Looking at the numbers, she shook her head. “But how could Morty do that—gain everything back so quickly? The ship alone wouldn’t have been enough. It is only half of what our father had left us with.”
Mr. Filmore’s fingers tapped along the edge of the ledger as his eyes avoided Laney. “Your brother also had some…luck in other investments earlier this year.”
“You mean at the gaming tables?”
Mr. Filmore looked up to her, offering her a weak smile. His gaze flickered to the desk, his hands shaking as he shuffled the papers in front of him.
Why was he nervous? Was it because she was a woman and he wasn’t accustomed to dealing with the opposite sex? Her height? A general disdain for death and all the work that accompanied it?
She’d met the man briefly when her father had died. He was older now, eleven years of lines added to his face. He was exceptionally short—she’d noticed that about him directly when they’d first been introduced. Though most people were shorter than her, Mr. Filmore’s eyes were at the direct level of her breasts. Always awkward.
Not that she remembered much of the man from when her father died. Morton had ushered him into the study and she hadn’t been invited into the room. No, Morton hadn’t allowed it. He’d said he would handle all of the affairs of the estate and that she shouldn’t worry.
A whole lot of good that had done.
Morton had pushed her aside when that was the one thing she needed to be doing at that time—worrying. Worrying about her brother—worrying about his lack of control. Worrying about his 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 theElanoraare 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 theElanora,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.