Page 34 of Undercover with the Heiress
Rosanna steadied herself against the doorframe as her eyesight adjusted to the dark. A childhood in a poorhouse was a piece of his puzzle that she’d never imagined. While she had never known the deprivations her parents had shared, she had grown up in a household weighted by their experiences of limitations and thrift. An odd, off-kilter clash of irritation and tenderness collided in her, and she had to press her fingers into the cut of the doorframe to centre herself. A life that could have been her ownhadbeen his. Poverty beyond imagination, every day tainted with a stamp of unworthiness. Being labelled a bastard. So many parts of herself that ran counter to what theworld valued were ingrained in him, too. Both of them hiding—her behind her confidence and bravado, while Phineas… Phineas just hid.
‘Are you waiting for an invitation, Hempel?’ he growled.
‘Are you extending one?’ she shot back.
He grunted, then continued to explore the room. Rosanna stepped inside the front office of the Argonauts Trading Company.
The moon painted a thin curve in the sky, so even though it was a clear night, shadows slanted at odd angles across the desk, and a faint shimmer reflected off the glass-fronted cabinets and bookcases. Phineas made for a tall filing cabinet tucked into a corner. Rosanna blinked a few times until she could follow the shapes of the wooden furniture, the frames on the wall and chairs set on either side of a desk. A hallway led away from the room, possibly to individual offices. Wood squeaked on wood as Phineas opened a drawer.
‘We have a book. At the hotel. Only at the main one, and only for us. We list important information about guest habits, little changes and observations. If we try something new on the menu, do guests spend more on wine? Is French brandy more popular in summer or winter? Hardly scandalous—Father has no interest in the guests’ secrets—but the sort of thing that would be useful for competitors. Not something you want just any member of staff to have access to, in case they take a position elsewhere and pass that information on. And we keep ours…’
Rosanna scanned the cabinets behind the desk and the heavy leather chair. In the hotel office, ledgers, accounts, and records were kept in easy reach to make daily work easier, in a side drawer or behind the desk. But something important that wasn’t needed every day would be too conspicuous in a drawer and only be a bother. Something important but not regularly referenced was better kept in sight, in a steady line of vision, to give somecomfort that it was safe. Rosanna paced before the cabinet on the opposite side of the room. A sheen reflected off the glass, and foil and gold leaf gleamed and dulled as her shadow followed the curve of each book spine. She opened the centre cabinet and crouched, her skirts fluttering as air rushed from beneath them. A crystal decanter half full of amber spirits sat on the centre shelf, but beneath that, the ledge and panelling didn’t sit flush with the rest of the woodwork. The ends didn’t quite line up. Rosanna stripped a glove and ran her fingers over the woodgrain. A small, uneven notch had been carved into the edge, possibly by an unsteady hand with a penknife. Just large enough for a man’s finger to hook over to tug a drawer open…
‘What have you found?’ Phineas crossed the room just as she hauled the heavy book from the drawer.
She thrust it into his arms. ‘This.’
Phineas grasped the leather-bound ledger in both arms. It must have been two foot high, and he thumped it onto the desk and flipped it open. He struck a match and lit a candle stump, and the flame danced a mix of amber and shadows across his skin. His brow furrowed in concentration, but behind the sternness, a spark shone in his eyes.
Something came alive in Phineas when he focused on numbers, ledgers, and calculations. She understood columns and tallies and could make a tidy sum, but his comprehension was so different, so much deeper than her own. Like he saw beyond the numbers into an entirely new world. He ran a finger down a margin, turned the page, then traced another, all the while muttering to himself in low tones.
Rosanna leant over. She followed the staggered sums, the rough workings and notes to the bottom column. ‘What is it? I can’t see in this light.’
Phineas drew a breath, as if he was about to start one of his explanations, then paused. With a nod at the book, he stepped toone side. The light he’d been blocking spilled over the desk. ‘See if you can figure it out.’
In the orange candlelight, the pale blue ledger paper took on a green tinge. The first few columns were names, addresses, and occupations. The next few columns were all numbers—finances. Rosanna raised the candle so that its glow cast a wider circle and found the familiar symbols that tallied up pounds, shillings, and pence.
