With a quick glance at Kit to confirm he was otherwise occupied, I crumpled them into a ball and tossed them toward the rubbish bin with a flourish.
“I didn’t bring you here to throw away my work.” I shot around, pinching my neck in the process. He hadn’t even looked up from his desk.
“Whatever it was, it was lost to the fire.”
“Already, I regret helping you,” he muttered.
“Then perhaps I should return home and get on with my day.”
“You haven’t worked off your tart just yet.”
With a grumble, I turned back to the fragile stack. My hands were long blackened with soot, and each touch left fingerprints lining the legible areas of the parchment. A piece disintegrated in my hand, giving way to a document relating to Michael’s gaming hell. The astonishing number of zeros was yet more evidence that my eldest brother made far too much off men with infinitely more money than sense.
But God, that night at his club. An hour, perhaps a few minutes more. One hour hidden away in Michael’s office—away from the glamour and drama of the masquerade ball. One hour in delicious, brave flirtation with Alexander Hasket. One hour where—behind the anonymity of a mask—I could be exactly like every other gentleman at a ball, flirting with the most beautiful person I’d ever seen.
And now he was gone—off to some estate in Scotland—never to return.
“Would you stop sighing?” Kit mumbled, then flicked a page in irritation.
“I offered to leave, you’re the one who insisted on dragging me here. I was perfectly fine.”
“You were still soused from last night.”
“As I said, perfectly fine.”
“Just sort the documents—quietly.”
I created a pile for the club, and the next several documents were all associated with Wayland’s.
After throwing a few more into the bin under the watchful glare of Kit, the next document, with another familiar name, had my heart stopping for the space of a breath.
There was a flourish on theRin Rosehill. Alexander Hasket’s name and title in perfectly legible glory. Of their own volition, my fingers brushed around the script pathetically, smearing a loop of soot around the letters. I was a milksop, through and through.
Shaking away the instinctive longing, I began a new pile. It quickly became apparent that there were a great number of documents pertaining to Xander in my stack. His estate, his sister, his mother, his—now former—sister-in-law. Every facet of his life was reflected in these pages.
The man had money that nearly put Michael to shame—that much was clear. And he’d meticulously managed the funds to ensure that every single person in his life was cared for. Including his sister, who was apparently determined to see herself ruined if even half of these exploits were truthful.
“What?” Kit asked.
I turned to meet his gaze, his head cocked to the side in curiosity.
“Pardon?”
“You hummed. Did you have a question?”
“No… Yes—no.”
“Which is it?” he demanded.
“I have an… inappropriate question.”
“Yes?”
“Did Lady Davina truly invest in a whiskey company founded by pirates?”
His lip quirked in the corner in what I was coming to understand was his version of a smile. More than two years I’d known the man, and I couldn’t recall a single genuine, teeth-baring smile. This expression might have been the closest to one though—there was a crinkle in the corner of his dark eyes.
“Still does—though she thinks no one knows. And when I first learned of it, she insisted that it be known—they’re lady pirates. I’m not entirely certain why the distinction matters but who am I to question a lady?”
