Page 27 of Matching Mr. Montfert (Apsley Family #2)

Chapter twenty-seven

Phillip

“Numbers?” I rubbed a hand over my face, gripping for patience. “You realize most ledgers contain numbers, do you not? That is their purpose.”

Sabrina glared at me. “Yes, Phillip, I do realize that, but I was not raised with knowledge of balancing ledgers or how to manage funds. It is all gibberish to me, which is why I copied a page or two for you to look over.”

She extended the sheets of foolscap toward me, and I took them with a sigh. I should not have been so frustrated with her, but between her efforts to discover evidence against Uncle and my argument with Grace, not to mention my impending proposal and investment meeting, I was a total wreck. I could not handle one more thing on my shoulders.

I sat down at a table in the corner of the library with a heavy thump and held up the first page so it caught the light pouring in from the window behind me. There were four columns: two with numbers and two that categorized them. Even at a glance, I knew they did not pertain to anything regarding the household and must be related to Uncle’s business ventures. It was not unusual to keep separate ledgers for such things, but generally, there was a master ledger that combined them both, giving one an overview of all assets.

I had spent the last few weeks balancing the master ledger in addition to the household ones. My memory wasn’t perfect, but none of the things listed here seemed familiar. In fact, as best I could tell, they weren’t expenses at all, but rather income.

“What is it?” Sabrina leaned toward me from the opposite side of the desk, which made her face hover close to mine. “You are thinking, and I want to know what it is you are thinking about.”

I pulled away from her in annoyance. “I need more than a minute to look at it, Sabrina.”

She glanced at the clock. “Will two minutes suffice?”

I rolled my eyes. I was starting to understand what Apsley had said about sisters. They could pester a man to insanity.

My cousin graciously afforded me five minutes before begging for my thoughts again. I shook my head and set both sheets on the desk. “I cannot account for these. There is nothing about them in the master ledge your father had me balance.”

“That is suspicious, is it not?”

“Yes,” I hedged. “It is, but this is not evidence of a crime, Sabrina. It will do nothing to prove your theory.”

“It is not a theory.” She planted her hands on her hips, her dark eyes boring into me. “I know he is guilty, and there are rumors about people who have suffered financially because of his dealings. I will not stop until this is all settled.”

My head ached, and I rubbed my temples as if to relieve the pain. “He is your father. If—and I do mean if—you find what you are looking for, it will likely see he is transported if not handed a death sentence.”

“I am aware. Should I stop because of this? Feel sympathy? My father has never shown me an ounce of regard. Why would I spare him any?”

“He is still your father.”

“By blood, perhaps. Unfortunately, I cannot escape that fact. And do not tell me you feel differently.”

She was right; I could not deny it. Were Uncle to go to prison, or worse under proven charges, I would experience no sympathy for him or sorrow. He was cruel and unfeeling. A selfish being whose sole purpose was to further his own precedence and wealth.

I nodded slowly. “We can do nothing without more evidence. For the record, I do believe you. Something is certainly amiss, but we cannot know the depth of it without more. Nor can we make a move. Taking this to the courts without enough evidence would spell disaster for both of us. You understand that, do you not?”

Sabrina reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze. The gesture took me by surprise. She had never shown me much affection, but over the last few weeks, she had been far more open. It reflected how much she had changed.

“I know, Phillip. Just as I know my father has hurt you physically at times. I do not wish to see that happen because of me”—she gestured to the paper—“because of what I’m trying to do. Nor do I wish to see him disinherit you after all you have endured.”

“I thank you for the consideration,” I said softly. “But the truth is your father will always find fault with me. My future will never be secure until he has passed on. Guilt eats at me for even thinking of such a time—for looking forward to it—but I cannot lie that it will bring me a peace I have never been afforded. Your father believes I am broken, and as such, he will never view me as worthy of all he has built, no matter how I strive to prove him wrong.”

Sabrina scoffed. “His definition of broken is vexingly skewed. What fault could he possibly find in you? Even I know you to be intelligent and hardworking. You do everything he asks of you.”

I swallowed, my argument with Grace pushing itself to the forefront of my mind. Even after days of mulling over everything, her words lingered. Perhaps because I knew she was right, to an extent. Keeping my ailment a secret only suggested I was ashamed of it. Embarrassed by it. Those things reinforced Uncle’s belief that I was broken, a stigma that deep down, despite my efforts, I believed it too.

More than once, I had seen Grace bravely tell others of her struggles without fear of repercussion. I still believed fear was warranted considering how many members of the upper class behaved and judged, but giving fear such credit did not mean it was worth heeding.

“Sabrina, there is something I wish to tell you.”

My cousin tilted her head, her dark brows furrowing, likely due to the waver in my voice.

“I…I am partially deaf in one ear,” I said. “That is why your father considers me broken. He always has.”

