The Villain Duke's Butler Served Him Too Well novel · Chapter 6 of 24

Chapter 6: The Ledger

At nine the next morning Corwin was dressed and shaved, carrying tea and toast into the duke's bedroom.

He acted as though the night before had been an ordinary Thursday.

The tea was warmed, no sugar.

Leander sat up against the pillows with the sheet around his waist and his hair a gold wreck.

A bruise on his collarbone was the exact shape of Corwin's mouth.

He looked at Corwin for a long minute.

Then he said, "Close the door."

Corwin closed it.

"You told my uncle I keep you close like a clock.

"You told him I speak to no one."

"I told him what he'd already been told, my lord, by someone else."

"Who?"

"I don't know.

"One of the household.

"I'm still working on it."

"Hm."

Leander sipped the tea.

"Two years, you said.

"You took his money for two years."

"I played along with him for two years, my lord."

"And the money?"

"I never counted it, my lord.

"The man before me took it for five years.

"I kept his book."

Leander put the cup down very slowly.

"What book?"

Corwin went to the pantry, lifted the loose board under the third shelf, and carried back the ledger wrapped in an oilcloth.

He laid it on the quilt, and stepped back.

Leander opened it.

It was a plain brown account book, kept in the old Corwin's neat small hand.

It held dates, sums, and a column of notes.

*Report on the duke's correspondence.*

*Report on his visitors.*

*Report on the physician's letters to the palace.*

At the end of every line, in red wax, was a half-moon seal that Leander knew as well as his own face.

"Thirty-one payments," Leander said.

His voice was perfectly flat.

"Two thousand four hundred crowns."

"Yes, my lord."

"You counted."

"I kept it safe for two years, my lord."

"So that when the day came, you would have something to put in the hands of the Crown."

"Yes, my lord."

"You could have given it to me a year ago."

"A year ago, would you have believed me?"

Leander looked up.

Corwin would remember his face for the rest of his life.

It was grey with a rage that wasn't aimed at Corwin.

It was aimed at the page, and at the hand that had written it.

It was aimed at the face above the collar of Corwin's shirt.

"It is the same hand," Leander said.

"It is the same hand holding the pen, the same mouth and the same face.

"Am I supposed to forget that?"

"No, my lord."

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