Laura motioned for Weatherwax to sit before going to the desk and closing one of the ledgers. She straightened the others, tucking away a few scraps of paper within their pages. “I apologize for the clutter.”
“Don’t apologize,” Alex said. “It isn’t as if you were expecting anyone.”
“Not in the bookroom, certainly.” She took a seat on the settee, arranging her skirts as Alex came to stand behind her. “Why have you come, sir? We didn’t anticipate you until tomorrow at the earliest.”
Weatherwax availed himself of the chair. He tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket. “When last we met at my office, ma’am, you said, quite emphatically, that you had no intention to marry.”
“Nor did she,” Alex said. “Until I proposed to her.”
The solicitor’s gaze shot to his. “With respect, sir, it’s my sworn duty to look after the interests of Miss Hayes and her brother. It would be preferable if she and I spoke privately.”
Alex rested his hand on Laura’s shoulder. It was as possessive a gesture as his standing behind her. “I think not.”
“You may speak freely,” Laura said. “Mr. Archer is my husband now. We haven’t any secrets.”
Weatherwax’s face went a shade paler.
Alex recognized a guilty conscience when he saw one. He wondered what crime the man had committed. Had he stolen from Laura and her brother? Fudged the books or pocketed a portion of the rents? “Out with it, man. Best to confess your sins before we bring in another solicitor to discover the extent of them.”
“Another solicitor?” Weatherwax gave Laura a look of alarm. “Have you consulted with someone?”
“I’ve made enquiries,” Laura admitted. “After your unwillingness to relinquish control—”
“Your brother is an invalid. I had every reason to be reluctant. And as to you consulting with some other solicitor…a regrettable action, to be sure. Deeply regrettable in every respect. London is populated with unscrupulous solicitors. Men who haven’t the faintest notion of legal nuance.”
“I didn’t consult with one of those,” Laura said. “I wouldn’t have done. You must give me some credit, sir. I dealt with Mr. Finchley in Fleet Street. He came highly recommended.”
“Thomas Finchley?” Weatherwax echoed in a strangled voice. “Of Finchley and Fothergill?”
Laura nodded. “Yes. That’s right.”
Alex wouldn’t have thought the man could get any paler. Good God, was the mere name of Tom Finchley enough to provoke such a reaction? His erstwhile friend had been a slim, bespectacled boy. Not the sort of fellow to strike fear into the hearts of those he encountered.
What had the intervening years done to him?
“A villain,” Weatherwax said. “He bends the law to his purpose. I wouldn’t advise—”
“We’re past that, surely,” Laura said. “I’m married now, before my birthday, and my brother will reach his majority next month. We haven’t any more need of you, sir. All that remains is for you to hand over the relevant documents, the deeds of ownership and so forth, so that we—”
“Miss Hayes…” Weatherwax cleared his throat. His pallor had degenerated from bleach white to pea green. “Regarding your father’s estate—”
“Mrs. Archer,” Alex corrected again. He regarded the solicitor with interest. “You don’t have the documents, do you?”
Weatherwax tugged at his cravat. “As to that—”
“What do you mean, you don’t have them?” Laura asked. “Are they back at your office? Have you mislaid them somewhere?”
“He hasn’t mislaid anything,” Alex said. “He’s taken it.”
“No, no,” Weatherwax objected. “I took nothing from you, ma’am. Everything I’ve done has been engineered to increase your wealth, not to diminish it. These are the perils of investing, you must understand. There’s nothing criminal in suffering losses.”
Laura’s shoulder stiffened under Alex’s hand. “What losses? What have you done, sir?”
“You may as well make a clean breast of it,” Alex advised the solicitor. “We’ll find out one way or another.”
Weatherwax darted him a narrow glance before returning his attention to Laura. “After your father’s death, there was marked interest in the properties in London and Dorset. A buyer came forward. Another perfumer. He offered a healthy sum. I’d have been a fool not to take it.”
“You sold them? Both of them?” Laura’s hand pressed to her midriff. “Oh, how could you?”
“It was in the best interest of you and your brother—”
“You had no right!”
Alex’s squeezed her shoulder. “Easy. Let him speak.” Let him bury himself, Alex wanted to say. The devious swine.
Weatherwax drew himself up in righteous indignation. “Indeed, ma’am. By the terms of your father’s will, I had every right. There is nothing that requires me to inform you of my actions, only that I act with your best interests in mind—which I did, most assuredly.”
“Then where is the money from the sale of the properties?” Laura asked. “Why is it that my brother and I have been obliged to live like paupers these three years? The flower farm in Dorset alone—”
“As to that…” He cleared his throat. “A series of bad investments. All of them made with the best of intentions—”
“All of the money is gone,” Laura said. “Is that what you mean?”
“I’m afraid it is. A fact for which, you must believe, I feel a deep regret.”
“Then what have we been living on?” she asked. “How have you been paying our quarterly allowance?”
“The remainder of the estate still earns a small sum. On occasion, I’ve been obliged to supplement it from my own income—an action which I’ve undertaken purely out of my deep regard for you and your family.”
