by Shana Galen
Lorrie sank into the chair across from him. “What do you mean ‘ruined’?”
“He has been swindled out of all the money he has not tied up in entailments. There is no dowry for my sister, no more for my brother Michael’s living, and no allowance for me. What’s more, he’s mortgaged the property that came to him through my mother, and now he will lose that as well. I know it’s considered rude to discuss money—”
She waved her hand. “But in times like this you cannot keep quiet. I promise you, I think no less of you or your family. It has happened to many great families.”
He nodded, seeming slightly less ill at ease now. How mortifying for him to have to reveal his father’s personal failure. And yet, he had trusted her with the information. “You said you need my help?”
“I told my father I would look at his accounts and try and find a solution. There is probably not a solution, but I have always been good with numbers.”
She nodded eagerly. She had seen the lists of numbers he’d made the other night. “That is very good of you. And what of your brothers? Are they also looking for a solution?”
He shook his head. “My father hasn’t told them yet.”
“Why not?”
He sighed. “He only told me because he wants me to find the man who swindled him and beat him until he gives my father back his money.”
“Oh.”
He sat. “I demanded the accounts instead, but my father has no faith I will find a solution. I confess, I do not know what possessed me to ask for these files. My father is right. I’m an idiot. I can’t read the first—”
She stood and slammed her hand on the desk. “You are not an idiot.”
He looked up at her, mouth slightly quirked at her outburst.
“You have word blindness. That does not make you an idiot. Not only that, but you are smart enough to ask for help. My help.”
“At the moment I’m not certain how smart that makes me.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Very smart, because I am a very helpful person.”
“You’ve helped others in similar situations, have you?”
“Not exactly, but I like the idea of helping others. I’m not very good with numbers, I’m afraid.” She gave him a sad shrug of her shoulders. She had so wanted to be of assistance too.
“I don’t need your help with numbers. I need you to read these documents to me.”
“Oh!” She sat straight. “That I can do. When shall we begin?”
“Now.” He slid one over to her, and she cleared her throat and began reading.
It did not take her very long before she had the general idea of what had happened and who had been behind it. After the sixth or seventh document pertaining to a diamond mine in Brazil, she looked over at the Viking, who had been carefully listening to her, occasionally writing numbers down, but mostly frowning.
“I know very little about South America, mines, or investments, but after reading these documents, I cannot believe your father would have continued to give this Miguel de los Santos any funds. It is as though your father investigated the scheme and then willfully ignored the warnings of those he asked for advice.”
“It does seem that this early advice was not heeded.”
“I don’t understand why not. If something looks too good to be true, it probably is.”
He steepled his hands. “Go on.”
“This smacks of desperation. I don’t mean to criticize your father, but it seems as though he was taking an awful risk.”
“You aren’t criticizing my father.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“I told you I met with my father and my cousin Francis. My father did not read any of this until too late. He trusted all of it with the man who orchestrated the investment.”
She shook her head. “Surely you do not mean Francis.”
Ewan said nothing, not that she had expected him to.
“Are you saying your father is ruined because Francis…” There was no other way to say it. “Francis was greedy and did not heed the warnings?”
He met her gaze directly.
“No.” She held her hands up as though pushing the information away. “I don’t believe this. I cannot.”
“Then by all means, read on.”
She did, and it was even worse than she had thought.
* * *
By five in the morning, when the first sounds of the servants rising could be heard, Ewan had listened to Lady Lorraine read almost half the contents of the file. Her demeanor had grown increasingly dispirited over the course of the night, as though the weight of his father’s troubles weighed on her as well.
Or perhaps it was coming to know her intended’s true self that weighed her down. He did not want to be pleased at her disappointment, but he could not quite keep some of the pleasure from making its way to the surface.
Despite his fatigue, he was almost smiling.
“The servants are rising,” he said, interrupting her reading of the mortgage document on the property in Yorkshire.
“Is it that late?” she asked, stretching.
Ewan quickly looked away. The way she’d arched her back made his breath catch. He was already tired and his defenses weakened by the long night of work and study. He didn’t trust himself with her if his thoughts turned from facts and figures toward more carnal pleasures. Thank God the servants were a danger and he would have to leave her.
“I’ll go to my room first. You follow in about ten minutes.”
He placed his hands on the desk and pushed up, pausing when she covered his hand with hers. “Thank you,” she said.
“For?”
“For trusting me with this information. For asking me to help you.”
He still could not have said why he’d done it. But when he’d finally given up all hope of ever understanding any of the documents his father had given him, when he’d resigned himself to failing his family once again, he’d thought of her.
She might have looked down her nose at him. She might have complained at the tedium of the work or the long hours. But she’d done none of that, and somehow he’d known he could trust her. For a man who trusted no one save the others of Draven’s troop—men who had saved his life—trusting a woman was a new experience. Ewan still did not quite have his footing.
