The Blood of a Baron - K.J. Jackson Page 0,6
penchant for women, wine and whist.
She leaned back from the ledger, her shoulder blades hitting the back of the second chair in front of her father’s desk as Mr. Filmore tugged the ledger toward him and scanned the entries one more time. The opposite side of the desk sat empty. No one had sat in her father’s chair since he’d died. Not even Morton as far as she knew.
Mr. Filmore closed the ledger book and cleared his throat. There was something he wasn’t saying—tiptoeing about.
He made a show of further shuffling the papers on the desk in front of them and then glanced quickly at her before his look went back down to the desk. A slight sheen of perspiration had appeared in a jagged line in front of his receding hairline. “While the estate looks to be healthy, there is something that you need to know, Lady Helena.”
“What?”
“A good portion of the funds from the Elanora are being held in reserve at the moment.”
Her heart stilled in her chest. “In reserve—why?”
She had almost been freed—free of the constant worry of having enough to feed—at the minimum—her and Mrs. Hosler, Cook, and Mr. Flanders.
“It appears your brother used a certain box as security—in trade for his share in the Elanora, which is where the majority of your funds now sit. It happened only a week before his death and it is unclear how exactly the funds fell out of his control and why the box would be an adequate trade, but there it is.”
Laney pulled upright sharply, her eyes narrowing at Mr. Filmore. A pause, and she settled on her next words carefully, feigning curiosity. “A box?”
“Yes. A box. Lord Gruggin referred to it as the Box of Draupnir.” Mr. Filmore flipped through the pages of the will and directives in front of them, and pointed to a line on the second to last page. “It says here that you, Lady Helena, would know where to find this box.” He looked up at her. “I imagine you know what he was referring to?”
She shook her head slowly.
“Oh.” Mr. Filmore clucked his tongue. “That does create a problem. I checked with several sources, and the validity of this claim against the estate seems to hold.”
“Why would there be a problem?”
“Getting the box to its rightful owner is the last item that needs to be taken care of and then all of the funds can be released.”
“What do you mean, all of the funds can be released?”
“The funds cannot be released until all debts are satisfied. The box is apparently considered a debt. It is uncertain what exactly would be required if the box is not delivered.”
She swayed slightly before she caught herself and snapped her spine straight. “My brother sank the fortune on a box—a box, of all things?”
Mr. Filmore produced a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead, then looked to her. “I assure you, it is a minor inconvenience, Lady Helena. You will just need to produce the box. Your brother seemed quite confident you could do so, should the need arise.”
Her chest deflated, all air vacating her lungs.
Why would Morton do this to her? Another one of his messes to clean up, to suffer. Even his death hadn’t been simple.
Mr. Filmore’s fingers stretched wide, collecting the papers on the desk into one neat stack. “You only need to bring me the box and I will finalize the last of the paperwork and get the funds released.” He stood, setting the papers and the ledger book into his leather satchel.
“Mr. Filmore, please, one more question before you go.”
“Yes?”
She looked up at him, her words wooden. “Have they discovered anything more on who was responsible for my brother’s death?”
Mr. Filmore shook his head, a glimmer of actual compassion sparking for a second in his dull grey eyes.
She offered him a slight nod and he exited the study.
Laney couldn’t bring herself to stand and escort him out, not that he waited for her to do so. The man knew the business of bereavement. Knowing when to leave.
She stared at the gleaming mahogany wood of her father’s desk. One of the very few things she’d refused to sell over the years.
What had her brother just done to her?
The Box of Draupnir.
Damn the thing.
The very item Morton instructed her seven months ago to—under no circumstance—ever give up.
He’d told her that, time and again, to keep it safe at all cost. To keep it in her possession—against life or limb.
No matter what.
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