“How dared you.” Laura’s soft voice was thick with fury. “To steal from us, and then to presume to make us the objects of your charity—”
“You have it wrong, ma’am. The actions I took—”
“I want proof,” she said. “I want to see it in writing. All of the transactions you undertook on our behalf. All of the money you paid to us from your own accounts. I want every last penny accounted for.”
“Miss Hayes—”
“Mrs. Archer. And I will see it in writing, sir. I have no reason to believe anything you say to me.” Laura stood abruptly. “I need a moment to compose myself before the guests arrive. Pray excuse me.”
Alex followed her from the bookroom, but not before shooting a warning glance at Weatherwax who was hovering above his chair. “Stay.”
Weatherwax slumped back down.
Laura walked quickly through the hall, making her way to the stairs. Alex caught her by the arm at the bottom of the steps and turned her to face him.
“Look at me,” he said.
She was biting her lip, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears as they met his.
“It’s going to be all right,” he said gruffly. “Do you understand me? Everything is going to be all right.”
Her mouth trembled. “All of my plans—”
“Hush. Just…trust me. God knows I’m no saint, Laura, but I’m asking you to—”
“I do trust you.”
His heart clenched. “Good.” He brought his hands up to cup her face. “I’m going to have words with the fellow, and then I’m going to pitch him out into the street. Do you object to that plan, Mrs. Archer?”
“Alex—”
“Do you?”
Her throat rippled on a swallow. “No. I don’t suppose I do.”
Alex waited until she was safely up the stairs before returning to the bookroom. Weatherwax was still in his chair, the mantle of aggrieved solicitor firmly about his shoulders.
“Mr. Archer,” he said briskly, “I don’t know who you
are or where you’ve come from, but I warn you, sir, I fully intend to find out. And if anything should strike me amiss—the slightest whiff of fraud or deceit—I’ll see that this marriage is annulled.”
Alex came to stand in front of Laura’s deck. “You’re welcome to try.” He leaned back against its edge, folding his arms. “But I wouldn’t advise it. Not when you’re guilty of fraud and deceit yourself.”
Weatherwax puffed his chest. “A slanderous charge. I could bring suit against you for that, sir. My reputation as a solicitor—”
“I wonder what another solicitor would have to say about your conduct?” Alex paused. It was a stab in the dark. “Tom Finchley, perhaps?”
The effect was instantaneous.
Weatherwax’s face changed color, and he sputtered his words. “A villain of the first order! And he’ll have no room to accuse me of anything unethical. The man put a spy in my office. The shameless guttersnipe stole a file from me, and then disappeared. It’s a dark game Finchley and Fothergill play. Everyone knows it. The very notion of Miss Hayes consulting with the man—”
“Mrs. Archer,” Alex corrected automatically.
The idea of Tom having grown up to be a villain both fascinated and disturbed him. Alex hadn’t parted from his former friend on the best of terms. He’d hurt and betrayed him. How much of that betrayal had shaped the man Tom was today?
It was a troubling thought.
“Mrs. Archer, then,” Weatherwax amended, as if the name left a bad taste in his mouth. “You’ll forgive my skepticism. She said nothing of you at our last appointment. The very idea that there was time for the two of you to meet and marry—”
“A whirlwind courtship.”
“And now you summon me here to lay claim to half of the Hayes business. You don’t waste any time on pretense, do you, sir?”
“Which brings us to the crux of the matter,” Alex said. “How much of the business is left?”
The solicitor seemed to crumple. “The property in France is all that remains.”
“And the profit you made selling the other properties?”
“I invested the proceeds from both the sale of the Dorset and the London properties into a canal scheme. It was guaranteed to be a success. I had it on good authority.” Weatherwax withdrew his handkerchief again and blotted the perspiration from his brow. “Unfortunately, the project ultimately failed, absorbing all of the stakeholders’ money. There is some residual litigation over the matter, but it appears unlikely that any of the investors will recoup their losses. Not to a significant degree. These are the risks of doing business—”
“My wife wants to see the relevant documents. Bills of sale, bank records, and the like. You will have them here by tomorrow morning. Send them by messenger. My wife is in no mood to see your face again.”
Weatherwax gaped. “But Mr. Archer—”
“Shall we say nine o’clock at the latest? That’s not too unreasonable.” Alex straightened to his full height. “And now, I require you to write a letter confessing everything you’ve done.”
Weatherwax leapt to his feet. “A confession!”
“It will save time later should you choose to deny your actions.” Alex collected blank paper, quill, and ink from Laura’s desk. He thrust them into the solicitor’s hands and ushered him out of the bookroom. “You may perform the task in the kitchen.”
The last thing Alex was going to do was leave the man alone with the household ledgers. God only knew what sort of underhand business he might get up to.
“Mr. Archer!” Mrs. Crabtree appeared in the hall, the tea tray in her hands. “The wedding guests are arriving!”
“I’ll fetch my wife.” Alex shoved Weatherwax forward. “In the meanwhile, if you would be so good as to show this fellow to the kitchens? He has some work to do.”
The housekeeper scowled at Weatherwax, but she asked no questions. In the Hayeses’ household, it seemed that the solicitor was universally known—and disliked.