He looked down at her bare hand, still covering his. She had small, stubby fingers with blunt nails. He’d noticed them before when she’d thumbed through the file and the papers within. They weren’t the elegant hands a lady might wish for. They were hands that were accustomed to doing more than playing the pianoforte or embroidering fripperies. He liked her all the more for those unfashionable hands.
He drew his hand away before he lost the will to move away from her at all. “Good night.”
“Shall we continue tomorrow—I mean, tonight?” she asked.
“If you don’t mind.” And suddenly he felt shy. What if she did mind? What if she told him she would rather spend her time in some other fashion? He could hardly blame her, and yet, she must have some idea what this meant to him. He gave her a long look. “It’s your decision.”
“Are you giving up?” she asked.
“No!” He spoke more loudly than he’d intended, especially since he was almost certain he had heard the scullery maid about, lighting the fires. “Never,” he whispered.
“Then I am not giving up either. We will find a solution. And I will see you here tonight.”
They met the next night and the next, and each night he came away feeling less alone and more as though he were part of a team. He’d been part of a fighting team, so he knew what that felt like. But he had never been part of any other team. He’d never really had any friends growing up. He rather liked the feeling of having an ally and a confidante, of feeling like he was part of somethi
ng, not the one looking on. At the same time, he knew it could not last. He knew she would grow tired of wanting to help him, tired of tedious legal documents, tired of not sleeping. Then he would be alone again. He had to guard his heart against that possibility.
On the third night, the cold, dreary weather turned rainy and the duchess refused to attend a scheduled dinner party in Richmond. “The drive is too long and the weather too foreboding,” she said. “My head has been aching since I rose this morning, and I have no doubt I will suffer a megrim by this afternoon. Dreadful weather. I fear summer may elude us completely this year.”
The family had been in the drawing room, Ewan standing by a window, watching people huddle under useless umbrellas in the deluge.
“Shall Papa and I go alone then?” Lady Lorraine had asked. And then almost as though she had sensed his gaze on her, she added, “And Mr. Mostyn, of course.”
The duke shook his head. “Your mother is right. This is no sort of weather for a drive to Richmond. We will send our regrets. We could all use a night in. But I must insist we all stay in,” he said, looking pointedly at his wife. The duke, like the rest of the ton, must have heard the rumors that the duchess had taken a new lover. Lorrie had noticed she wore a new diamond and emerald ring, said to be a token of love from her paramour.
But the duchess waved a hand and settled into her chair, looking quite content to stay in. “Bellweather,” she said to the butler standing near the door. “Tell Cook I shall have a small meal in my room at dinner.”
“I’ll join you,” the duke said. Lorrie glanced at her mother, but to her surprise, the duchess didn’t argue.
“Yes, Your Grace. Two for dinner, then?” the butler asked.
The duke looked at Ewan. “Do you plan to dine here tonight, Mr. Mostyn?”
Ewan didn’t mind the duke, but he detested the effort it took to maintain unimportant conversations through several courses. “No.”
Lady Lorraine sighed, and Ewan wondered if she was pleased he would be away or whether she would miss him.
And why the devil did he care? She would be tucked in at home all night. He could dine at the Draven Club and sleep in his own bed at Langley’s. They both needed a break from all the financial papers and account books tonight at any rate. They could come at it again with fresh eyes the next night.
He would not miss ledgers or letters or the survey reports on the flora and fauna of South America his father’s investigator, apparently an amateur explorer, had compiled. He would not miss her.
And as though to prove it to himself, Ewan made a point of ignoring Lady Lorraine for the next hour and taking only the briefest leave of her when he set out in a light drizzle for the Draven Club.
The dining room was empty. Ewan didn’t mind. He was relieved at the quiet and the solitude. For once he could spend an evening without Lady Lorraine prattling on.
Porter came to offer him refreshment, and Ewan asked for wine and whatever the cook had prepared.
“Very good, sir. Mr. Wraxall and Mr. Beaumont are in the reading room.”
Ewan hadn’t come to the club for company, and he intended to eat alone and then find a quiet corner to be alone. But after an hour of brooding, he had checked the clock on the mantel in the empty card room three times. He realized he was waiting for the hour to grow late enough that he might meet Lady Lorraine in the library.
Why couldn’t he put her from his mind?
Beaumont and Wraxall would make him forget. Ewan joined them in the reading room, where they were drinking port and laughing over an old war story. It was one Ewan knew well.
“And when that frog came around the corner and saw Duncan running for him like a raving lunatic, the look on his face made me laugh so hard, I almost forgot to grab him,” Neil said. He smiled as he spoke, and Ewan realized it had been months since he’d seen Neil give a genuine smile.
“And then the frog says, ‘Mon Dieu!’” Beaumont said, raising his voice and affecting a French accent. “And Duncan says—”
Ewan stepped forward. “I’m no god. I’m the devil who will send you to hell.”
Neil and Rafe turned to look at him, Rafe frowning at having his thunder stolen.
“Give over.” Ewan sat at their table. “You’ve told that story a hundred times.”
