The man’s face softened instantly, his fist dropping, all threat of violence disappearing. He released her wrists and gave her a remorseful glance. “I beg your pardon sincerely, my lady,” he said in an Irish brogue. “Whenever someone approaches me from behind, I . . . a reflex action, is what they call it.”
“I beg your pardon,” Phoebe said breathlessly, inching away from him. “I thought you were s-someone else.” His eyes were identical to West’s, a singular shade of dark blue rimmed with black, surmounted by the same thick brows. But his complexion was fair-skinned, and his features were more narrow, and there was a thickness at the bridge of his nose where it had once been broken.
They both turned as West came into the room with swift, ground-eating strides, heading straight to Phoebe. He took her by the shoulders, his gaze raking over her. “Are you hurt?” he asked shortly.
The intense concern in his eyes and the familiar gentleness of his touch relaxed her immediately. “No, just startled. But it was my fault. I approached him from behind.”
West eased her close and ran his hand up and down along her spine in slow, calming strokes. He glanced over his shoulder at the butler, who must have gone to inform him of the visitor’s arrival. “That will be all, Hodgson.” Turning back to the stranger, he spoke in a pleasant voice, his gaze murderous. “Is this how you introduce yourself to aristocratic ladies, Ransom? A word of advice: generally they prefer a polite bow and ‘How do you do’ to being thrown about like a parcel post delivery.”
Ethan Ransom spoke to Phoebe penitently. “A thousand apologies, my lady. On my honor, it won’t happen again.”
“It won’t,” West agreed, “or I’ll come after you with a reaping hook.”
Despite the lethal sincerity in West’s tone, Ransom didn’t seem at all cowed, only grinned at him and came forward for a handshake. “My nerves are still a bit dodgy after this summer.”
“As usual,” West said, gripping the other man’s hand, “a visit from you is as soothing as a blister.”
Phoebe was struck by the easy familiarity between the two, as if they had known each other for years instead of months. “Mr. Ransom,” she said, “I do hope we’ll have the pleasure of your company for dinner. You’re welcome to stay the night, if you wish.”
“I’m obliged, milady, but I have to be back on the next train for London.” Ransom went to retrieve a small traveling bag that had been set beside a chair. “I’ve brought some materials for you to have a glance at. Make all the notes you like, but I have to take the original documents back with me and replace them before anyone notices they’re missing.”
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.”