Her Mother Told Her to “Just Endure” After She Was Sold to the Duke for £100,000 of Her Father’s Debts—But Behind the Locked Bedroom Door, His First Words Shattered Everything She Had Been Taught About Marriage

PART 4

The ledger was a battlefield of ink.

I sat at the massive desk in the library, sunlight streaming through the towering windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. I had spent four hours dissecting the household accounts. My father had been a gambler — a man who threw money into the void without a second thought. Because of him, I knew how to read a ledger better than any accountant in London.

I knew how to spot hidden debts. Inflated costs. The desperate shuffling of funds.

What I found in the Kinsley accounts infuriated me.

Buried among the coal receipts and grocer invoices, I found something else — a string of quarterly payments, each one routed to an account marked only with the initials “Ld. R.” No explanation. No corresponding delivery or service on the estate side of the ledger. I copied the figures into the back pages of my own notebook before I could think better of it. I did not know yet what they meant. I only knew that a steward did not send money to a peer’s private account without a reason he wished to hide.

“Mr. Finch.”

I did not look up as the estate steward entered the library. Finch was a thick-set man in his fifties with a ruddy complexion and a patronizing smile. He had served the previous Duke, and he clearly viewed me as a temporary decorative inconvenience.

“You sent for me, your grace?” He did not bow. A subtle, deliberate slight.

I closed the ledger and rested my hands flat on the leather cover. I looked up at him. I channeled every ounce of my mother’s aristocratic frost — weaponizing the very cruelty I had been subjected to my entire life.

“I am reviewing the winter provisions for the tenant farmers,” I said, my voice perfectly level. “You have allocated half the amount of coal that was distributed last year.”

Finch’s smile widened a fraction. “Ah, yes. The Duke’s trustees requested we tighten the estate’s belt, so to speak. Coal is expensive this season. The tenants will make do with firewood.”

“Wood that is damp from the autumn rains,” I countered. “Wood that will not burn hot enough to keep the damp out of stone cottages. People will freeze.”

Finch sighed — a sound meant to convey exhaustion with a foolish child. “Your grace, with all due respect, you are new to the country. You do not understand the economics of managing an estate of this magnitude. The trustees — ”

“The trustees do not live here,” I cut him off. I stood up.

I was small compared to Finch, but I did not shrink back.

“And neither do they sleep in a freezing cottage with four children. You have overpaid the London grocer by twenty percent for imported wines we do not need, and you have hidden the deficit by cutting the coal rations for the people who actually work this land.”

Finch’s face flushed a deep, angry purple. His smile vanished.

“You are mistaken. The Duke approved the budget himself.”

“The Duke approved the final number. He did not read the itemized list. I did.”

I picked up his pen and dipped it in the inkwell. I opened the ledger, crossed out the wine expenditure with a violent slash of black ink, and rewrote the coal allocation. I turned the ledger around and pushed it toward him.

“You will send the order to the coal merchant today,” I said coldly. “And if you ever attempt to balance your books on the backs of freezing tenants again, I will have you dismissed without a character reference.”

“Do you understand me, Mr. Finch?”

Finch stared at the ledger, his jaw working. He looked at me, realizing with sudden sharp clarity that the frail bought bride was actually a viper.

“Yes, your grace,” he muttered through gritted teeth. He took the ledger and practically stormed out of the library.

I sank back into my chair, my knees suddenly weak. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I had never spoken to anyone like that in my life. I pressed my cold, shaking hands to my cheeks, terrified of what I had just done.

What if Finch went to Jasper? What if Jasper overruled me?

“A masterclass in intimidation.”

I gasped and spun around.

Jasper was standing in the shadows by the far bookshelves. He was still wearing his riding boots, his coat splattered with mud. He had been there the entire time.

I stood up quickly, panic flooding back. “Jasper, I was merely looking at the accounts. I noticed a discrepancy — ”

He walked out of the shadows. He did not look angry. He looked entirely fascinated.

“Finch has been skimming off the top of the grocer bills for three years,” he said. “I knew it, but I lacked the time to prove it without causing a riot with the trustees.”

I blinked. “You… knew?”

“I manage four estates, three factories, and a shipping company, Charlotte. I cannot monitor the price of imported Bordeaux.”

He leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. He looked exhausted — the skin around his eyes bruised with fatigue.

“You were going to let them freeze,” I said, my voice dropping. “Just to hide his theft.”

He watched me closely. “And you care about the tenants. You, the daughter of a man who sold you to clear his gambling debts.”

It was a cruel thing to say. It was a test.

I met his gaze. “I care because I know what it feels like to sit in a grand, beautiful house and freeze because the man in charge cares more about his vices than his dependents. I will not allow it to happen under my roof.”

My roof. The word slipped out before I could stop it.

Jasper did not mock me. The hard, cynical lines of his face softened into something resembling profound respect.

“Then it seems I made an excellent investment,” he murmured.

He pushed off the desk and walked toward the door. He paused in the frame.

“Dinner is at eight. We have an uninvited guest. Lord Radcliffe has decided to drop in to inspect my new wife.”

His eyes met mine with a warning.

“Wear your armor, Charlotte. He is a far deadlier snake than Mr. Finch.”