“Your father was hiding from his wife, not the queen.” Jocelyn straightened. “Hush.”

Annabel knelt and used her body to shield the glow from the candle. The weight of this mission hit home. She and Jocelyn had sneaked into the queen’s former home, even if just for a moment. They were now in a courtier’s office, using his things.

After a moment, Jocelyn relaxed. “They’re gone. Keep going.”

We need out of here without delay. “Come help.” Annabel pulled the second ledger from its place on the shelf and turned it to the middle. “April should be here. Check the dates and estimate two months per book.”

From that point forward, Jocelyn found ledgers and Annabel searched for entries. Each stroke of the pen was messier than the last. She hoped she could read it when she got home. “Finished.”

Annabel capped the ink and then cleaned the pen using her shirt sleeve. She put it back on its rest, just like the others she’d seen. By the time she’d finished, the ink had dried on her list.

“Ready?” It was a rhetorical question. Jocelyn was already at the door.

*

Jasper stretched the length of the sofa and used the rolled arm as a pillow. It was a poor substitute, but it allowed him to see Annabel at his desk, where she’d been since she’d returned from the Exchequer office.

The oil lamp created an island of light with her at the center, the black night creating a frame, head bent over a blank ledger sheet as she compared the figures she’d stolen to the ones she’d been given. She also had the totals the prime minister had given to him and Kit, and another book she’d retrieved from her library at Ramsbury House.

A plate of uneaten biscuits sat at her elbow. “Are you going to eat at all?” Jasper asked.

“Are you going to sleep?” she countered. “It’s late, and you had an eventful day.”

It had been both impressive and terrifying to watch Fletcher break into Spencer’s home, to see him blend into the shadows and emerge victorious with what seemed to be alarming speed. No wonder Kit roamed the house at all hours, checking the doors and windows. “So did you.”

Annabel looked up from her work. She was still in her trousers, and she had ink on her nose.

If anything had happened to her, he’d have had Fletcher’s head mounted on the wall. No matter how much he liked the man.

A yawn stretched his mouth as his eyelids drooped. Fighting exhaustion, he rose from the couch and went to the desk.

“Don’t distract me,” she mumbled. “I almost have this worked out.”

He lifted a biscuit from the plate and broke it in half. The pages spread before her were lists after lists of numbers, calculations, and totals. His eyes crossed. He pulled a chair near her and handed her half the biscuit. “What are you doing?”

“In a moment,” Annabel said as she chewed. She trailed the fingers of one hand down the column on her sheet and the other down the list Fletcher had copied from Spencer, checking her work. A census book lay open at her elbow. The cap that had been part of her disguise peeked from underneath.

“How did you come across a census book?” he asked as he offered another treat.

She took it. “Father bought one from a library that received two. I always liked seeing Chilworth on the list. It made us part of something larger than ourselves.”

She drummed her fingers on the desk as she stared at her work, reminding him of hoofbeats in a race. Finally, she nodded. Hesitantly at first, then with more certainty.

“You have it?” He sat straighter, staring again at the inked figures. “How?”

“The difference between our friends’ receipts and the number in the ledgers is one percent from each, which makes sense. It is easier to keep track of a single calculation. But it’s also more difficult to explain away as an error.”

She pointed to a total. “This is how much they paid.” To another. “This is what the ledger says they paid.”

It was a large amount, but from a damned small sample. “What does this prove?”

“It gives us a basis for an estimate. Taxes are only assessed on those with an income over one hundred and fifty pounds per year. That’s not going to be a large number of people in agricultural counties.” She indicated one list. “I took only twenty-five percent of their population at the minimum income threshold. Three percent taxes, multiplied by one percent.”

It was a halfpence for each. “That’s not a large amount.”

“It is when you add them all together.” She pointed at a second total. “And then for counties with industry, ports, or other trade—like Bath. I’ve estimated half the population would pay taxes to equal this.” She indicated a third sum.

London was its own category. She had increased the estimate to sixty percent of the population at the same halfpence.

“That doesn’t take businesses into account, or those that make more than the minimum threshold. If we use our comparisons, he’s taking three shillings for every five hundred pounds.”

All totaled, her estimate was nearly one thousand pounds.

“If he’s taking that same amount from tariffs or any other fund, and there’s no reason to believe he isn’t, the amount could double. Perhaps triple.”

She tapped Fletcher’s scrawled figures. “This is what Spencer has taken.”

It was more than one thousand, but less than three. “Why did he write it down?”

“Force of habit, perhaps.” She dropped back in the chair. “A trophy, maybe. Proof of what he’d been able to do.” She stared beyond the light that encircled them. “I could understand that.”

Jasper stared at her work, formulating the presentation to the prime minister and then the battle for Graydon’s confession. Ruining Charles Melton’s reputation would be distasteful, but inevitable if they were to put an end to Spencer’s manipulations.

To make Parliament honest.

To make Annabel safe.

She was still checking her work, as he’d done before submitting exams. Everything she’d been through since their marriage had been a test. It had been months of new dresses, hateful gossip, running the household, treacherous ballrooms, and wrecked gardens. Not to mention thieving men of business, murderous highwaymen, and a bloody husband.

Now she’d invaded Westminster and come away with the last piece of their puzzle.

Jasper put a finger under her chin and lifted her face until he could see her weary eyes. “You are extraordinary, Annabel.”

Every time he kissed her, it was different. Tonight it was a slow exploration by two exhausted partners, the sweetness on her tongue augmented by a boldness he’d never tasted before. It ended when her stomach rumbled.

Jasper pulled away, laughing. “I knew you were hungry.” He stood and pulled her with him. “Let’s see if Cook left anything in the kitchen.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“You might attempt to not look so happy with yourself,” Kit said.

Jasper wasn’t pleased with the job he had to do, but he was happy. They were writing the end of this chapter, and he could begin a new one.

Hopefully with his wife, whom he’d left sleeping.

“Lord Ramsbury? Lord Warwick? The prime minister will see you now.”