Page 92 of A Convenient Fiction

“I didn’t consult with one of those,” Laura said. “I wouldn’t have done. You must give me some credit, sir. I dealt with Mr. Finchley in Fleet Street. He came highly recommended.”

“Thomas Finchley?” Weatherwax echoed in a strangled voice. “Of Finchley and Fothergill?”

Laura nodded. “Yes. That’s right.”

Alex wouldn’t have thought the man could get any paler. Good God, was the mere name of Tom Finchley enough to provoke such a reaction? His erstwhile friend had been a slim, bespectacled boy. Not the sort of fellow to strike fear into the hearts of those he encountered.

What had the intervening years done to him?

“A villain,” Weatherwax said. “He bends the law to his purpose. I wouldn’t advise—”

“We’re past that, surely,” Laura said. “I’m married now, before my birthday, and my brother will reach his majority next month. We haven’t any more need of you, sir. All that remains is for you to hand over the relevant documents, the deeds of ownership and so forth, so that we—”

“Miss Hayes…” Weatherwax cleared his throat. His pallor had degenerated from bleach white to pea green. “Regarding your father’s estate—”

“Mrs. Archer,” Alex corrected again. He regarded the solicitor with interest. “You don’t have the documents, do you?”

Weatherwax tugged at his cravat. “As to that—”

“What do you mean, you don’t have them?” Laura asked. “Are they back at your office? Have you mislaid them somewhere?”

“He hasn’t mislaid anything,” Alex said. “He’s taken it.”

“No, no,” Weatherwax objected. “I took nothing from you, ma’am. Everything I’ve done has been engineered to increase your wealth, not to diminish it. These are the perils of investing, you must understand. There’s nothing criminal in suffering losses.”

Laura’s shoulder stiffened under Alex’s hand. “What losses? What have you done, sir?”

“You may as well make a clean breast of it,” Alex advised the solicitor. “We’ll find out one way or another.”

Weatherwax darted him a narrow glance before returning his attention to Laura. “After your father’s death, there was marked interest in the properties in London and Dorset. A buyer came forward. Another perfumer. He offered a healthy sum. I’d have been a fool not to take it.”

“You sold them? Both of them?” Laura’s hand pressed to her midriff. “Oh, how could you?”

“It was in the best interest of you and your brother—”

“You had no right!”

Alex’s squeezed her shoulder. “Easy. Let him speak.” Let him bury himself, Alex wanted to say. The devious swine.

Weatherwax drew himself up in righteous indignation. “Indeed, ma’am. By the terms of your father’s will, I had every right. There is nothing that requires me to inform you of my actions, only that I act with your best interests in mind—which I did, most assuredly.”

“Then where is the money from the sale of the properties?” Laura asked. “Why is it that my brother and I have been obliged to live like paupers these three years? The flower farm in Dorset alone—”

“As to that…” He cleared his throat. “A series of bad investments. All of them made with the best of intentions—”

“All of the money is gone,” Laura said. “Is that what you mean?”

“I’m afraid it is. A fact for which, you must believe, I feel a deep regret.”

“Then what have we been living on?” she asked. “How have you been paying our quarterly allowance?”

“The remainder of the estate still earns a small sum. On occasion, I’ve been obliged to supplement it from my own income—an action which I’ve undertaken purely out of my deep regard for you and your family.”

“How dared you.” Laura’s soft voice was thick with fury. “To steal from us, and then to presume to make us the objects of your charity—”

“You have it wrong, ma’am. The actions I took—”

“I want proof,” she said. “I want to see it in writing. All of the transactions you undertook on our behalf. All of the money you paid to us from your own accounts. I want every last penny accounted for.”