liesel introduced herself in German as Baroness Fournier and Crown Princess Elizabeth von Rittenburg. Her use of her native language made this interview sound official and necessary. Gaining his attention, she switched to English. “My Burgmann, Herr Becker, represents my family and our principality to Herr Mayer Rothschild in Frankfurt. I am here with Miss Zephora Butler, daughter to the late secretary to the American Minister to Great Britain. We must speak with Herr Rothschild.”

The receptionist pushed his glasses up his nose and in good English said, “Herr Rothschild is not in London today, princess. But I will show you into Mr. Friedlander’s office. He is our chief clerk and will certainly help you.”

The fellow led them into a sparsely furnished room with a broad oak desk, behind which stood a gentleman, well attired in formal black, as wide as he was tall, with wiry iron-gray hair. He received them with a firm smile. Liesel introduced the women as the other man found chairs for all the ladies. Then the parties sat down to talk.

“Good afternoon to all you ladies,” Friedlander exclaimed in English, laced with his German accent. Then he turned to Liesel, whom he obviously was thrilled to see. “Guttentag, Prinzessen.”

“Good day, Mr. Friedlander.” Liesel was pleasant but firm. “It is not I who seeks your advice. You are to help my good friend here, Miss Zephora Butler.”

“Ja. Verzeihen Sie mir, Fraulein. Ich habe…” He muttered to himself in German, then broke into English. “Forgive me,” he told Zeph. “I am at a disadvantage. I know you not, Miss Butler. I have no means to identify you.”

Zeph did not appreciate his tone. Perhaps it was because he had that stalwart German attitude, or perhaps she was simply on guard. Breathe. He means well. “I understand, sir. But I recently escaped from the Conciergerie in Paris and from France with the help of Sir Raphael Durham, the Earl of Halsey, and his wife. I can ask Sir Raphael and the earl to attend you this afternoon, if you like—and they can declare for you who I am.”

“Oh, well, miss, we—”

“Must be careful. I am certain of that.”

“And I, sir,” Amber spoke up, extremely fierce and unhappy, “went to school with this young lady for many years. She is indeed who she claims. But, of course, I can also call upon my husband, the Viscount Ramsey, to join us here and assist us.”

Of that possibility, the man was not happy at all. “I doubt that will be necessary, madam.”

Amber sat back, satisfied as a cat who had just finished her bowl of cream.

“Mr. Friedlander,” Liesel offered with a regal hauteur all her own, “Miss Butler’s father sold his cotton, indigo, and tobacco in Manchester. With whom would he have done his banking and financial transactions, sir, if not with Herr Rothschild in that city?”

“Good point, princess. Only a few others in Manchester handled Americans’ accounts.”

Zeph smiled, wishing to establish friendship. “Mr. Friedlander, I came to this country with barely the clothes on my back. To establish who I am, ask me anything about my father and I will answer.”

He held firm. “Ja. I truly can and will ask you questions, Miss Butler. In fact, it is most necessary. Mr. Butler so decreed it. Allow me first to get my man to bring us the records of Mr. Thomas Butler.” He waved his hand and sent off the receptionist to do his bidding.

“Wonderful.” Papa did have accounts here! Zeph sat back, folded her hands, and reminded herself of her countless lessons in etiquette. Polite conversation was the most useful of all, but she would be the assertive one here. “For a good beginning, Mr. Friedlander, I can tell you what my father’s bank balance was in 1802. He came to France, to Paris, that year. He met with me, and I balanced his estate books from Virginia and had a good look at all his assets and liabilities.”

“Did he tell you then he had an account with Herr Rothschild?”

“No. I saw only his private ledgers.”

He tried to offer a smile. “Shall I ring for tea?”

All four women in unison said, “No, thank you.”

So the five of them waited silently while Zeph bit her lip, triumphant that she had met a stranger, and a strange man at that, and not frozen with fear.

Into the quiet room minutes later, the receptionist scuttled back with a long black ledger in his hands. He set it down before Friedlander, opened it to a long, cream-colored page, handed him a large folio, and stepped back.

Friedlander skimmed the open page of the ledger, then removed from the folio a written document. On the bottom, a gold wax seal had been imprinted. To one side was the unmistakable signature of Zeph’s father.

She allowed him a minute to read the page, then the ledger, as his finger followed the entries he saw there.

Then he sat back. “Your father requested proof of identity from anyone who presented themselves to claim his accounts. For that purpose, he left us a series of questions we were to ask.”

“Ask them.” She let her gaze fall to the items on his desk. “I see his handwritten signature at the bottom of that paper. It is very like him to create a hurdle.”

“Allow me to ring for our in-house solicitor. He will witness your responses and note them for our records.”

Irritated about this delay, Zeph questioned the test. Would her father have honored her as his only child? Or dismissed her as the female he disregarded? All of that was true, but what had prevailed in her sire’s actions toward her?