‘I will look at them later, perhaps,’ he replied. ‘At the moment I believe we need to deal with the staff shortage. How many outside hands do you have?’
‘No one permanent, really—not unless you count old Chadwick and his son.’
‘And they are?’
‘Chadwick was the estate manager before I came,’ explained Wentworth. ‘Sir Matthew brought me in to replace him—said the old man was getting senile, and that’s a fact! Still potters around doing stuff about the place—can’t keep him away, seeing as he still lives up at the farm—seems Sir Matthew gifted the house to him for life several years ago, which means that I have to make do with a measly gamekeeper’s cottage.’
Choosing to ignore the man’s somewhat petulant grievance, Beresford paused momentarily before asking, ‘And the son?’
‘Ben—got his foot shot off at Waterloo—came back late last year—no use to anyone, if you want my opinion.’
‘Hold hard, Wentworth!’ Nicholas cut in heatedly. ‘That is pretty shabby of you! Ben Chadwick was a fine soldier and a brave man—he was injured fighting for King and Country!’
‘More fool him, then, is what I say. Should have stayed at home like the rest of us did and kept out of trouble,’ sniffed Wentworth.
Seeing that the scarlet-faced Nicholas was about to round on the manager once more, Beresford put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
‘Leave it, Nicky,’ he said gently. ‘Mr Wentworth is entitled to his opinion, however unenlightened it may be.’ Ignoring the flicker of animosity that appeared on the man’s face, he went on. ‘Our immediate concern is the speedy acquisition of a good many more hands—you have a hiring fair hereabouts, I imagine?’
The man shook his head. ‘The annual fair isn’t until Michael-mas—although these days you can usually be sure to find quite a few chaps looking for work at the weekly market in Ashby—tomorrow, that’ll be.’
‘Tomorrow? Excellent! There should be no shortage of suitable men available, given the current high level of unemployment. About a dozen to start with, I should imagine. We will, presumably, be able to accommodate at least that many in the estate cottages that have been vacated—and we will need house staff, too—although, upon reflection, perhaps it would be preferable to leave that side of things to Miss Priestley?’
‘Might as well. She’ll be sure to want to have her say anyway. Always poking her nose in—’ He stopped, having caught sight of Beresford’s stony expression. ‘Well, women—you know,’ he finished self-consciously, with a half-hearted attempt at a careless laugh.
Beresford studied him in contemptuous silence for a few moments then, as his eyes alighted on the bunch of keys that lay on the desk, he said, ‘I have been given to understand that you have the keys to the cellars in your keeping. Why is that, pray?’
Wentworth warily shifted his stance. ‘Thought I ought to stop anyone making free with the master’s—that is—Sir Matthew’s wines. Quite an expensive collection, I understand. Wouldn’t do to have any of it go missing, now, would it?’
Beresford picked up the keys. ‘These will remain in my possession for the time being,’ he said curtly. ‘And now, since I imagine that you have plenty to attend to, you may continue with your outside activities. I will send for you should I require your services.’
For a moment Wentworth looked as though he were about to protest at Beresford’s summary dismissal of him then, with a nonchalant shrug, he turned and swaggered out of the room into the stable yard, giving Nicholas a mocking grin as he passed him.
‘Hateful man!’ muttered Nicholas, slamming the door shut. ‘Shouldn’t be at all surprised if Imo ain’t in the right about him.’
Beresford looked up from the papers he was reading. ‘In what respect?’
The boy coloured and looked down at his feet. ‘No—it’s nothing, really. I should not have said that.’
‘Come clean, Nicky,’ Beresford advised him. He had suddenly recalled Imogen’s disjointed words. ‘If there is anything in the least bit havey-cavey going on, I really think I ought to be told about it, do you not think so, old chap?’
Nicholas shuffled uncomfortably. ‘Imo said that she tried to tell you in the library, but you refused to listen to her,’ he blurted out. ‘You really should hear her out, sir! She has been running the place almost single-handedly since Father died and it is only because she has been using her own money that we have managed to survive this far!’
‘Miss Priestley has her own finances?’ asked Beresford in surprise.
‘Oodles. Her father was filthy rich and both her parents left everything they had to her. She only gets it as a quarterly allowance until she’s twenty-five, though, but she has managed to eke that out in the most fantastic way over this last year. Chadwick is always saying…’ He hesitated and an expression of shame appeared on his face. ‘It really is pretty bad form to be discussing Imo like this, you know.’
Beresford drew in his breath. ‘You are quite right, Nicky. Tell me about her suspicions instead. What has she told you?’
‘Not a lot, really. Fact is, incomes and revenues and so on are a total mystery to me, but Imo seems to think that the books have been tampered with. She is convinced that there should have been more than enough money available to run the estate properly for at least a year, without any cutbacks at all!’
‘Does your cousin have some understanding of accountancy methods, then?’ enquired Beresford, incredulously.
‘Lord, yes!’ nodded the boy. ‘Chadwick says she is an absolute genius with figures! She has been doing the books with him for years—she knows as much about this estate as Wentworth does—probably more, I dare say!’
Beresford sat in dismayed silence. A fine fool he’d turned out to be, he thought with a shudder, remembering his unwarranted rebuff of Imogen’s tentative attempts to caution him. Small wonder that she had been treating him with such disdain. He got to his feet and began to pace up and down, cudgelling his brain for some way to put matters right, having discovered that he really didn’t much care to be in Miss Priestley’s black books.
Nicholas watched him, a perplexed frown on his face.
‘H-have I said something to upset you, sir?’ he asked anxiously.
‘Not at all, Nicky,’ Beresford hastened to reassure him. ‘It is merely that I have just realised what an absolute idiot I have been! I really should have listened to her!’ He gave his brother a rueful grin. ‘Hardly the most auspicious start to a budding friendship, would you say?’
The boy’s face cleared. ‘No need to worry about that, sir. Imo has never been the sort to bear a grudge, I promise you.’
‘Thank God for that,’ exclaimed Beresford. ‘For I intend to try and remedy the matter without further ado.’ He paused, weighing up the possibilities of an idea that had just come to him. ‘Would you mind popping back to the other room and asking your cousin if she would be willing to spare me a few minutes of her time—and Mr Seymour, too, if he is still about?’
Nicholas nodded and at once made for the house door.
‘Oh—and one other thing, Nicky!’ called Beresford, just as the boy was about to leave. ‘Do stop calling me “sir”! Matt is my name—understood?’
‘Understood—er, Matt!’ shot Nicholas over his shoulder, as he sped up the passageway to carry out his errand.
Beresford