“Brown eyes,” Liam Forrester put in. “And his clothes weren’t as nice—a bit shabby around the edges, if you know what I mean.”
“Hazel eyes, really,” Ed Wisbech said. “And the only name I ever heard was Doug. Mr. Doug, the barkeep used to call him, but he—the gentlemen—hasn’t been around for the past few weeks.”
Marcus had known the keeper of the village inn all his life. If he needed further information—further confirmation—it would be easy to get. He nodded at the men. “Thank you. I believe I know who it was who led you astray. Let me know if you see him around these parts again.”
“Oh, if we see him again, we’ll be having several words with him ourselves, you may be sure.” Clement Boswell cracked his knuckles meaningfully. Every one of the men looked like they’d have a few words to add to whatever Clement thought to say.
Marcus looked at Sean, then at Ferguson, and nodded. Sean stepped back and opened the library door. Ferguson waved the men toward it. With bows and gruff goodbyes to both him and Niniver, the men filed out. With final nods up the room, Sean and Ferguson followed.
When the door shut, Niniver swung to face him. “Ramsey McDougal?”
He met her gaze, saw the ire in her eyes. “So I would guess.” His mind was leaping to several further conclusions, but of those he as yet had no proof.
Niniver had been searching his face—for some sign of what, he wasn’t sure—but now she swung back to face her desk, surveyed the piles of papers upon it, then she pulled up the chair and sat. “At least they now know better than to follow McDougal’s advice.” She started shifting papers—then, as if she were speaking to herself, muttered, “Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever see the end of Nigel and Nolan’s legacy.”
Still standing where he’d been, to her left and a pace back from the desk, he heard the underlying frustration in her tone, and wondered…but until he had some greater right of claim to her confidence, he couldn’t push for an explanation.
And from the glimpse he got of the set of her lips and chin, she wasn’t about to offer one.
That there was something more going on, some deeper problem with the estate or the clan’s finances—or both—seemed fairly certain, but he couldn’t help her in that sphere unless she invited him in…
Was this a viable opening? An opportune moment to steer her toward the notion of marriage now that her clansmen had so clearly withdrawn from the lists?
He started to juggle ways of approaching the subject.
She slammed one paper down on a pile and grabbed up another, then made a disgusted sound. “Manure! Who would have imagined they could possibly get into a dispute over manure?”
Her rising tone, let alone the violence of her movements, bore testimony to her present temper.
Deciding that, after all, now was not the time to go down on bended knee, he murmured, “I’ve several letters to write. I’ll be in the study.”
“Hmm.” She dipped her head to show she’d heard, but didn’t lift her gaze from her papers.
Marcus headed for the door. Proposing could wait for a more propitious moment. Right now, he had the matter of McDougal to attend to, and for him, protecting Niniver would always come first.
* * *
He returned to the library an hour later. Niniver was still sitting behind her desk, still poring over the papers spread over its surface.
She looked up when he shut the door. She watched him walk down the long room. He wondered at the odd expression on her face, closed, tense, yet as if she were drinking in the sight of him…as if he’d be gone tomorrow.
No chance. He didn’t know what might have made her think that, but he wasn’t about to leave, and he wasn’t about to be dismissed, either. Especially not after last night.
Halting before the desk, he held out two of the letters he’d spent the last hour writing; he’d already given the one for his family in the Vale to Sean to deliver. “I’d be grateful if you would frank these.”
A slight frown still inhabiting her eyes—she’d been all but scowling at her papers when he’d walked in—she took the letters and scanned the directions. “Glencrae? He’s a connection of yours, isn’t he?”
“Yes. He married one of my father’s cousins. They live in the Highlands.”
She wrote her title across the corner, then looked at the second letter.
“The Hemmingses in Glasgow are Thomas’s kin—connections of yours.”
She humphed and wrote again.
“Thank you.” He scooped up the letters and dropped them on the tray on the corner of the desk. The tray already contained several missives addressed in her neat, distinctly feminine script.