‘The date. The share price. The number purchased. Dividends, and when they were credited. It’s a record of investment returns.’
Rosanna turned a page. Yet, it wasn’t quite the same as how they ran the books at the hotel. They had extra columns for expenses and wages, and additional books to record the details of costs in the kitchens or the laundry. Rosanna flipped to the front of the book. Here, Father kept a table of wages and set costs for easy reference, but this book didn’t have one of those. She flipped to the back. Just more columns and lists, and a swathe of empty pages.
‘There are no expenses recorded. Do you think there’s another book? Why would they pay dividends before they’ve taken out the costs? Abberton & Co. were a trading company. There should be figures for imports and exports, or even warehousing. Theyarestill trading, aren’t they? Surely it must cost something to run—’ Rosanna bit her lip and flipped a few more pages. ‘There. Mr Collins. His payout is a far greater percentile than the five per cent paid to Miss Jennifer Lancaster or to Mr George Jones or to any of these smaller investors. And Mr Vincent is receiving a substantial amount, too. They’re drawing off thousands of pounds.’ And with a turn of the page, all the disparate pieces fluttered into place. ‘They’re using new investments to pay out the dividends. They’re not paying their expenses. The entire operation is a shambles.’
A grunt and a smile from Phineas—likely the only acknowledgement she would ever receive from him. Rosanna muffled the perverse burst of pride in her chest that sparked with his small compliment. Phineas pointed at the page. ‘See this column? Since the additional shares were made available, almost everyone has reinvested their supposed earnings. Investors think they’re making money, but it’s only on paper. None of it is real. That’s why they need new investors to contribute cash to fund the next round of payments. If one or two of them sell their shares, they get paid out of the money coming in, as the board has drawn most holdings off and into their own accounts. There’s no collateral or reserves. If everyone sells at once, the company will collapse.’
‘Why would anyone invest in a business like this instead of something more stable?’ she asked.
Phineas placed his hand over the names, almost protectively. ‘They would take their money elsewhere if they knew. Companies can choose what information they provide to investors. The law does not force them to tell shareholders everything, or even anything. And when men like your Lord Richard become involved, many less affluent people see the shine of the aristocracy and follow with their savings. Look at these addresses. Not the slums, but hardly Mayfair. His involvement is like a stamp of approval in a sea of swindlers and schemes.’
‘Stop calling himmyLord Richard. He’s not mine. I don’t want him.’ She knew she spoke too bitterly and with too much anger. For once, Phineas didn’t deserve her ire. He spoke so casually with an ignorant tap of his finger at the amount Lord Richard had invested. For once, Phineas didn’t know everything.
His investment matched her dowry to the pound.
The amount he likely owed Pennington.
He’d spent her worth before he’d even begged her hand.
The building creaked. With the sharp fizz of light extinguished, Phineas snuffed out the candle with his fingers.Hush. The word was barely a breath, as quiet as the wick’s hiss.
Rosanna forced calm into her body, through her chest, all the way to her feet in her boots, which still longed to stamp and rage at the ledgers. Her anger coiled in on itself, and its bitter bite turned to sadness. She reached for Phineas—just to find the anchor of some kindness in the dark. He wrapped his arms around her.
‘Apologies, Hempel. In the future, I’ll mind my tongue.’ He spoke with a low rumble, barely a whisper, the shape of his words caressing her cheek. His stubble, prickly and unwelcoming, scratched her skin.
‘Am I worth nothing more than an entry in a column? A tally of pounds and pence?’
Phineas’s shoulders tensed. They always did when she interrupted his thoughts or talked too much. They’d done so last night, when he’d still been arguing with her about bedding, and then again right before he took her nipple in his mouth. His arms—strong and bracing—tightened around her as he drew her closer, his hands resting against her back with the same protective splay that he’d shown the names in the ledgers. On her next breath, she inhaled his stiff resolve, his practical soap and clean linen.
‘What’s rule number one?’ he asked.
