The Duke's Obsession (Entangled Scandalous) by Frances Fowlkes

“It appears to be a simple error.”
    She scrunched her pert little nose. “And I’m sure it is meant to appear that way. But it isn’t an accident. The same error repeats itself in a consistent pattern. See here.” She turned the page, her arm brushing against his. “The calculation is wrong again here, with a three misplacing a four.”
    God, she was close. He could see the light dusting of freckles across her nose, and the fringed shadow cast by her thick dark lashes. If he just leaned over, his lips would be upon hers…
    “Your Grace!” She hissed. “Do you not recognize this hand?” She lifted the book so he could take a closer glance.
    Pulling himself away from her inviting silhouette, he peered down at the untidy sums. It was just a ledger, similar to all the others he was forced to oversee and approve. And like all the others, he dismissed it with a shrug of his shoulders.
    “I have many men in my employ, Miss Farrington. I cannot identify each of their hands.”
    She stared at him aghast. “I highly recommend that you learn. Especially when they are cheating you out of your own funds. This, Your Grace,” she said, “is the hand of Mr. Burnham. And I can prove it.”
    “Mr. Burnham?”
    Edward pulled the ledger from her grasp and took a second glance at the numbers scrawled across the page. Now that she had pointed them out, he could see that the errors were in the thousands, as in thousands of his pounds. He flipped the book over and studied the spine with the ink-splotched year as its title. He ran his fingers over the dusted pages, his stomach turning over at the severity of Miss Farrington’s accusation.
    “This year’s ledger for foreign investments,” he muttered in explanation. “I wonder…” He pulled 1817 from the shelf and handed it to her. “I do not see numbers in the same way as you. I wonder if those same errors fill these pages as well.”
    “You trust my arithmetic?” she asked, her eyes filled with surprise.
    “I have no reason to doubt you, Miss Farrington. It was you who brought this to my attention, and as you have proven yourself on an earlier occasion to have superior ciphering skills, I trust you implicitly.”
    She blinked, her eyes fluttering open and closed at his compliment. “I…I…well, let me see.” She flipped open the ledger and glanced at the pages, her finger running down the columns of last year’s East India tea imports.
    “I’m afraid so,” she whispered, her head shaking from side to side. “The same calculations start at the beginning of the year.”
    He retrieved the volume and placed it back on the shelf. He turned, his eyes focused on hers. “Tomorrow, I want, or rather, I would ask if you might go through the last seven volumes and calculate exactly how much money you believe was taken. I would like to know the full amount as soon as possible.” His gaze held hers. “I would be most grateful.”
    Miss Farrington nodded, her eyes glancing back to the shelf. “But what about the eighth volume, Your Grace?”
    Edward snatched the ledger reading 1810 from the shelf and tucked it under his arm. “This one is mine. Tomorrow, Miss Farrington. Please bring me the totals at your earliest convenience.”

Chapter Eight
    Daphne was not amused.
    Nor was she very awake, given the number of hours she had spent pouring over the duke’s ledgers, running numbers, and calculating the gross total of his loss to the last half-pence. Daylight had begun to peek through her windows by the time she had completed her calculations. And just when she had thought to slip under the covers for a brief nod, her maid had come to dress her for the morning.
    A morning she had spent traipsing across the estate in search of a duke, who, despite his request for her to see him at her earliest convenience, was nowhere to be found. That was, until she searched the one place he had spoken of with interest at last evening’s meal.
    So it was with neither smile nor patience