She’d looked back at the papers spread before her. Her expression… She almost looked defeated.
She started chewing her lower lip again.
Tamping down his instincts, which insisted he should outright demand to be told what the problem was, he hesitated, then walked to the nearest armchair, dragged it around, positioned it before the desk, and sat.
And waited.
Slowly, her gaze rose, until it fixed on his face. She continued to frown. She studied him for a moment, then prompted, “Did you want something?”
Several responses popped into his mind, but he squelched them. “Actually, I was wondering if you might want—or at least could use—something I can offer.” His tone even, he continued, “I’ve worked with my father managing the Vale lands for the past ten and more years. I managed the estate on my own for nearly a year when my parents were traveling, before Thomas came. I now run my own estate. I know quite a lot about agricultural enterprises, especially those in this locality. I also have contacts in many levels of commerce.” He tilted his head. Holding her gaze, studying the weary anxiety in her eyes, as gently as he could, he said, “You’re clearly finding something difficult. If I can help, even if just as a sounding board, someone to listen to your ideas and concerns…” With one hand, he gestured. “I’m here. Use me.”
Her frown slowly faded. She stared at him, clearly considering—transparently debating what she saw as a fairly momentous decision. As the seconds ticked by, he wondered yet again what on earth it was she was hiding. And if he had to guess, she was hiding it from everyone, and had been for some time.
Eventually, she drew in a slow, deep breath. Her gaze still locked on his face, she compressed her lips to a thin line…then she opened them and said, “When I first went through the estate’s accounts after Nolan died, I couldn’t understand why he was always so… exercised. It seemed over every little thing, every tiny expense. Over his last months, he’d always seemed on the brink of…not so much rage as panicked desperation. I wasn’t trained to know what I was looking at, but I do know my numbers, and I’ve lived on the estate all my life. So I had some idea, but everything about the accounts—the payments, the orders, the supplies, the yields—seemed, if not hugely prosperous, more or less what one would expect…”
Refocusing on his eyes, she held his gaze, then quietly said, “Those weren’t the real books. Nolan kept the fake books here, in this desk, in case anyone came looking. The real accounts he kept in his room. When I found those and went through them—” She broke off and drew in another breath, using the moment to steady her voice. “When I finally understood the reality of the clan’s situation… Suffice to say, I understood Nolan’s panic.”
“How bad was it?”
“As things then stood, the clan couldn’t have seen out last year. I wondered if that was what ultimately drove Nolan into that chasm. He’d murdered to get the lairdship, but once he had it…he failed.”
“Yet you’ve managed.” Marcus paused, then asked, “What did you do?”
“I had money of my own—Papa’s older sister was an eccentric, and I inherited her small fortune, and I also had some funds from Mama’s family. I shifted most of those funds into the clan’s accounts.” She paused, then added, “No one knows, so please be discreet.”
He nodded. “So your
funds floated the clan through the immediate storm, but that’s not what’s worrying you now.”
“No, it isn’t.” She looked at the papers covering the desk. “Now I’m worried that even putting all my funds in isn’t going to be enough.”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment, but when she simply chewed her lower lip and volunteered nothing more, he leaned back in the armchair, balanced one booted ankle on his knee, and fixed his gaze on the bookshelves beyond her. “One thing my father drummed into my head—and the heads of all my siblings, the girls included—is that if you need help, you ask. That the old custom of trying to forge on and do it all yourself is not a strength, but instead a weakness.” He paused, then went on, “The Cynster family is widely regarded as one of the wealthiest and most powerful in the country—and with good reason. And part of that reason—the true source of the family’s strength—is that neither its wealth nor its power flow through just one man, or even one branch of the family tree. For instance, my uncle’s the duke—so if you have a political or government-based problem, he’s the one to ask. He and my aunt, the duchess—her contacts are as extensive and as powerful as his. But if you have any question about orcharding, it’s my father’s cousin Spencer Cynster you appeal to. For horses, there’s no authority better than Demon Cynster and his wife, Felicity. For investments of the financial variety, it’s Rupert Cynster. For any type of jewelry or antiquity—or even a house—it’s Alasdair Cynster you ask. And so on.”