“Because I tell it well,” Rafe argued, while Neil poured Ewan a glass of port he didn’t particularly want. “You have to do the accents—the frog’s French and Duncan’s Scots brogue.”
“And the accents make it more amusing? I notice you never tell the part about how that frog died.”
The other two men’s smiles faded. They must have remembered that Ewan had run him through with his own bayonet, a boy too young to grow a beard.
“You’re right,” Neil said, putting a hand on Ewan’s shoulder. “That story has grown stale.” He lifted his glass and gestured with it. “I still say Beaumont should have gone into the theater.”
“And make my father even prouder?”
Even Ewan had to smile at the quip. Beaumont’s parent, the Earl of Haddington, was not averse to making his disappointment in his son known.
“What brings you here?” Neil asked Ewan. “No balls tonight? No operas?”
“Dinner party in Richmond, but the duchess did not want to brave the weather.”
“She’s wiser than her choice of bed partners would lead one to believe,” Beaumont said. “Viscount Worthington? The man is nothing short of a lecher.”
“Unlike you, a pillar of morality,” Neil said.
“I have my standards,” Rafe said, sipping his port. “Low as they may be.”
“A night off and you choose to spend it with us,” Neil said. “You must be desperate.” He had shadows beneath his eyes, and Ewan wondered when he had last had a full night’s sleep.
“I wanted a decent meal. I can’t pronounce half of what Ridlington’s French cook prepares.”
“So you are here in spite of us,” Rafe said. “I’m actually glad to see you. I heard some interesting news the other day.”
Ewan set his glass on the table. “About my cousin?”
“Hell no. ‘Interesting’ and ‘news’ do not fit in the same sentence with ‘Francis Mostyn.’ This came from a couple of Bow Street Runners.”
“I told you not to cuckold any more husbands,” Neil said.
Rafe gave his friend a bland stare. “I was dining at an establishment the Runners tend to frequent.”
“Which means he was hiding from an irate husband,” Ewan said.
Rafe glared at him. “So now you play the court jester too? I liked you better when you didn’t speak.”
“It’s because he uses his words so…economically,” Neil said, “that when he does say something amusing it surprises all of us.”
“Then let’s hope he amuses us all on your account, Wraxall,” Rafe said. “As I was saying, I overheard two Bow Street Runners discussing a rash of abductions.”
“That’s nothing new,” Neil said, but Ewan didn’t dismiss it so quickly. He felt his shoulders tense as they had right before the signal to attack came.
“This is new. Apparently, several heiresses have been the targets of abductions and ransoms. Two women have been taken so far, both returned unharmed after the blunt was paid.”
“Why haven’t I heard about this?” Ewan asked.
“The families kept it quiet. They didn’t want to ruin the girls’ chances at making a good match.”
Ewan should have expected as much. Nothing was sacred to the upper classes save the Marriage Mart.
“You are protecting a lady with a rather large fortune. Perhaps the only threat isn’t from cousin Francis,” Neil said.
Perhaps it wasn’t. He’d be even more vigilant the next time the family went out. And he’d mention this news to the duke when he returned to the family’s to
wn house in the morning.
“How is your bastard of a cousin anyway?” Rafe asked.
“Still an arse,” Ewan said.
The other men, accustomed to Ewan’s long pauses, refrained from asking what Francis had done this time. “He has my father convinced I am trying to steal the lady away from him. My father wrote me a long letter expressing his displeasure.”
“That sounds like Francis,” Neil said.
“Well?” Rafe asked.
“Well what?” Ewan drank more port.
“Are you trying to steal the lady’s affections?”
“No.”
“He says too quickly.” Beaumont smiled like the cat with a bird feather dangling from its mouth.
“It was a firm answer.” Ewan looked to Neil for support.
Neil shrugged. “It was rather quick, and I hear the lady is pretty.”
“But not clever,” Rafe added.
Ewan glared at him. “The hell you say.”
“Hold now, Protector.” Rafe held his hands up. “I only mean she is not so clever if she thinks she’s in love with Francis Mostyn.”
“Women do fall out of love,” Neil said, watching Ewan closely. Perhaps too closely. “And back in again. They’re illogical creatures.”
“One thing is for certain,” Rafe said, pouring more port. “If she falls for Ewan, it’s not because of his charm.”
“Not all women want charm.”
“As you and I know, Protector.” Neil tipped his glass to Ewan’s.
Rafe steepled his fingers. “If I remember correctly, there was a barmaid in Vienna who didn’t look twice at me and couldn’t keep her hands off Mostyn.”
Ewan remembered her well enough—a buxom blond who’d made certain he knew she was his for the night, if only he wanted her. “We had a mission.”
“If that made a difference to most of the men, then my job would have been a lot easier,” Neil said.
“I take missions seriously.”
“As well you should,” Neil said.
Rafe shook his head. “Just remember there’s life after the mission is complete. You can’t work all the time.”
