“A scrape?” she repeated, thoroughly unsettled by his understanding of their purpose. “You are leading me into a scrape? This was supposed to be a well-executed scheme, not a scrape. I wonder at your ability to inspire your followers, your grace, for that was hardly the rousing St. Crispin’s Day speech one hopes for before battle. Perhaps we should review Mr. Erskine’s history before we leave the carriage. The family seat is situated on a lovely park near the river and you come from a family of avid…”
But Kesgrave, adopting one of Bea’s favorite maneuvers, left the carriage while she was still talking. He was at a slight disadvantage though, for rather than walk into the bank and assume she would follow, he was obligated to help her climb down from the conveyance. As soon as her feet were on the pavement, however, he continued to the entrance, and allowing her no time to admire the building’s classic architecture, held out the door for her.
Succumbing to his determination, Bea entered the bank’s bright rotunda, with its high arching windows, and murmured to the duke, “I hope I will have no cause to regret this.”
“Your faith in me is humbling, my love,” he replied softly, before stepping farther into the elaborately designed interior, complete with coved ceilings, plaster pediments, and an assortment of Greek goddesses in an alcove to the left. One carried a bow and quiver of arrows, and Bea wondered what Diana had to do with banking. Perhaps the Mayhews hunted down clients who stood in default.
Bea had little time to consider it because her husband had marched up to a clerk in a forest green waistcoat and declared himself to be the Duke of Kesgrave.
Oh, but how he said it—in stentorian tones, yes, so that everyone in the vicinity could hear, but also with pride and conceit, as if his presence should have been eagerly anticipated.
The clerk, whose tag identified him as Mr. Squires, responded to it at once, bowing deeply as if in the presence of royalty, although surely, he had been trained better than that, and pledging to be of service.
And the look Kesgrave gave him in response, barely moving his head at all, as if somehow flicking away a fly with his glance.
It was magnificent, Bea thought.
Everyone else in the establishment thought so too, for slowly a hush fell over the room, which was large and ornate, with a row of desks along the eastern end and a kiosk with a gleaming copper roof in the middle. A high wooden structure topped by glass and divided by partitions was occupied by a quartet of clerks, who ceased what they were doing to watch the owner of the company fly across the floor to welcome the duke.
Ah, so Kesgrave had been right about that as well—despite the brutal death that darkened his home, the banker was eagerly overseeing his business as usual.
“Your grace!” Mr. Mayhew said, his breath hitching slightly from the physical exertion. His delight, however, was unmarred by surprise or confusion.
Barely acknowledging the greeting, Kesgrave said, “I am here.”
And the timber of his voice—it conveyed so much at once: impatience, importance, boredom. It was, she thought, a dialect all its own.
Little wonder he had no use for a Wattlesworth.
Mr. Mayhew, perceiving the meaning of the seemingly gratuitous statement, requested with overweening obsequiousness that Kesgrave follow him to his office. Then, as if noticing Bea for the first time, he acknowledged her with an absent salutation, then returned to smiling deferentially at the duke.
The bank owner’s office was gracious and comfortable, with deep-red walls, gold-colored fixtures, and a table between two low cabinets for the storage of files. Three chairs surrounded the table, which was topped with blotting paper and a bottle of ink, but he led them to a seating area near the bookshelves.
“Please sit down, your grace, and make yourself comfortable,” he said with ingratiating zeal, displaying no concern or confusion over their sudden appearance as he gestured to the largest chair, which, with its boxy shape, bore an unsettling resemblance to King George’s throne.
Forcefully, Bea smothered a giggle as Kesgrave majestically sat down. Lacking an equally extravagant option, Bea made do with a midnight-blue armchair. Mr. Mayhew, literally lowering himself before greatness, assumed a bergère that was a few inches shorter than was customary for such a seat.
A brief moment of silence followed as Mr. Mayhew waited for the duke to speak first. When he did not, the banker jumped into the fray. “This is the greatest pleasure—”
Kesgrave, timing it perfectly, began to speak at the exact same moment, leaving Bea to wonder how he had arranged the thing. Perhaps he had observed the inhalation of breath that denoted speech.
Of course, Mr. Mayhew apologized at once for talking over the duke, which required him to talk further over the duke, a consequence that led to another apology and the awkward realization that he had done it yet again. Baffled, he fell silent.
Kesgrave ignored it all and announced they were there to make amends.
To his credit, Mr. Mayhew showed no reaction at all to this remarkable statement. His face impassive, he said with oily smoothness, “I am sure that is not necessary.”
“You dare contradict me?” Kesgrave asked imperiously.
Mr. Mayhew withered slightly but managed to keep his shoulders straight. “No, no, your grace.”
“Yesterday, on the urging of the duchess, I devoted my time and energy to investigating the death of Auguste Alphonse Réjane, who you said was killed in an accident involving le peu guillotine. As my wife was insistent that something sinister had happened, I had no choice but to give the matter my full attention. I have done that now to my great discomfort and decided your original assessment of the situation was accurate,” he announced.
The banker could not have been
