Page 69 of The Fortune Hunter’s Gamble

“You must pardon me,” Rowden said with the same dangerously innocuous tone. “But I am not satisfied in my understanding as to why the bank’s finances are not as you would wish. And given that I am, as you pointed out, in a far different business, I’m afraid your explanation must be very clear.”

Bint’s red flush spread to the tops of his cheeks. “I am obliged to say that the reasons are very complex, Mr. Rowden, and might exceed your comprehension. Surely you understand that our country is engaged in hostilities, operating alone in a very costly and demanding war, and with the current treason trials to consider⁠—”

“I see no reason the Maidstone trials have any impact on the earnings for your investments.” Rowden raised his brows. “Unless you are funding the Irish rebels?”

“Of course we would never do such a thing. That is treason,” Bint snapped. Sophronia was enjoying seeing her husband’s former employee squirm a bit, after all the times he had been condescending to her. “There are also the wars against the French to fund, and the Exchequer is not always swift at repaying its loans, I’m afraid⁠—”

“That should be the Bank of England’s problem, not yours,” Rowden said. “I admit it will cost something to clean up whatever mess that little General Napoleon is making in the Mediterranean, or wherever he strikes next. But I do not see how that is of material interest to Hinton’s.”

“And I shall not bore you with the minute details,” Bint countered. “Suffice it to say, I cannot release the funds Mrs. Hinton is requesting at this time.”

“You cannot keep the fiduciary and ethical duty her husband charged to you for contributing to her support and upkeep?” Rowden challenged, his voice growing in volume. He leaned forward, planting his fists on the desk. “Why the hell not?”

Bint leaned back in sudden fright. “Because the funds are not there!” he yelped.

Rowden stared. Sophronia stared, remembering to shut her mouth so she did not gape like a fish, as Aunt Edmons would say. No funds? But her father lived on what Sophronia added to his small income of investments and annuities. That money kept Aunt Edmons as well, not to mention Sophronia’s household. Hinton House required a staff of two dozen, in addition to what it cost to hire seasonal laborers for the grounds. And if there were no money, then she could not open and run a girls’ school.

“I believe Mrs. Hinton deserves an explanation as to why.” Rowden straightened and clasped both hands on the carved knob of his walking stick. “Perhaps it is time you bored us with the details. I would suggest you fetch the books.”

Bint scowled. “I am under no obligation to review the state of the bank’s finances with either Mrs. Hinton or you. As I have repeatedly tried to tell you, she is not a part owner of this bank and so⁠—”

“The books, Bint,” Rowden said, in the voice that Sophronia imagined brought disorderly members or sullen staff at the Albion into line at once.

Bint rose, straightening his coat, and with as much dignity as he could muster darted from the room. Sophronia regarded her companion.

“He’s right, you know. I won’t be able to make sense of the details. The bank’s accounting style is much different from what I use in my household.”

“He’s hiding something.” Rowden tapped his stick on the toe of his boot. “He gave you a roundabout before about needing to talk to Withers, and he stalled you as long as he could, didn’t he? Now he’s claiming the money you’re owed—the money your husband left to you—is no longer there. You don’t think you deserve an explanation?”

“I don’t think he will give me one,” Sophronia said with a touch of bitterness. Once again she was at the mercy of a man who controlled her finances and thus her liberty, her independence, and her future. Such was the state of being a woman in this world.

She tried to smile. “Though I did enjoy seeing him scamper away in the face of your wrath.”

Rowden smiled, and that expression made her feel like a loaf of bread set near the oven to rise, warm and expansive.

After an excessively long time, Bint returned, fidgeting with the buttons of his coat and holding a leatherbound ledger.

“I regret that I cannot access the full account books at this time,” he reported. “They are currently in use by Mr. Withers as he consults with an important client.”

Rowden raised his eyebrows. “More important than the widow of Mr. Hinton, whose assets, I can only imagine, comprise a significant portion of the funds of this bank?”

“We have many clients, Mr. Rowden,” Bint snapped, “and all of them of equal importance to us. But I have brought a record of Mr. Hinton’s own withdrawals from his funds, which can show Mrs. Hinton why there is not the balance in her personal funds that she might wish.”

Rowden took the seat beside her. “We both want to see this,” he said.

Even with a far different method of accounting, Sophronia could see at a glance that Henry had made several large withdrawals from his personal account in the months before he died. The amounts began small but increased in size and regularity, with the largest sums taken just days before his death.

Henry had been bedridden in the days before he died, and Sophronia had attended him with little rest. When had he found the time to keep these secrets? And if he had been increasingly ill, what could possibly be the object of all this spending?

“I don’t understand what these funds were for,” Sophronia said. “Did he need them for Hinton House? Was the estate in difficulties? Was there a friend in straits whom he was trying to support? He said nothing of any troubles to me.”

“Those are all questions for Mr. Elkins, your solicitor,” Bint said with a sniff.

“But I was with him. I had no idea. I don’t understand…” She caught her voice before she turned plaintive. She could not afford for Bint to see the depths of her distress.

Rowden sensed it, though. “Were there arrangements he was making to set his affairs in order? Old debts he was paying off, wrongs he was making right?”

“Henry never considered that he wronged anyone,” Sophronia murmured. “He was inevitably the injured party. So they could not have been amends, but I suppose he had his secrets.” Henry more than most men. He had never been a companion of her days, sharing his life and thoughts. Their arrangement had been much more formal.