Wolfsgate by Cat Porter

grand left of me or the estate.”
    Davidson’s head tilted. “You think that’s what matters to ‘er?”
    “Well, I can’t say I know my wife very well.”
    “Go home and get to know her!” Davidson exclaimed. Brandon only cast him a dark glance and inhaled more smoke from his pipe, letting it burn in his lungs.
    “Oh, I see, this is you feeling sorry for yerself? Drowning your sorrows? Ah, such sorrows!” Davidson planted his hands on the table. “Has she not told you then?”
    Brandon’s eyes narrowed as he exhaled a plume of smoke. “Told me what?”
    “Oh, damn me.” His fingers gripped Brandon’s arm, and in a quick movement he yanked him closer. Brandon’s eyes flared. “It’s all there and more,” Davidson said in his ear, his voice low. “She’s been hiding it from them for a long while now.”
    Brandon’s face twitched. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and gripped the edges of the table to keep himself steady as an eerie lightness rushed to his head. Davidson scowled as he smoothed down the sleeve of Brandon’s frock coat.
    “What did you say?”
    “‘Bout two years ago when your cousin curtailed my running of the estate, she came to me and asked me to show her how to keep the books,” said Davidson, his voice low, his head dipped close to Brandon’s. “And then a few months later she asked me about the enterprise in Jamaica. She was in a panic.”
    Brandon tugged his hands through his hair in an effort to feel pain, feel something, anything. A leaden weight pressed in on his stomach, and that heaviness traveled up his torso settling in his chest.
    The other night he had woken up in a sweat and gone into the study with a candle. He had pulled open the desk drawers and found the estate accounting ledgers. Going through them, he was astonished by the sudden drop in income and the great rise in expenditures written out to his cousin and uncle. Nothing significant was noted for maintenance or upkeep or food. And nothing for Justine. His fingers had circled over figures on the paper as his brain tried to make sense of the fact that Justine might possibly be telling him the truth about her role in William’s scheme.
    “She’s not told you then?” He stared at Brandon for a long while. “Or maybe you haven’t given her a chance to tell you?” Davidson rubbed a hand across his stubbly jaw. “Stubborn boy! I told her this would be difficult. But this is beyond—” He exhaled through his nose. “I should have checked in on you two, but I didn’t want to intrude or seem forward. More fool am I!” He followed Brandon’s troubled gaze down to the Graven signet ring on his hand and shook his head. “Your wife has single-handedly saved your precious inheritance and your life, Lord Graven.”
    “Davidson, help me get home.”

    Justine stood on the final step of the staircase, lit candle in one hand. After a long, restless, and unsuccessful attempt at sleep, she decided to get herself a brandy, that is if Brandon hadn’t finished it all yet. She found both the drawing room and the parlor empty, cold, and dark.
    The front door grated opened and frigid air rushed into the hall. Brandon stood in the doorway, his face pale and worn, his neck bent to the side, his head leaning against the door jamb.
    “Brandon? Are you all right? You look…”
    “Terrible, I know,” his voice rasped. Justine set the brass candle holder on the console table and shoved the great door closed behind him. She peeled the heavy cloak off his shoulders, tossed it on the chest of drawers next to her, and led him to the bench in the hall.
    Crouching before him, she began removing his boots. “I’m glad you’re in one piece at the very least,” she said, tugging off his right boot with both hands.
    “I don’t feel like I am.” His voice was quiet and small. “I feel more like a thousand broken pieces, and I’m not sure what to try to mend first.” She stole a look up at him. Tears streamed down