Elizabeth Elliott (15 page)

The song came to an end and his eyes drifted open. The tip of his quill rested against an open page, the white goose feather seeming to point to the middle of a small, black sea of ink. He lay the quill aside with a curse and reached for the blotter, knowing the damage was irreparable.

“Ah, what a pity.” The soft words spoken so near his ear made him nearly leap from his seat. Claudia laid one hand on his shoulder as if to calm him. “I did not mean to startle you, Baron. I only wondered what makes you scowl so much. You have frowned at these books since you opened them.”

He glanced over his shoulder and quickly turned back to the ledgers. She couldn’t know that her breasts were in the most direct line of his vision. He felt like a deviant for noticing. His fingers felt suddenly damp and he glanced down. The ink had soaked through the blotter cloth. He wiped the ink from his fingers as best he could and tossed the cloth aside. “Do you read?”

“Aye, but I did not mean to spy.”

“There are no great secrets here,” he assured her. “Only puzzles.”

“Puzzles?”

He swept his hand toward the stacks of ledgers. “Great
twisted puzzles within puzzles. These are the records of all sales and trades made by my agents over the last three months. ’Tis the story of each bolt of fabric that left Montague during that time.”

She leaned closer and he felt her breath caress his cheek. “Will you tell me one of these stories?”

At that moment he would have told her anything she wanted to hear. He gritted his teeth to prevent just that. Instead he turned to the first page of the ledger in front of him. Perhaps she would grow bored with the details of his business and leave him alone. If nothing else, the dizzying array of facts and figures was sure to confuse her. Then she would leave him in peace.

“ ’Tis only one story, really, made up of many parts. In April I struck a bargain with one Baldassare of Venice to trade a shipment of brocades for three hundred gold florins, one hundred eighty bolts of lace, fifty kegs of glass beads, and two stones of ground saffron.”

He flipped through the pages of another ledger to its beginning. “Here one of my agents traded five kegs of the glass beads to a Norse merchant for three score pelts of ermine. A score of the pelts were traded to Alfred of London for twenty gold florins, and the remainder to a nobleman in Burgundy for five hogsheads of wine. The wine was sold to the earl of Marly for sixty-three florins.” He glanced over his shoulder to gauge her reaction, but he couldn’t tell if her expression of interest was feigned or genuine. He couldn’t seem to look away from her. “That was a fairly uncomplicated trade. Others involve goods traded from this shipment along with previous shipments of cloth. Those trades are harder to trace, but I assign portions of the value of each trade so I will know the final price of every bolt of fabric in gold florins.”

She rested one hand against the edge of the table to take a closer look at the ledgers. “Why?”

“For many reasons. My clerks keep accounts of all coins spent and I make sure the balance reported by my treasury clerk agrees with the amount my agents report. All know that
I balance the accounts myself, and that tends to keep honest men honest.” Rather than continue to stare at her profile, he pretended an interest in a spot of ink on one of his fingertips and rubbed it against his thumb. “The profit of each trade also helps me decide if I want more or less of the goods involved in a future bargain.”

She reached over his shoulder and tapped an entry with one slender finger. “You gained twenty-three more florins from the sale of the ermine pelts that you traded for wine than you did from the ermine pelts alone. Does that mean you will increase your trade with the nobleman in Burgundy?”

He glanced down at the ledger, startled to realize she had calculated the amount correctly. “Perhaps, but I must also consider the cost of each trade. Pelts require much less effort to transport than hogsheads of wine, yet if a ship is nearly empty on its return voyage from Italy, that would make a profitable cargo.”

“I see.” She looked distracted by something she saw in one of the ledgers. She pointed toward the page of a ledger that sat farthest away from her and he felt the soft swell of her breast brush against his shoulder. The heat of her penetrated his shirt to warm his own body, and he reacted instantly to that innocent touch. He released a silent breath and tried to concentrate on her words rather than her tempting nearness.

“That entry should be thirty-two bolts of lace rather than twenty-three, else the sum will not total one hundred and eighty.” She gave him a sharp glance, then her gaze became evasive, as if he had caught her doing something she shouldn’t. “I could be wrong, of course.”