Alex could muster no sympathy for the man. He’d crushed Laura’s dreams. Stolen the future she’d planned right out from under her. Alex was half tempted to thrash the fellow.
A fine sight that would be for Laura. Her new husband engaged in fisticuffs with the family solicitor on their wedding day.
He sighed heavily.
“What’s going on?” Teddy appeared in the hall in his wheeled chair. “And why the devil is Weatherwax here? I haven’t seen him since my father’s funeral.”
Alex looked at his new brother-in-law. “He brought news about your father’s will.”
“Bad news?”
“It isn’t good.” Alex frowned. Laura was accustomed to keeping things from her brother. Alex wasn’t so circumspect. He could see no reason for it. “You and I need to have a talk.”
Teddy’s face grew solemn. “Very well.” And then: “It’s about time.”
Later that evening Laura readied herself for bed with some trepidation. Alex was downstairs speaking with her brother. He’d said he’d join her in half an hour. Not to bed her, she didn’t think. It was their wedding night, true, but neither of them were in any mood for romance.
She’d stumbled through their wedding breakfast as if in a dream. Greeted their guests with a brittle smile pasted on her face, and partaken of Mrs. Crabtree’s carefully prepared dainties, never tasting a morsel. It had been so much sawdust in her mouth.
Alex had done better than she had. Every time she’d glanced in his direction, he was smiling or laughing. Ever the chameleon.
They’d had no time alone in which to talk. Even when the last guest had gone, there was still Teddy and Aunt Charlotte to contend with. It was an awkward business being a newlywed couple without a home of their own, or a place to depart to for their honeymoon. Instead, they were obliged to remain at Bramble Cottage, very much at loose ends.
Alex had occupied the time by assisting with moving Teddy’s things to a bedroom downstairs—a long overdue project that absorbed the remainder of the day.
Laura was grateful for her new husband’s consideration toward her family, but she owned to a certain sense of frustration.
What had happened with Mr. Weatherwax?
And what was Alex going to do now that there was no wealth or property to keep him here?
“It’s going to be all right,” he’d promised her.
Lord above, but she’d believed him.
It was a strange sensation to let someone else shoulder a burden. She felt both lighter in spirit, and a little queasy. How could she relinquish control over something so important? Not just her future, but Teddy’s?
She brushed out her hair and slipped into a nightgown. It was the farthest thing from bridal finery. There was no French silk or broderie lace. Only unrelieved white cotton, covering her from her neck to her toes. Its one concession to femininity was a thin—slightly frayed—white ribbon woven at the wrists, neckline, and hem.
Alex had lived abroad for decades. He must have encountered all manner of sophisticated women in seductive negligees. She felt countrified and childish by comparison. Even worse, she felt poor. Far poorer than she had this morning.
She’d told him he would have half of the perfume business, and now there was nothing left of it. No wealth. No property, save a dilapidated distillery in France.
He had no reason to stay now.
She climbed into her bed and pulled the quilted counterpane up to her chin.
Not five minutes later a knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” she called out.
Alex entered, shutting the door behind him. He stood there, his back against the closed door, gazing at her in the candlelight. After a long moment, he cleared his throat. “In bed already?”
Laura wished she could see his face. Not that it ever revealed much. “It’s been a long day.”
He advanced into the room. He was in his shirtsleeves, his cravat loose at his neck. “It has. And an eventful one.”
“I’ve been waiting for you to tell me how you managed to resolve things with Mr. Weatherwax.”
“There’s been no opportunity.” Alex removed his cufflinks and set them down on her dressing table with a soft clink. “We can talk now, if you like.”
Laura struggled to a sitting position amongst the pillows and blankets. The counterpane fell to her waist. She resisted the urge to pull it up again. Alex had seen her in far less than a cotton nightgown. Besides, he was her husband now. There was no reason to indulge in false modesty. “I would. If you’re equal to it.”
He continued undressing, as casually as if it were an everyday occurrence to be inside her bedroom after dark. “You might rather hear it in the morning. It will disrupt your sleep otherwise.”
She watched him remove his cravat and unfasten the top buttons of his shirt collar. Her pulse skipped. “My sleep is already going to be disrupted.”
He shrugged out of his waistcoat, draping it across the back of a chair in the corner, before bending to remove his boots.
“I’ve never shared a bed with anyone before,” she said. “Not even with a friend or relation.”
He glanced up at her. His mouth hitched in a smile. “Nervous?”
“A little,” she admitted.
“Don’t be.”
Laura smoothed her blanket over her lap with unsteady hands. It was easy for him to say. No doubt he’d shared his bed with dozens of women.
He straightened to untuck his shirt from his trousers. Reaching a hand behind his neck, he stripped the loose-fitting linen garment off over his head.
She sucked in a sharp breath. His bare torso was all lean muscle and bronzed skin. Strong, and powerful, and rather thrilling to look at. She couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away.
He cast her another look. A flush of color darkened his neck. “You’re staring.”
She brought her hands to cover her face, squeezing her eyes tight as she stifled a mortified groan. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”
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