Page 73 of The Fortune Hunter’s Gamble

He glanced sideways at her, meeting her eyes. He tightened his grip on her hand. “Yes.”

And there it was, in the pool of quiet understanding spreading out between them. She could tell him how she felt now. She could say again that she never meant to hurt him, and ask if he could ever forgive her. And she could ask…if he felt this, too. That whatever pulled them together was deeper than ever, and not to be denied, no matter her foolish fears.

She curled her hands around the lion, for she remembered how her father had delighted in the gift as well and had encouraged her not to keep it in her room but display it in the parlor along with their other prized artifacts. Poor Papa. Sophronia had been his prop and comfort after Mama died. They had Aunt Edmons to look after them, and she was a dear creature, but not the love of his days.

Sophronia had just had the foundation yanked out from her life, the assurance that she would have a steady income from Henry’s assets, recompense for the time she had invested in their years of marriage, payment for all the sacrifices she had made. She must be practical yet.

“I have supposed all these weeks that Bint was merely being tight-fisted with me,” she said instead. “That he did not want to surrender a thing that was Henry’s that he might be able to keep in his possession. I never imagined that the funds were simply not there.”

Rowden’s jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed as he looked back at the great edifice of the bank. “Bint is tight-fisted,” he said. “He is also lying to you about the money. I don’t believe your husband made those withdrawals.”

He began striding again in his agitation, and she took quick steps to keep pace with him, holding her hems with her free hand to keep them out of the dirt. “How can you know?”

“Did you notice the ink wasn’t the same shade?”

“But that could mean⁠—”

“If he’s using the same type of ink, then the ledger should all be faded after several months or a year. The lines with Hinton’s supposed withdrawals were darker than the rest.”

“Because newer?”

“Newer than they ought to be. I left you to find another clerk and ask to see the Albion’s ledgers, and my own accounts. The results only support my suspicions. The older withdrawals from even a few months ago are faded to brown ink. The newer entries are fresh and dark.”

“But that would mean— Rowden, do slow down, you cannot storm back in there and hold the man to an accounting. I don’t understand what you’re saying anyway.”

“The withdrawals were entered,” Rowden said with the tone of a man affecting infinite patience, “after your husband died. Did you authorize them?”

“No. I haven’t been able to access any of my funds after Henry died. It is why I came to London. Well, one reason.” His look flustered her, the sudden heat in it, as if he were recalling the times they had kissed, the times she had melted in his arms. That was what she came to London for.

She pushed the confusing sensations away.

“Was anyone else making withdrawals on your behalf? Elkins needing to pay your bills?”

She blinked up at him. There was no one to act on her behalf. She was a widow alone. “No.”

“Then who would be taking funds from the assets your late husband left you for your maintenance? Who has access to the books?”

Sophronia faltered to a stop. “Bint. Well, Mr. Withers, I suppose, but Bint has been insisting I deal with him.”

“And he, or someone with authority over him, has been colluding to defraud you, I fear.”

Sophronia’s knees felt strange, as if she’d taken a blow that knocked the support beneath her. But Rowden held her up, and she didn’t fall.

She lifted her chin. “Why, that scurrilous little weasel— I am going back in there to give him a piece of my mind⁠—”

“Hold, my fury.” Rowden pulled back on her arm, drawing her aside just in time to escape being run down by a cart wheeling through the arch under Temple Bar. “These are my suspicions only. But I admit they were strengthened by a bit of gossip I was able to pry out of the clerk I talked to, or rather, the clerk at the window beside him, who took a great interest in our proceedings.”

“Because you are the infamous Rowden, and he would have recognized you, or that walking stick,” Sophronia said. She readjusted her bonnet, which had fallen askew in all their agitated pacing. “What gossip?”

“Mr. Bint has recently leased an extremely elegant villa along Tottenham Court Road, north of Fitzroy Square, and he is currently stocking it with fashionable furnishings and staff. He puts in his morning hours at the bank, then spends his afternoon circulating through the furniture warehouses and drapers’ shops.”

Sophronia’s jaw dropped. “On my money! When I could be building a girls’ school, he is feathering his own nest! Oh, that ingrate⁠—”

“Again, I implore you, do not burst into his office and berate him on the basis of my suspicions. Give me a few days to see if they are founded, at least.” Rowden’s fingers curled around her arm. “And then, if you will permit me, I would like to intervene.”

He held her gaze, and she saw what he was asking: if she would finally, finally turn to him for assistance. If she would consent to involve him in her affairs.

“I will consent,” she said, still with a touch of disgruntlement, “on the grounds that I get to participate in exposing the villain.”