Page 18 of Charity

Come to think of it, where had the entry for that purchase gone to? It wasn’t in the ledger that he could recall.

Oscar skirted the desk and flipped the pages in the ledger. March fifth—nothing.

He set the bill of sale down and glanced at the next. May twenty-first—fifteen yards of muslin. But no corresponding ledger entry. What madness was this?

When the ledger didn’t match the purchases of five more items, Oscar grew angry. The place had been swindled of more than a few pennies. No wonder the trustees wanted the place held to account for its spending. Was that the reason for Mr. Dickson’s unexplained departure?

The only way to be certain of what had transpired here was to find every scrap of paper Oscar could and reconstruct the whole damned ledger. It would take him an age. Much longer than he could hope to hide his activities from Agatha Birkenstock. What would she say if she found out her precious orphanage was under threat of closure?

So this was the tall lord who’d made little Mabel cry, was it? Agatha gritted her teeth and moved into the small, cluttered office. “Just what do you think you’re doing with those papers, Lord Carrington?”

Oscar heaved a dramatic sigh and dropped the papers to the desk. When he raked his fingers through his hair too, Agatha grew impatient. Damn him for his floundering. She wanted an honest answer, not a carefully worded lie. “I am waiting, my lord.”

“I am sorting through the mess.”

“That is Mr. Dickson’s chore, if he should ever lower himself to straighten the place. What I don’t understand is why you are here frightening the children.”

“Do you mean the little girl, Mabel?”

Agatha set her reticule on the table. “Yes, I mean Mabel. She’s just spent the last ten minutes confessing that you frightened her witless.”

“Little girls are known to exaggerate. I caught her fair and square, hiding beneath the desk here.” Oscar flashed his charming smile at her, but she was having none of his sly manipulations today, or any day from now on.

Agatha skirted the desk. “Then what are you doing snooping through the orphanage’s papers?”

Standing this close to Oscar was perhaps a mistake. She could see how tired he was. The dark smudges beneath his eyes that usually held laughter distracted her for a moment. She doubted their parting had affected him this much, and she wanted to know what was wrong with him. What had taken away his sparkle, his merriment in life? His appearance tugged at her heart in a way that couldn’t be allowed.

“I have been asked by my fellow trustees to assess the orphanage. To see whether the place has a viable future.”

His response took her breath away. She sagged, dropping her hand to the stacked desk to hold herself upright. This could not be. Why had she not heard a whisper about this before? Or from her grandfather, for that matter? He was a trustee, too.

When Oscar settled a hand to her shoulder, she pulled away. She could not let him get close. Her heart couldn’t take much more anguish. “And what are your findings?”

“Give me time, Agatha. I have only just begun, and given the state of this room, I shall be here for some duration. I am very sorry, Agatha. You may have to see me every day for a little while.”

“Every day.” No, that was not to be borne. To see him so often would be a painful, unending torment. When he cast her an apologetic smile, Agatha snatched up her reticule and hurried for the door. She’d been on the point of leaving for the day when she’d spied Oscar, so she gave him no chance to speak again. The door slammed closed behind her and she rushed for home.

At home, she could scream her frustration where no one could hear. At home, she could throw something to rid herself of her need to throttle Oscar.

How could he invade her world? Her orphanage? Damn him—must he take every dream away from her?

In the square, she barely missed colliding with a gleaming curricle. At the last possible moment, a stranger caught her arm and prevented her from barreling straight into the side of the passing conveyance. She thanked whoever it was then glanced at the occupants who had not stopped.

Lord Prewitt tipped his hat as they turned the next corner. Of course. Oscar’s future bride barely glanced her way as she concentrated on the reins as they disappeared from sight. Agatha rocked back on her heels and dragged in a deep breath.

She’d not let her discomposure over Oscar take her life from her, too. Damn him. Damn him to hell and back.

With more care for her surroundings, Agatha crossed the roads and park without further incident. She reached her house and the upper corridor with a semblance of decorum, secure in the knowledge that her grandfather was from home for the rest of the day. But the minute her bedchamber door closed and she was assured of privacy, she screamed. Loudly.

“Really, that was hardly ladylike,” Oscar told her.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Agatha glanced around as Oscar darted into her room through the open window. Despite his flushed appearance and the possibility he’d hurried home to speak with her again, she couldn’t bear to have him here. “Get. Out.”

“No. I’ll not leave you when you’re this angry. You could do yourself harm.”

“The only person who stands to be harmed is you, Oscar. Get out of my room. Get out of my life.”