He scanned all six of his agents’ ledgers and picked up his quill to write down each reference to the bolts of lace. There were seventeen references in all, and the sum was nine bolts short of what it should be. He turned to look up at her. “You calculated this in your head?”

She gave him an uncertain nod.

“How did you know that this was the entry in error?”

“You will think me strange if I tell you.”

“Humor me.”

“ ’Tis the only unequal trade.” She gave him a wary glance, then pointed at the first ledger. “Here twelve bolts were involved in three trades that totaled sixteen florins. In this trade, forty-two bolts resulted in a profit of fifty-eight florins.” She continued to rattle off the final profit of the other bolts. When her finger moved to the reference in question, a small, triumphant smile curved her lips. “This one is wrong because the value of these bolts is listed as thirty-one florins. When you average the profit of the other bolts, that is almost the exact value of thirty-two bolts, not twenty-three.”

“My God.” And he had thought to confuse her? He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You calculated the
average
price of each bolt in your head?”

She nodded. “You should expect a profit of four florins for every three bolts of lace.”

She was right. He had already added the amounts in his ledger, but the book was turned now to a different page. He decided to test her. “What is the profit for all one hundred and eighty bolts?”

“Two hundred and forty florins, more or less.”

“If I received five florins for every three bolts rather than four, what would my profit be?”

“Three hundred florins, of course.”

He leaned back in his chair and tossed his quill aside. “Of course.”

“I knew I should not have told you.” She released a small sigh. “You think me strange.”

“I think you amazing. Who taught you mathematics?”

“My father said I had a natural talent with numbers.” She sounded defensive. “The tutors he hired for my brothers taught me as well.”

“I take it you excelled.” He studied the play of emotions that crossed her face while he waited for her answer. She was good at hiding her thoughts, but he had learned to read closed faces long ago. Right now she was thinking that she
had told him too much already and wondered how he would use that knowledge against her. He wondered what her life was like at Lonsdale to make her fearful of revealing something so harmless.

“Aye.”

He drummed his fingers along the table top, then stood up. “Have a seat.”

Her eyes reflected confusion. “Why?”

“You were right when you said I do not need another seamstress.” He gestured toward the chair. “If you truly wish to earn your keep at Montague, I would rather you ply a quill than a needle.”

“You want me to be a clerk?” She sounded appalled by the prospect.

“You find a clerk’s position more objectionable than that of a seamstress?”

“Nay, ’tis not that. I would enjoy such duties, but women are not allowed to act as clerks.”

“But you are not just any woman, Claudia. At the moment you are my betrothed.” He shrugged her concern aside. “No one will object.”

“Not even you?” She arched one brow. “If honesty is the reason you balance your own ledgers, then why would you trust me with the task?”

“You have no reason to cheat me.” He pulled up a stool and sat down beside her, then reached across the table for a ledger. “Come. We will work together so none can accuse me of shirking my duty. The ledger in front of you is mine, the others belong to each of my agents. I will locate the trades while you record them in my ledger. Does that seem a reasonable plan of attack?”

She smiled and picked up the quill. “Aye, Baron. Very reasonable.”

Three hours later Claudia was still smiling, even as she shook her head. “Nay, Baron. You are being unreasonable.”

Guy’s scowl would befit any five-year-old denied a sweet.
“There is nothing wrong with allowing a ship to return empty upon occasion. I need not show a profit on every venture.”

“Yet you never show a profit on your Flemish journeys,” she pointed out. “ ’Tis odd that you continue such worthless voyages. You will not take any of their bolts in trade, which means you would rather show a loss than return to England with a profitable cargo of Flemish silks and brocades. That does not strike you as being a bit unreasonable?”

“Nay,” he insisted. “You do not know these Flemish merchants. They are quick to buy the exotic goods we carry from Venice and the southern ports, knowing they are goods we gained by trading Montague bolts. Yet they must always point out that were it not for the Flemish weavers I employ, my people could not produce such fine cloths. They constantly rub my nose in the fact that we do not have nine hundred generations of weavers in residence, that we are little more than upstarts. It pleases me to take their gold, but I would not carry a bolt of their cloths in a ship of mine if they paid me to do so.”

