Free Judith Ivory by Untie My Heart

bookkeeping.”
    Indeed. She had sterling references—some of them even real.
    Years ago, Molly Muffin had done the bookkeeping for the bishop. And made him tea and hopped across the street for hot cross buns to go with it. She was actually better at bookkeeping than typing or taking shorthand, though that wasn’t saying much. Her strong suit had been fetching the hot cross buns.
    She sighed. She didn’t want to stay up all night doing their bookkeeping for them. Let them get their bookkeeper to do it.
    “You see, our bookkeeper is out ill till tomorrow. Wethought, um —” Mr. Hemple paused, then smiled. “If you could help us, Miss Muffin, we’d make it worth your time.”
    No, no. What could possibly be worth staying up all night—what it would take to get all they had done here today entered into their books—with a lot of numbers and papers? Emma said sweetly, “I have to get home to my aging father—”
    “Surely, he could wait a few—”
    “He has to have help: He’s lame.”
    “But a few hours more, one way or the other—”
    “And deaf.”
    “We’d pay handsomely.” He hesitated, looking for an enticing amount that yet wasn’t too much that he’d regret offering it. He settled on, “Four shillings an hour for your time.”
    Emma pressed her lips and looked up, not pleased. But the idea began to rattle around inside her head, the books, the books . She might be able to do something with them, alter them. Such a thing was more complicated than forging a withdrawal—though not more complicated than forging Stuart Aysgarth’s ridiculous signature. No, unlike that, it was actually possible. Plus four shillings was a fine wage for a female, though they’d pay a male bookkeeper more.
    She might have bartered. She was sure, under the circumstance, she could have bilked them for eight or ten shillings an hour; they were desperate. But such outright thinking for herself might have made her suspect. She bowed her head, looking at her hands, and nodded, murmuring, “How generous. I’m sure my father would appreciate”—she glanced up pitifully, almost tearful with gratitude—“new spectacles. You see, he’s nearly blind as well.”
    From above her, the viscount asked in his slow, even voice, “How old is he?”—his tone so low, so soft, like the rumble of distant, harmless thunder.
    She glanced toward him to see his arms folded, his hat brim low again on his head, his arms once more in his marvelous coat. It hung open. She was struck again by how interesting he was, how unexpected somehow. He stood squarely, erect. Though no older than she, it occurred to her, he was yet so much more world-weary somewhere.
    There was something about him, something that said he was less gullible than the others, though neither did she think he was on to her. Just suspicious, less susceptible to sentimental ploys.
    “Ninety-two,” she answered, which was near the truth. Had her sheep-shearing father been alive, bless his soul, he would have been exactly that many years.
    “Then it’s settled,” the bank’s governor was quick to say. He stood. “We’ll take care of everything and have your accounts functional by tomorrow afternoon. The larger cheques should clear by the end of the week.” He smiled as the viscount nodded and turned.
    And turned and turned. There was so much to him. It was not just his entourage and their shuffling of chairs. It was the man himself. His greatcoat had all the excess and drama of a Russian novel: As he buttoned it about him, tight and fitted, it showed the line of his shoulders, narrowing down his broad chest to a slim waist, after which it billowed to the floor. Then he tugged on a silvery cuff, ran a hand down a wide lapel. A coat Karenin would have worn in St. Petersburg. Emma had never been there, but she had read of the book. A coat out of a Tolstoy novel.
    Which was from where, come to think of it, some of the funds were coming. Stuart Aysgarth, never mind the