Page 82 of A Perfect Gentleman

Graeme opened one of the cabinets and pulled a box from the bottom shelf. He rooted around in it for a few moments, then pulled out a small stack of papers and held it up triumphantly.

“Aha! Here we are.” He spread the papers out on the desk.

“You found them?” Abby went to stand beside him, bending over to look at the pages. She was achingly aware of how close she was to him. She could feel the heat of his body, breathe in his scent. It was all she could do not to lean into him.

Graeme’s forefinger trembled faintly on the lines of numbers. “I’m not sure that these tell us anything pertinent. Just entries of the sums he deposited and the dates.”

“Where’s the ledger we brought back from the estate?”

He pulled a blue-backed volume from the bookshelf and handed it to her. “What are you thinking?”

“I want to see if there’s anything odd or different, some discrepancy that might be suspicious.” She slid her finger down to the bottom of the account book, then returned to the bank statement. “Look. At the end, there is a final large deposit, and afterward the account was closed.”

“Yes. That was when Father put back in the money that he—that had been taken from it. Afterward he closed the account, disbursing the money to a few homes for old soldiers.”

“Yes, but here . . .” Abby pointed to the account book. He leaned in, his arm brushing hers, and Graeme went very still. Abby cleared her throat and continued, as if all her senses were not tinglingly aware of Graeme next to her. “After March twenty-third, three large sums were entered into the account ledger. St. V, Lord F, and another one that says ‘dues.’ Add them together, and they’re almost three thousand pounds. That’s a good bit of money. It is also the exact amount your father put into the bank account before he closed it in May. But on the bank statement, there is no record of those amounts. There are no deposits between February and the date your father put the money back.”

“So that’s the money that went missing. It was taken in and recorded in the logbook, but not deposited in the bank. Instead it was pocketed.”

“I think so. It makes sense,” Abby agreed.

“It fits the timing. But this is my father’s handwriting.” His face was bleak. “It makes it more certain that he was at fault.” He tapped the accounts book. “He received it, put in the lockbox, and never deposited it.”

“Graeme, no.” The sorrow on his face pierced her. Abby reached out, laying her hand on his arm. “Not necessarily. Someone could have stolen that money from the box. You knew where your father kept the money; I imagine other people did, as well. Your father could have found that it was missing and felt he was to blame since the money was in his keeping.”

“You are kind to say so.” He smiled faintly.

“It’s the truth.” Without thinking, she slid her hand over his arm in a soft, soothing motion. “If we can find someone who was there when this money was taken in—this vicar of St. Veronica’s, for instance—he might be able to shed light on it. You mustn’t give up hope.”

“I won’t. Though truthfully, I’m not sure it matters that much to me anymore.” He laid his hand over hers. “Abigail . . . do you really—that is, I’ve been thinking. I miss—I mean, I do not want to be at odds with you.”

“Nor I with you.” She looked up into his face, beguiled, as she always was, by the sky blue of his eyes, the depth of his gaze. She longed to reach up and trace the arch of his eyebrow with her finger.

He leaned his head toward hers a little more. Her heart picked up its beat.

“Can you—” Graeme broke off at the sound of footsteps approaching in the hall. Stifling a low oath, he straightened and swung toward the door just as the butler entered.

“Beg pardon, sir.” Norton carried a small silver tray in one hand.

“Yes, Norton, what is it?”

The butler extended the tray, on which lay a small square of folded white paper. Graeme impatiently picked up the notepaper and an odd look crossed his face. He glanced quickly up at Norton, whose sharp gaze did not match his supremely blank face. Graeme’s gaze flickered to Abby, then away. He slid a finger beneath the seal to open the missive and began to read.

Graeme frowned and muttered something under his breath, then turned to the butler. “When did this arrive?”

“Just now, sir,” Norton replied. “A boy delivered it to the door.”

“I see.” Graeme returned to the note, studying it as if it held great wisdom, though Abby could see only a few lines of writing on the paper.

“Graeme? Is something wrong?” Abby moved closer.

“What?” His head shot up, and he shoved the note inside his jacket, groping for the inner pocket. “Oh. Yes, I mean, no, it’s nothing. Just, um, a reminder of something I must do this afternoon.” He nodded toward the butler, who still hovered in the doorway. “Thank you, Norton.”

Thus dismissed, the butler retreated reluctantly. They were both acting peculiarly, Abby thought. She waited, but Graeme made no explanation.

“I must—I have to leave. But I—” He took a step forward. “Abby, may I talk to you? Later, I mean, after I return?”

“Of course.” Coolness replaced the former concern in her voice. Graeme was hiding something.