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Had Farlow merely died, Reina would have been able to grieve and recover. But this discovery had shattered her faith in her own judgment. Everything she’d thought was trustworthy and safe had just been overturned.

Reina lowered the handkerchief, gripping it in her left hand, and retrieved the propelling pencil in her right. “Now I know why William proposed to me.” She held the pencil between her forefinger and middle finger, tapping alternate ends on the paper like a little seesaw. “He needed my money to cover the bank deficit.”

“He also cares for you,” John said reluctantly. It wasn’t a defense of Farlow by any means, but it had to be said out of fairness.

She shook her head, staring down at the open ledger.

“Reina, I’ve no liking for the man, but I saw how fond he was—is—of you.”

“I have no idea what he feels or believes. He’s not who I thought he was. This book . . . all this sleight of hand, these manipulations . . . did he ever once stop to think about what these numbers mean? Safety. Food. Medicine. A place to sleep at night. Did you know that William advertises for new customers in ladies’ periodicals? He lures women, convinces them to put their trust in him and the bank, and then he does this with their money.”

She closed the ledger and shoved it aside. “The only way he could do this is if he thinks of common people as disposable.” As she spoke, she began to mark the page of notes, crossing out some words, double underlining others. “We’re taught all our lives to put our faith in rich and powerful men. We want to believe they care about our interests and know what’s best for us. But no one will admit the obvious: The very reason they’re rich and powerful is because what they care about most is helping themselves.” The pencil had turned vicious, its lead broken, the metal tip gouging through paper and scoring the polished wood table beneath. “I thought William was different. But it wasn’t real; it was all an act. I was stupid to be so easily fooled—”

“No, cariad, don’t start that.” John reached out and closed his warm hand over hers, stilling the jerky movements. To his relief, she didn’t pull away from his touch. “When an artist reuses a canvas and paints another picture over it, both pictures are still there, aye? They’re both real. All the contradictory things you know about him can be true.”

“The mentor I respected would never have approved of falsifying bank records.”

“Self-deception often has a part in this kind of crime. It can start small, with ‘Just this once’ or ‘I’ll put it back later.’ I’d lay odds Farlow doesn’t think of himself as a criminal.”

Reina nodded, looking so exhausted and haggard that John realized there would be no further benefit in discussing the situation now.

Carefully he eased the propelling pencil out of her grip. “It’s time to rest.”

“I can’t. Not with all this buzzing in my head. I’m just going to work a bit longer on a plan for the depositors.”

She summoned a pleasant mask that was apparently intended to reassure him, while her jaw clenched and unclenched repeatedly.

“Stop doing that, cariad—you’ll give yourself a headache.”

“Doing what?”

John reached out to cradle her jaw with both palms, his fingertips finding the knotted muscles below her cheekbones. “Masticating,” he said. “Like Alan with one of those dried pig’s ears from the butcher.”

That surprised a chuckle from her, but she winced as he pressed a tender spot.

“Sore here?” he asked softly, maintaining the pressure until he felt a slight loosening of the bunched muscle. Using his thumbs and fingertips, he rubbed more tight, tense places along her jaw and under her chin.

Reina closed her eyes and submitted to the massage, relaxing by degrees.

“I didn’t realize I was clenching my jaw,” she said.

“It’s not good to keep your nerves wound up like a watch spring.” He reached around to the back of her neck to knead the stiff tendons and muscles. “You need to sleep, love.”

“I wish I could. But when I go to bed, I like to lie there and fret about things I have no control over.”

“Have you tried reading something dull?”

“Oh, yes, Administrative Records of the Lesser Guilds in the 17th Century, The Decline of Minor Principalities in Southern Germany . . .”

“And those didn’t work? Good God, you’re a difficult case.”

“I’m sure you must have trouble sleeping, with so much weighing on your mind.”

“I sleep like a stone,” he said apologetically.

Her eyes opened. “How?” she asked with a mixture of amusement and envy.

“Mam used to say ‘Lay your troubles by the bed and take them up again in the morning.’ So I always have.”