Alex hadn’t yet seen the bookroom at Bramble Cottage. Far smaller than the parlor, it was located under the stairs and looked to be the place where Laura balanced the accounts. A desk was angled in the corner, heaped with leather-bound ledgers, ink pots and quills, and a tallow candle burnt almost to its nub. An old settee and chair graced the middle of the room, the fabric upholstery on the seats worn through from years of use.

Laura motioned for Weatherwax to sit before going to the desk and closing one of the ledgers. She straightened the others, tucking away a few scraps of paper within their pages. “I apologize for the clutter.”

“Don’t apologize,” Alex said. “It isn’t as if you were expecting anyone.”

“Not in the bookroom, certainly.” She took a seat on the settee, arranging her skirts as Alex came to stand behind her. “Why have you come, sir? We didn’t anticipate you until tomorrow at the earliest.”

Weatherwax availed himself of the chair. He tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket. “When last we met at my office, ma’am, you said, quite emphatically, that you had no intention to marry.”

“Nor did she,” Alex said. “Until I proposed to her.”

The solicitor’s gaze shot to his. “With respect, sir, it’s my sworn duty to look after the interests of Miss Hayes and her brother. It would be preferable if she and I spoke privately.”

Alex rested his hand on Laura’s shoulder. It was as possessive a gesture as his standing behind her. “I think not.”

“You may speak freely,” Laura said. “Mr. Archer is my husband now. We haven’t any secrets.”

Weatherwax’s face went a shade paler.

Alex recognized a guilty conscience when he saw one. He wondered what crime the man had committed. Had he stolen from Laura and her brother? Fudged the books or pocketed a portion of the rents? “Out with it, man. Best to confess your sins before we bring in another solicitor to discover the extent of them.”

“Another solicitor?” Weatherwax gave Laura a look of alarm. “Have you consulted with someone?”

“I’ve made enquiries,” Laura admitted. “After your unwillingness to relinquish control—”

“Your brother is an invalid. I had every reason to be reluctant. And as to you consulting with some other solicitor…a regrettable action, to be sure. Deeply regrettable in every respect. London is populated with unscrupulous solicitors. Men who haven’t the faintest notion of legal nuance.”

“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.”