He raised one eyebrow, and the mocking note in his voice was unmistakable. ‘And you, Miss Priestley, never make mistakes, of course,’ he drawled.
Imogen’s self-confidence collapsed in an instant and all of the original hostility she had felt towards him came rushing back. Resolutely squaring her shoulders, she drew in a deep breath. ‘It was always Mr Chadwick’s practice to set out his figures in pencil,’ she informed him, her voice even. ‘My contribution was to double-check the entries and agree his arithmetic—he believed that it was the best way of learning the system and—since his own hand was getting a little shaky in later years—only then would he allow me to ink in the final figures. So you see, Mr Beresford, there is simply no way that any of these rather numerous alterations could have occurred.’
In the silence that followed her words, Beresford almost groaned out loud at the ill-thought-out foolhardiness of his remark. He had not missed the sudden darkening of her eyes, nor those entrancing little silver flashes that had emanated from them. You utter fool, he apostrophised. Hoist by your own petard yet again!
Throughout Imogen’s halting evidence of her findings, Seymour had been continuing to peruse the three ledgers, comparing the figures one with another and closely inspecting the suspect alterations. He straightened up and shook his head at Beresford.
‘Well, old man, it seems perfectly obvious to me that Miss Priestley was quite right to voice her suspicions. There is absolutely no doubt that somebody has been messing about with the figures in these books.’
At the look of concern in his friend’s eyes, Beresford’s face grew grim.
‘And I think we all know who that person is likely to be,’ he said shortly. ‘Yet another reason to dispense with his services, it appears!’
Then, still conscious of the undercurrent of tension that had, once again, developed between Imogen and himself, he turned to her and executed a little bow.
‘I appear to have excelled myself today, Miss Priestley,’ he confessed. ‘I fear I owe you yet another apology. My remark was totally unwarranted—please tell me that I am forgiven for exhibiting such appalling bad manners.’
This time Imogen, who could not rid herself of the feeling that he was merely trying to humour her, was careful to keep her eyes averted from his face.
‘It is of no moment, I assure you, Mr Beresford,’ she replied, rising from her seat. ‘And, now that I have delivered the problem into your hands, you will please excuse me, for I must go and try to persuade my aunt to join us for dinner.’
Seymour grinned appreciatively as he watched her departing figure.
‘Two enemies in one day, Matt!’ he chortled. ‘Must be something of a record!’
‘Stow it, David!’ grunted Beresford sourly, as he picked up the three ledgers and thrust them back on to their shelf. ‘I am not in the mood!’
With a speculative gleam in his eye, Seymour regarded his friend silently for a few moments before making his way to the house door, saying, ‘So it appears! Well then, old boy, if you have no objection, I think I will just cut along after the lovely Imogen and see if we can’t arrange for some decent fodder to be sent up from the village—what do you say?’
‘Good idea,’ returned Beresford, mentally kicking himself for not having given any thought to that equally pressing matter. ‘I suppose I had better go and find this Chadwick fellow and get his version of events.’
After a cursory perusal of the papers on the desk, the majority of which proved to be demands for immediate settlements of outstanding accounts, he left the office and walked out into the stable yard, carefully locking both doors behind him. Wentworth was nowhere to be seen but, recalling what the man had told him about Chadwick’s place of residence, he made his way around the stable-block into a little back lane where he found a neat little row of cottages, all twenty of which were clearly uninhabited.
At the far end of the lane, situated next to a cluster of farm buildings, was a slightly larger, more dignified-looking property that must, he assumed, be the ex-manager’s residence. Seated on a bench in the front garden of this house was a well-built young man, who Beresford took to be the injured ex-soldier, Ben Chadwick.
At first glance there appeared to be nothing amiss with either of his legs, since they were both encased in the strapped knee-high leather boots that were common wear among countrymen. In fact, it was not until the sound of Beresford’s approaching footsteps caused the young man to hurriedly lay aside the coach lamp he had been polishing and scramble awkwardly to his feet that Beresford realised that he was having to support his weight with a stick.
He motioned the young Chadwick to return to his seat, ignoring the discomfited flush that covered his face. Both men were well aware that it was normal practice for an employee to remain standing in his master’s presence but, in this instance, Beresford was disposed to do away with protocol and, catching sight of the wooden bench beside Chadwick’s chair, sat himself next to the young man.
‘My name is Beresford,’ he announced, somewhat unnecessarily, since his identity was hardly in question. ‘May I take it that you are Ben Chadwick?’
‘At your service, Mr Beresford,’ the young man faltered. ‘Was it my father you were seeking?’
‘In a moment, Ben,’ said Beresford pleasantly. ‘I thought I would have a few words with you first, if I may?’
Ben nodded in surprise. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’
‘I could not help but notice that, although you are fully booted, you are not able to bear your weight on your right leg. I imagine your injury still causes you a great deal of discomfort?’
‘It is improving daily, sir,’ came Ben’s flustered reply. ‘I pack the boot with clean rags but, after a while, there is a certain amount of friction which makes long-distance walking impossible at the moment—I try to make myself useful in other ways though,’ he added, defensively. ‘I do the milking and keep all the tools and tackle in order.’
‘Pray do no think that I am criticising you, Ben—far from it,’ Beresford assured him. ‘I merely wanted to assure myself that you had received the full benefit of all available medical treatment—I understand that it is possible to have special surgical footwear fitted, for instance.’
‘Somewhat costly for a man in my position, sir,’ said the young man with a grim smile. ‘I dare say that that sort of treatment is probably considered to be standard procedure for the likes of Lord Uxbridge and his ilk, but, seeing as it takes Father all his time to cater for our basic necessities, I think the last thing he needs is me badgering him for fripperies of that sort!’
Beresford regarded him seriously for a moment or two. ‘I understand that you were a lieutenant with the 7th Light? Can you still mount a horse?’
‘Aye, that I can do, sir,’ affirmed Ben, adding bitterly. ‘Not that I get much chance to ride these days, if Wentworth has anything to do with it.’
‘Well, I am happy to inform you that you need no longer concern yourself with that particular problem,’ Beresford replied, rising to his feet. ‘In fact, that is mainly what I wanted to speak to your father about—is he within?’
Ben directed him to the rear of the farmhouse where he found Chadwick senior tending vegetables in the kitchen garden. Eyeing the displaced manager’s activities with considerable interest, Beresford was surprised to see that Ben’s father was far more agile than Wentworth had given him to suppose.
At Beresford’s approach, the elderly man straightened up, took a kerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands.
‘Welcome to Thornfield, Mr Beresford. Miss Priestley informed me of your arrival.’
The man’s well-modulated manner of speech made it quite clear to Beresford