Shifting his gaze back to her face, he went on, “The thing is—you ask. If you have a problem that touches an area you aren’t an expert in, you ask someone who is—and even if they don’t know the answer, they’ll know someone who does.” He nodded at the letters he’d dropped on the tray. “I wanted to know more about Ramsey McDougal, so I asked. I wrote to Glencrae, because McDougal is from the Highlands, and Glencrae is a Highland earl and well placed to learn what I need to know—namely why the scion of a Highland laird is lurking in, of all places, Ayr. McDougal’s been in the vicinity for more than three years, and that in itself is strange. He has no local connections that I know of—which is the purpose of the second letter. The Hemmingses will know if McDougal has legitimate business interests in or around Ayr—or if they don’t immediately know, they’ll know who to ask to find out.”
He paused, then added, “It hasn’t escaped my notice that Ayr is a considerable way from the Highlands, and with all the ships coming and going constantly from the harbor, it also has a ready-made escape route.”
She blinked. “You think McDougal’s…what? A criminal?”
“Perhaps not quite that. But, as you noted, he was a crony of your brothers, which does not suggest that he’s an upstanding citizen.”
She grimaced and looked down at her papers. “No, indeed.”
“However, to return to my point—that’s the way a large, powerful, and successful family works. We ask each other for help, and help is always forthcoming. A family who understands that their true strength lies in assisting each other is the most powerful clan around.”
She raised her gaze and met his squarely. “I don’t have that sort of family.”
“No. But I do.” He held her gaze. “And you have me.”
Did she? Niniver looked into his eyes and saw the same steady, unwavering strength she always associated with him staring back at her. For a silent minute, she held his regard and let herself acknowledge that he was suggesting she ask for his help. She didn’t need to beg but simply ask. And if she did, he would help her.
She’d already told him so much, why not the rest? And if, as he’d suggested, he could help her? Then for the good of the clan, she should take him up on the offer.
Which, she had to admit, was a very neat piece of rationalization, even for her.
Yes, she was close to reaching the end of her tether. Yes, she was almost to the point of grasping any lifeline she could find, yet in telling him the real source of her anxiety, wasn’t she also trying to tie him to her? To keep him there—to give him a reason to stay? A reason that might work to hold him at the manor for the foreseeable future so that she and he could continue their liaison?
That was what she wanted; there was no question in her mind about that.
When he’d come in and then sat in the armchair, she’d been sure he’d come to tell her that, as she no longer needed his protection, he was leaving and returning to Bidealeigh.
Instead, here she was, being tempted—by him—to appeal to his protective, champion-like streak again.
Yet he was inviting her to ask, and he seemed to enjoy the challenge of helping her. Cast in that light, her manipulation was actually mutually beneficial…
She looked down. Selecting from the various piles, she picked up two sets of papers. “As far as I can tell, it’s the balance of things that’s going to make keeping the whole enterprise afloat seriously difficult.”
He took the reports she handed him. While he glanced at them, she clasped her hands on the desk, and proceeded to describe the clan’s financial problems as she saw them—something she’d shared with no one else.
The relief…was enormous.
He asked questions, and she answered. Now she’d opened the floodgates, she saw no reason to try to restrict the flow. If he could help her, if he would help her, then it behooved her to share all she knew.
At one point, she admitted, “Part of the reason I was so annoyed with my would-be clan suitors was that I was struggling with all this for the clan, and they seemed intent on making my life harder.”
He grunted understandingly, then asked about the crop yields.