“Nine hundred?” She knew it an exaggeration, but couldn’t resist baiting him. All afternoon he had displayed a shrewd head for the staggering array of facts and figures related to his business, yet he grew sullen and terse whenever the trades involved Flemish merchants. It was telling that he referred to his people as ‘we,’ including himself in their number. She suspected he would not be half so insulted if the Flemish jibes did not involve those sworn to him. And that made him a rarity among noblemen, a lord who offered more than his sword in his pledge to protect his villeins. He considered them worthy enough to defend their reputations. “The Flemish give you half the gold you would receive if you traded for bolts of their fabrics instead, then sold the Flemish cloths in England.”

“Do you presume to tell me how to manage my affairs?” He folded his arms across his chest, his blue eyes lit with challenge.

She inclined her head in gesture of subservience, made
mocking by her smile. “Nay, Baron. I presume to tell you when you are being pigheaded. Your agents are paid by commission and you would punish them because you dislike Flemish merchants. That is unfair.”

His hand made a rasping sound as he rubbed his chin. The shadowy stubble on his face emphasized the lines there, the creases in his cheeks when he scowled. “They do not complain.”

“Nor would I, if I thought you might turn me out if I did.”

The corners of his mouth curved into a lazy smile. “So my agents think me a tyrant, but you know better, that I would not turn anyone out for such a minor offense?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “It would seem that way. I have just complained.”

“It may surprise you to learn that my agents have good reason to fear my ire.” He said nothing more to enlighten her on the matter, but instead looked toward one of the windows. “The hour grows late. Will you join me for evening meal?”

“Join you?” she repeated dumbly. No one had ever asked her to join them at a meal. She wasn’t certain what the invitation implied.

“Aye. Join me. I would have you sit by my side.”

She didn’t know how to respond. He wanted her to sit at the head table where all would see her, where all would know that he truly considered her a guest. “Why are you being so nice to me, Baron? I thought we agreed that I would be nothing more than a servant at Montague, yet you provide me with a new wardrobe, a servant of my own, duties I enjoy, a place of honor at your table.” She gave him a wary look. “Why?”

He placed a hand over his heart, as if offended by her suspicions. “Do I need a reason to be nice to you?”

“Most people have a reason whenever they are nice to me,” she countered. Last night she had feared he would try to seduce her into his bed. Today he behaved as though the thought would never occur to him. He was all courtesy and
smiles. It was worse than a seduction. Their easy camaraderie the last few hours had relaxed her guard. Now it made her nervous. The attraction she felt for him could too easily become a complicated friendship. She would rather dislike him. “If I join you for dinner, will you allow me to sleep in a different chamber tonight?”

“Ah, a bargain,” he mused. “So you have your own reasons for being nice to me. Would that be why you suspect
my
motives?”

“The thought just occurred to me,” she said. He had some devious reason for conferring such a sign of favor. She just couldn’t perceive it when he was being so charming. “I will join you at dinner tonight without condition, if you place no conditions on my presence there.”

“You have a suspicious mind, Lady Claudia.” He studied her for a moment in silence, then nodded. “Very well. Without condition. You have my word.”

Guy propped his arm on the back of Claudia’s chair and leaned over to whisper in her ear. “I swear to you, this is not what I intended.”

“Is it not?” Claudia’s smile felt brittle. This was exactly what he had intended when he invited her to the evening meal, she was sure. She forced herself not to lean away from him, to keep herself from showing a reaction to anything that happened around her.

The great hall swelled with the sounds of the meal, laughter and conversations, minstrels and singers, the occasional yelp of a hound that strayed too close to the tables in its quest for scraps and got a smack for its efforts. The food smelled delicious. Servants and squires served a staggering variety of meats, fruits, and sauces flavored with costly spices. Claudia wouldn’t mind if the entire meal consisted of plain porridge. She remembered to take a bite of food now and then, but she could taste none of it.