“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.”

“Miss Hayes—”

“Mrs. Archer. And I will see it in writing, sir. I have no reason to believe anything you say to me.” Laura stood abruptly. “I need a moment to compose myself before the guests arrive. Pray excuse me.”

Alex followed her from the bookroom, but not before shooting a warning glance at Weatherwax who was hovering above his chair. “Stay.”

Weatherwax slumped back down.

Laura walked quickly through the hall, making her way to the stairs. Alex caught her by the arm at the bottom of the steps and turned her to face him.

“Look at me,” he said.

She was biting her lip, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears as they met his.

“It’s going to be all right,” he said gruffly. “Do you understand me? Everything is going to be all right.”

Her mouth trembled. “All of my plans—”

“Hush. Just…trust me. God knows I’m no saint, Laura, but I’m asking you to—”

“I do trust you.”

His heart clenched. “Good.” He brought his hands up to cup her face. “I’m going to have words with the fellow, and then I’m going to pitch him out into the street. Do you object to that plan, Mrs. Archer?”

“Alex—”

“Do you?”

Her throat rippled on a swallow. “No. I don’t suppose I do.”

Alex waited until she was safely up the stairs before returning to the bookroom. Weatherwax was still in his chair, the mantle of aggrieved solicitor firmly about his shoulders.

“Mr. Archer,” he said briskly, “I don’t know who you are or where you’ve come from, but I warn you, sir, I fully intend to find out. And if anything should strike me amiss—the slightest whiff of fraud or deceit—I’ll see that this marriage is annulled.”