They went through everything. He queried the need for several payments, but when she explained, he understood. She was relieved to discover that he listened to her and took in the substance of what she tried to convey. Like her father—but unlike her brothers—he seemed to understand the need to take into account the people involved, and that, at its core, a clan was about its people. Ultimately, he agreed with her assessment that she’d already cut every expense that could be cut without damaging the clan itself.
But his probing didn’t end there. At his suggestion, they separated all the threads of the estate’s business dealings and evaluated each separately. That involved pulling out all the current ledgers, as well as the ledgers from the past several years for comparison. He fetched two other tables from the other end of the library and set them to either side of her desk so they could spread out the documents and still see everything.
Ferguson looked in to ask about luncheon. She directed him to bring in a cold collation, and she and Marcus ate and drank as they worked.
As the afternoon wore on, between them, they drew up charts of expenses and income for each clan business, then focused on those areas where, in the short term, the former exceeded the latter. Ultimately, Marcus pushed everything aside bar their charts and, sitting in the armchair he’d pulled up to the front of the desk, drew a timeline, once again showing expenses and income, week by week.
Sinking into her admiral’s chair, Niniver leaned on the desk and peered across it as he wrote. His scrawl wasn’t as legible as her writing, but it was mostly figures; she could make it out.
Finally, with a flourish, he circled three payments. “There.” He sat back, stared at the timeline for several seconds, then raised his gaze to her face. “Those are your problem payments. By the end of the year”—he pointed to the figure at the bottom of the sheet—“you’ll be ahead—not by a lot but by enough to be comfortable. Enough to take the clan through into next year, and through the next season, and things should get better after that.”
She drew the sheet around and studied it. The payments in question were large—larger than any extra funds she could lay her hands on. She grimaced, but recalling his earlier admonition, she looked at him and asked, “So how do I get around these three problems?”
His lips curved in fleeting acknowledgment, but then he sobered. “As I see it, you have t
hree options. You could approach a bank or an investor for a loan. You could mortgage clan land, even just a part of it. Or…”
Marcus paused. He knew better than to suggest she accept a loan from him or his family; every clan had its pride. But he seriously doubted a bank would grant a loan to a clan with a lady at its helm, and mortgaging was problematic, given they were talking of clan lands. He focused on the sheet covered with his scrawl, currently in front of her. He frowned and held out his hand. “Let me see that again.”
She handed over the sheet.
He ran his eye down both columns, noting the flow of the figures. “If, in the end, you come out ahead, then it might just be possible to alter the timing of your payments to keep the clan’s head above water, so to speak.” He grimaced at the sheet; he’d used the collated figures to compile it. “We need to go back to our earlier calculations and figure out what goes into each of these payments, and whether some can be split into smaller amounts stretched out over longer periods.”
She didn’t understand at first, but once he showed her what he meant, she threw herself into the arduous chore of breaking up all the amounts they’d previously consolidated. He worked on the expenses; she tackled the income.
Another hour ticked by. Ferguson supplied them with tea and thick slices of fruitcake, which they absentmindedly consumed. They brushed crumbs from the desk and continued scribbling. She’d stated that she knew her numbers; as he glanced over the figures she supplied, he was impressed by her accuracy. She was a great deal more reliable than his brothers.
The afternoon was sliding toward evening when, finally, they packed away the account ledgers, tidied the piles of notes, and at last laid out their assembled summation of the projected incomings and outgoings, broken down into individual payments week by week.
Marcus placed his palms on the desk, leaned on his braced arms, and scanned the figures. Niniver came to stand beside him; biting her lip, she did the same.
Slowly, something that felt very like triumph bloomed inside him. He forced himself to check twice more before he raised her hopes, but yes, the way was there. “You can do it.” Glancing sideways, he met her gaze. “If you tell these four merchants”—looking back at the papers, he pointed to four names, accounting for four large payments over the year—“that the clan wishes to set up a monthly account, with a regular monthly payment, you’ll even out the payments sufficiently to never be short of funds.”
Cynster [22.00] A Match for Marcus Cynster Page 20