Devil's Daughter

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—”

“Hush. Don’t blame yourself.” Gently West took her jaw in his hand, steering her gaze to his. “You’re taking responsibility now. Let’s find out the facts, and then you can decide what to do. First we’ll need access to the account information and records from the loan company.”

“I’m not sure that’s possible. Even though I’m Justin’s legal guardian, Edward is executor of the will and administrator of his financial trust.” Phoebe scowled. “And I doubt very much he’ll want me to see those records.”

West half sat on the desk, facing her. He uttered a quiet profanity. “Why is Larson executor of the will? Why not your father or brother?”

“Henry felt more comfortable prevailing on a member of his own family, who was familiar with the estate and its history. My father is next in line for the executorship, if something were to happen to Edward.” The thought of Sebastian helped to calm Phoebe. With all his influence and connections, he would know what to do, whom to approach. “I’ll write to my father,” she said. “He knows people in Parliament and banking—he’ll pull strings on my behalf.”

Looking pensive, West took one of her hands and played lightly with her fingers. “I have another suggestion, if you’re willing. I could ask Ethan Ransom to obtain the information for us. He’ll accomplish it faster and more discreetly than anyone else could, even your father.”

Phoebe stared at him in bewilderment. “The injured man who stayed at Eversby Priory? Why . . . how . . . ?”

“I neglected to explain earlier about how Ransom came by his injuries. He worked for the Home Office as . . . well, as an unauthorized agent.”

“He was a spy?”

“Spying was one of the things he did. However, he uncovered evidence of corruption by his superiors that extended to other branches of law enforcement, and then . . . he became a target. They nearly succeeded in killing him.”

“And you gave him refuge,” Phoebe said, realizing Ethan Ransom’s summer visit to Eversby Priory had been about far more than needing a peaceful place to recuperate. “You were hiding him.” Increasingly concerned, she drew closer to him and linked her arms around his neck. “Were you in any danger?”

“Not a bit,” he said, a little too quickly.

“You were! Why would you do that for a stranger, and put the rest of the household at risk as well?”

One of his brows arched. “Are you going to scold?”

“Yes, you very much need scolding! I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

West smiled, his hands settling at her hips. “I took Ransom in when he needed help because he wasn’t entirely a stranger. As it turns out, he’s a relation on the Ravenel side. I’ll explain more about that later. The point is, Ransom owes me a favor or two, and he could easily obtain the loan account records, since he’s just been sworn in as the assistant commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. He’s also been given the authority to organize and direct a small group of his own handpicked agents. I’m sure he’ll regard this as a handy training exercise.” He paused. “None of this is to be repeated, by the way.”

“Of course not.” Phoebe shook her head in bemusement. “Very well. If you’ll write to him, I’ll have the letter posted immediately.”

“I’d prefer to send it by special courier. I want this done before Larson returns and I’m obliged to leave.”

“Edward’s return won’t necessitate your leaving,” Phoebe said, instantly annoyed. “He has no say over who stays in my house.”

“I know, sweetheart.” A shadow came over West’s expression. “But you won’t want both of us in the same vicinity for long, or the situation will turn into a powder keg.”

“That doesn’t worry me.”

“It does me,” he said quietly. “I’ve caused too many disgraceful scenes and left behind enough unhappy wreckage for a lifetime. I don’t want reminders. Sometimes I fear . . .” He paused. “You don’t understand how thin the veil is that separates me from what I used to be.”

Phoebe did understand. Or rather, she understood that was what he believed. Staring at him compassionately, she laid her hands on either side of his face. With all his remarkable qualities, West also had his own vulnerabilities . . . fragile places that needed to be safeguarded. Very well—she would shield him from any ugly scenes involving herself and Edward.

“Regardless of how long you stay,” she said, “I’m glad you’re here now.”

West’s forehead lowered to hers, and the heat of his whisper caressed her lips. “God, so am I.”

In the days that followed, the decorum of Clare Manor was disrupted by the vigorous presence of West Ravenel, and the sounds of his booted feet on the stairs, and his deep voice and rumbling laugh. He chased the children through the hallways and made them squeal, and took them out to romp outside, tracking dirt and pebbles on the carpet as they came back in. He investigated every corner of the house, learned the names of the servants, and asked innumerable questions of everyone. Charmed by his quick humor and affable manner, the staff obligingly paused in their labors to tell him anything he wanted to know. The old master gardener was delighted by West’s ability to discuss the intricacies of weather and how best to defeat plant-destroying caterpillars. The cook was flattered by his hearty appetite. Nanny Bracegirdle enjoyed herself to no end lecturing him about having allowed Justin to jump in puddles after a rain shower and ruining his good shoes.