Kyle grinned at her words, the shallow grooves in his cheeks creasing, his eyes brightening with the glimmer of laughter. Selena flushed, not with embarrassment, but with warmth at the feeling of shared intimacy.
“Well, I’m glad you feel that way,” Kyle acknowledged. “And as long as you’re offering advice, I wish you’d tell me how to tackle the problem of Lydia. Kissing the Parkington lad…” He shook his head, grimacing at the memory.
“I don’t believe it’s wise to make so much of a single incident,” Selena said cautiously. “It might be better to discover Lydia’s feelings first, to win her friendship so she’ll feel comfortable enough to confide in us.”
Us. Selena caught herself. She hadn’t intentionally used the word, and she wondered if Kyle would take exception. But he merely looked at her thoughtfully.
“Perhaps you’re right.”
For a moment they sat in companionable silence, Kyle finishing his coffee, Selena her breakfast.
Then Selena roused her courage and spoke again. “I met Danielle yesterday,” she remarked casually as she chose another muffin from the bread basket.
Kyle inhaled the swallow of coffee remaining in his cup before losing his grip on the delicate Sevres china. Despite his fit of choking, he made a wild grasp and managed to rescue the cup before it shattered to the flagstones.
Selena looked up to make sure his condition wasn’t fatal and then carefully returned to buttering her muffin.
Kyle stared at her between coughs. “And?” he asked warily when he had caught his breath.
“And I liked her very much.” Selena glanced up at him. “You were right. Clay is a beautiful child.”
Kyle cleared his throat once more, then shook his head, bewildered by her calm tone. “You’re not upset?”
“No,” she said softly. If it wasn’t quite the truth, there was no point in saying so.
“Well,” Kyle said, looking at a loss. Not knowing what else to do, he picked up his napkin and dabbed at his shirtfront. He wasn’t wearing a coat or waistcoat; with the advent of summer, the days were too warm for the trappings of a gentleman.
“Well,” he repeated after another moment. “I had better get to work. Will you excuse me?”
When Selena reluctantly agreed, he pushed back his chair and rose. He stood looking down at her a long moment and then shook his head again. Finally he turned on his heel, walking with long strides along the courtyard to the flagged path that led to the stables.
Selena followed his tall, powerful form with her gaze until he disappeared around the corner of the house. Her expression was wistful, her yearning for him written on her face.
She had brought up the subject of Danielle for a purpose: to clear the air between them. One of the reasons Kyle had been avoiding her, she suspected, was because he felt guilty about his relationship with Danielle. Yet she hadn’t succeeded in making him feel more comfortable. Instead, he’d looked at her as if she had thrown a snake on his plate and expected him to eat it.
Selena sighed. At least their discussion about the plantation had been productive. She had made the first attempt at showing Kyle how to go on, had made him aware of a potential problem that needed immediate attention if it wasn’t to get out of hand. And she would continue her efforts in the future. Not only because she’d enjoyed the past few moments of companionship, the sense of working together, but because she owed it to him. She was determined to help Kyle meet his responsibilities and to make his life a little easier. Later, perhaps, she could encourage him to channel his tremendous talent into work he enjoyed doing—such as establishing the steamboat service he’d said that Natchez needed.
For now, however, the plantation books awaited her inspection.
Selena gave another sigh. If she couldn’t win Kyle’s love, she could at least prove to him that she was a capable manager.
Chapter Twelve
“There is no mistake, Bea,” Selena insisted. “I’ve checked my calculations three times, and the result is always the same. The yield from Montrose’s last harvest was far lower than it should have been—and so was income.”
Bea gave her a worried look. “You truly think someone has been stealing from the plantation?”
Selena frowned down at the open account book in her lap. The figures had so puzzled and disturbed her that she had sought out Bea to discuss her findings. She had wanted to make certain there were no circumstances she was overlooking.
But according to Bea, there had been no disaster that would account for the large drop in output. The plantation acreage was planted entirely with Petit Gulf cotton, which, unlike the former Black Seed strain, wasn’t susceptible to the infestations that wiped out whole fields at a time. Yet comparing the weight of bales produced to the number of acres planted showed a large decrease in yield. “I’m certain that not all the income has been accounted for,” she replied. “And it looks very much like theft.”
“I don’t understand,” Bea said slowly. “How would that be possible?”
Selena thought over what Bea had told her about how planters conducted business in Mississippi. On plantations not wealthy enough to have a cotton gin, the sacks of cotton balls were taken to a public gin, where they were exchanged for receipts. These cotton receipts were as negotiable as currency and could be assigned over, just as promissory notes were. They were even used to pay bills.
Glancing up, Selena met Bea’s gaze. “You said when Montrose’s gin was damaged this past winter, nearly a third of the cotton crop was taken to a neighboring gin. That would have presented a prime opportunity for theft. It would have been simple to pocket the cotton receipts. It would also be easy to alter the accounts so the missing revenues would be hard to detect without close scrutiny.”
Bea raised a hand to her temple, looking distressed. “It has to be Whitfield. He is the only one with access to the books. And he has been managing Montrose without much supervision since Papa’s death. I’ve been too busy to review the books closely.”