Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(77)

“It’s exhausting,” he agreed, kissing his way down her arm.

“I’ll slip inside the house first, and you can follow a few minutes later. I’ll make sure you’re well fed.” Phoebe grinned and tugged her arm away. “We must keep up your strength for all that accounting work.”





Chapter 27




As the midday sun slanted gently through the study windows, West leaned over a row of open ledgers on the oak table. He cross-checked entries and occasionally paused to rummage through folders of correspondence and legal documents. Phoebe sat quietly at the table, providing answers when she could and making notes for her own reference. She took pleasure in the sight of him, shirtsleeves rolled up over his muscled forearms, his trouser braces crossing over his broad back and down his front to his lean waist.

To her relief, West didn’t seem at all glum or annoyed about having to spend a sunny day indoors. He liked having problems to solve. She sensed he wasn’t the kind who would do well if he were set adrift for too long. He took a keen interest in the workings of everyday life, in practical matters. It was one of the qualities that made him very different from Henry, who had thought of leisure time as his real life, had hated being distracted by mundane subjects, and had loathed discussing money for any reason. Henry had preferred to look inward, and West to look outward, and in both cases, a little balance was needed.

Then there was poor Edward, who would have been far more like the high-minded Henry if he’d been able, but instead had been compelled by circumstances to earn a living. Henry’s father had been a viscount, whereas Edward’s father had been the second son. It certainly couldn’t have escaped Edward that if he married Phoebe, he would finally be able to live as lord of the manor and acquire most of the power and privileges Henry had known. Then he would also be able to focus on the inner life and shrink from unpleasant realities.

Except that times were changing. The nobility could no longer live in lofty ivory towers from which they had no clear view of the people down below. West had made Phoebe more aware of that than ever before. If the estate went under, it would not be a slow submerging, like a leaky barge. It was a gradual approach to an unseen cliff. Hopefully she could change course before they reached the sudden plummet.

“Phoebe,” West said, interrupting her thoughts, “Do you have any other financial files? Specifically one with a bank book and checks?”

Phoebe shook her head, watching as he sorted through a stack of folders on the table. “No, this is all we have.”

“You may have missed one at the Larson offices, then.”

She frowned. “Uncle Frederick assured me this was all the material they had pertaining to the estate. Why do you think something is missing?”

“What do you know about the loan that was arranged two and half years ago from the Land Loan and Enfranchisement Company?”

“I’m afraid I know nothing about that. How much was it for?”

“Fifteen thousand pounds.”

“Fifteen . . .” Phoebe began, her eyes flying open. “For what purpose?”

“Land improvements.” West stared at her closely. “Larson never discussed it with you?”

“No.”

“The loan was charged against Justin’s future inheritance.”

“Are you sure?”

“Here’s a copy of the loan agreement.”

Phoebe shot up from her chair and hurried around the table to look at the document in his hand.

“This was tucked into a ledger,” West continued, “but as far as I can tell, it was never entered properly into the books. Nor can I find any records from the loan account.”

Dazedly she read the terms of the loan. “Seven percent interest to be repaid in twenty-five years . . .”

“The loan company was incorporated by a special act of Parliament,” West said, “to help struggling estate owners.” He sent the document a disparaging glance. “You could borrow at four and a half percent from a regular bank.”

Phoebe examined a page bearing Henry’s signature. “Henry signed this a week before he died.” She put a hand to her stomach, feeling slightly nauseated.

“Phoebe,” she heard West ask after a moment, “Was he fully cognizant at that point? Would he have signed something like that without understanding what it was?”

“No. He slept a great deal, but when he was awake, he was quite sensible. Near the end, he was trying to settle his affairs, and there were so many visitors, including solicitors and managers. I was always trying to shoo them out, to let him rest. I don’t know why he didn’t mention the loan to me. He must have been trying to spare me from having to worry about it.” Setting down the document, she passed a trembling hand over her forehead.

Seeing how upset she was, West turned her to face him. “Here, now,” he said, his tone comforting, “it’s not an unreasonable amount of money when it comes to making improvements on an estate of this size.”

“It’s not just the amount,” Phoebe said distractedly. “It’s a nasty surprise, leaping up like a troll from beneath a bridge. Henry knew I should have been made of something like this, if I were to manage the estate . . . but . . . he never expected me to manage it, did he? He expected me to leave everything in Edward’s hands. And I did, for two years! I took no responsibility for anything. I’m furious with myself! How could I be so foolish and self-indulgent—”