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.