She gasped, her hand coming to cover her mouth. “Oh, Phillip! Why did you never say so?”

“I was ordered to keep it a secret, but in truth, I do not know whether I would have said anything regardless. After the way your father has berated and demeaned me over the years, it felt safer to keep the information to myself.”

“But now?”

I shrugged. “Now nothing. I only wished to tell you.”

To tell anyone, really. Grace had overheard and learned of it unintentionally, but I wanted to tell someone of my own free will. My muscles relaxed, and a strange sense of contentment flooded through me. It felt good to put the secret out there, especially since Sabrina had not responded with disgust or judgment.

“Does Miss Rigby know?” my cousin asked.

I shook my head. “Your father specifically forbade me from telling the family, believing it would give them an excuse to back out of the agreement. Assumed agreement, that is. There is nothing on paper as of yet, but he gave me but a week to propose.”

“So you will marry Miss Rigby?” She looked utterly disappointed when I nodded and folded her arms. “Then I had better work fast.”

“Sabrina.”

“Put off the proposal for as long as you can,” she continued, ignoring me. “I have one more lead to follow. One last hope. Mark my words, Phillip Montfert, the both of us will be free of my father, and once we are, you can marry whomever you please.” She grinned smugly before heading to the door. “And by whomever, I mean Miss Scott.”

“I do not think we are on good terms at—”

“Now, if you will excuse me, I have some business to attend to.”

I watched her go without another attempted word. After all, nothing I said had stopped her yet. Why did my chest always fill with trepidation any time I had a conversation with Sabrina? Admittedly, this time it was also filled with hope.

Hope I had no right to feel.

I stood, picked up Sabrina’s copies of the ledger, and tossed them into the hearth.

Paying attention to my uncle as he announced his plans for a future investment in an overseas textile business was difficult when my mind was so thoroughly set on thinking about Grace. It seemed the more days that passed without seeing her, the more desperate those thoughts became.

I missed her, and the desire to offer an apology for speaking to her the way I had, for unleashing my frustrations about Uncle’s demands on her, nagged at me every waking moment.

Sending her payment for being my matchmaker had been more difficult than I imagined. Not because I did not believe she deserved it. She had given me more assistance than I ever hoped for, and despite my continual struggles to pull Miss Rigby into conversation, my confidence among society had grown. Much of that came down to Grace’s advice, but time in her company had done the most to reassure me. I could speak to her for hours without feeling uncomfortable, thus proving myself capable to some degree.

Regardless, my hesitance to send her that banknote came from the finality of the act. Once paid, I had no excuse to ever speak with her or see her again. The loss was felt keenly in the form of a sharp pang straight through my chest, one that still had not gone away.

Pining. I was pining for a woman I could not have.

Lud, if I was not a fool.

“H-how much expense will there be in s-shipping?” Mr. Bower asked. The man had listened to my uncle with deep interest, but he was also wearing Uncle’s patience thin with his questions. I did not blame Mr. Bower for asking. Investing the sort of money proposed was no small thing, and he deserved to have as much reassurance as he could.

“Not a significant expense,” Uncle replied, his tone not bothering to conceal his annoyance. “Mr. Rigby has a number of contacts and knows how to negotiate with the shipping companies. We needn’t worry much on that front.”

Rigby, who sat next to me, nodded. “Indeed. We stand to make a great deal on this venture. It will have upfront costs, to be certain, but once manufacturing is underway, we will have no trouble recouping them.”

“A-and what of the p-possible s-storms?” asked Mr. Bower. “H-how is the risk being m-minimalized.”

Now both Uncle and Rigby looked perturbed. Rigby spoke. “I cannot control the weather. If you feel the risk is too much, you are welcome to leave. Might I remind you that no investment is without risk, however, and you will regret not staying onboard with us.”

Mr. Bower’s eyes went wide, and he shook his head. “No, no, I-I am very interested.”

“Could have fooled me,” Rigby muttered. “Be better if he weren’t with the way he talks. Cannot get a sentence out without stumbling. Sign of unintelligence.” He laughed to himself.

Did the man truly believe that? My jaw clenched. Mr. Bower suffered from a stutter, and that certainly said nothing about his intellectual capabilities. Mr. Rigby was so much like my uncle that it roiled my gut to consider aligning myself with the man in any way. What would he think were he to learn of my hearing troubles? Likely, I would be branded the same way as Mr. Bower—a buffoon with no place in a meeting such as this.

Part of me wanted to declare the truth right now. The notion was far too tempting, and I closed my eyes to prevent myself from acting brashly. Uncle might murder me if I said anything to jeopardize this.

Still, the temptation persisted.

Would a confession put an end to my courtship of Miss Rigby? Regardless of her father’s opinion, would she even want to marry me if she learned the truth? Was I to keep this secret from her for the rest of our lives?

And no matter how the questions prodded, I would never have the answers.