Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(82)

West gave him an alert glance. “Did you find anything interesting in the account records?”

Ransom’s mouth curved slightly, but his expression was deadly serious as he replied. “Aye.”





Chapter 29




As Phoebe led the way to the study, where they could speak in complete privacy, she noticed Ethan Ransom absorbing every detail of his surroundings. Not in the way of someone who appreciated interior décor, but rather like a surveyor examining distances and angles. He was pleasant and polite, with a guarded charm that almost made her forget the flash of ice-cold brutality in the first few moments of their disastrous meeting.

Even without having been told about Ransom’s appointment with the Metropolitan Police, Phoebe would have known he held a position of responsibility in some potentially dangerous profession. There was something almost catlike about him—a quiet and lethal grace. She sensed that West’s relaxed presence helped to make him far more approachable than he ordinarily would have been.

Once inside the study, Phoebe and West sat at the table, while Ransom stood on the opposite side and began to lay out documents. The review of the loan and initial expenses began predictably enough: there had been checks made out to brick and tile manufacturers for field drainage systems, and other checks for installation. There were also checks for land work such as hedge removal and leveling, and waste land reclamation. But soon they reached a run of checks written for less easily identifiable purposes.

“C. T. Hawkes and Associates,” Phoebe read aloud, frowning as she saw a draft in the amount of five thousand eight hundred pounds. “What kind of work do they do?”

“It’s a residential building company,” Ransom replied.

“Why would Edward Larson pay such a large sum to a house builder? Do they also repair farm buildings?”

“I don’t believe so, my lady.”

Frowning, Phoebe scrutinized the next large entry. “James Prince Hayward of London. Who is that?”

“A coach builder,” West said, his gaze moving farther down the list. “Here are expenses for a saddler and harness maker . . . a domestic employment agency . . . and more than a few charges at Winterborne’s department store.” He gave Ransom a sardonic glance, shaking his head slowly.

It vexed Phoebe that they both seemed to understand something she hadn’t yet grasped. She mulled over the information. House . . . coach . . . horse furnishings . . . domestic servants . . . “Edward set up a household somewhere,” she said in wonder. “With money he borrowed from my son’s inheritance.” A wobbly feeling came over her, and she needed ballast even though she was seated. She watched her slender white fingers creep over West’s coat sleeve as if they belonged to someone else. The solid muscle beneath her hand was familiar and comforting. “Is there more you can tell me?”

West spoke in a flat, resigned tone. “Out with it, Ransom.”

The other man nodded and leaned down to pull more papers from his bag. “Mr. Larson purchased a speculative house built not far from here, in Chipping Ongar. It has eight bedrooms, a conservatory and a veranda.” Ransom set the floor plans and elevations in front of them. “There’s also a walled garden and a small coach house occupied by a single-horse brougham.” Ransom paused to glance at her with a faint frown of concern, as if to evaluate her emotional state before continuing. “It’s been leased for the nominal sum of one pound a year to Mrs. Parrett, a woman of approximately twenty-two years of age.”

“Why such a large a house for only one person?” Phoebe asked.

“There seems to be a plan for the woman to turn it into a boardinghouse someday. Her true name is Ruth Parris. She’s the unmarried daughter of a button and comb maker who lives not far from here. The family is poor but respectable. About five years ago, Miss Parris left her family’s home when it was discovered she was with child. She went to stay with a distant cousin, gave birth, and eventually returned to Essex to take up residence at the Chipping Ongar house with her son. A boy of four.”

Almost Justin’s age, Phoebe thought numbly. “What is his name?” she asked.

A long hesitation followed. “Henry.”

Tears stung her eyes. She fumbled in her pocked for a handkerchief, pulled it out and blotted them.

“My lady,” she heard Ransom ask, “is it possible your husband—”

“No,” she said in a watery voice. “My husband and I were inseparable, and besides, he hadn’t the health or opportunity to carry on an affair. There’s no doubt it’s Edward’s.” She struggled to fit this new idea of Edward in with what she knew about him. It was like trying to push her heel into a punishingly tight shoe.

West remained silent, staring fixedly at the floor plans without really seeing them.

“Even if Larson isn’t the father,” Ransom said, “you still have ample proof of negligence on his part. He abused his position as executor and trustee by using your son’s inheritance as collateral for a loan and using the money to benefit himself. More to the back of that, the loan company is at fault in failing to provide oversight, since the money was designated only for land improvement.”

“Edward’s executorship must end immediately,” Phoebe said, her fist clenching around the handkerchief. “However, I want to proceed in a way that will cause the least amount of harm to Ruth and her child. They’ve suffered enough.”