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all of them are dated,’ he pointed out.

      ‘Then we shall make a stack of those papers with no date and see if we can’t make sense of them, in time.’ She paused a moment. ‘When was the last time he used a ledger to record anything at all?’

      ‘1802.’

      Miss Goodson blinked at that. Unfortunately, they were looking through at least eight years of papers. There was no way around it, except to go piece by piece.

      ‘All right.’ She steadied herself a moment and said, ‘I suggest that we purchase eight ledgers. One for each year. We can sort the papers and put them inside the ledgers to be recorded later. What do you think?’

      ‘I’ve already begun sorting them by year. This is 1803.’ He pointed towards the stack of papers on the floor beside the desk. ‘And this is 1804.’ He gestured at the brass sconce. It was the best semblance of order he could achieve amid the chaos.

      ‘Where is the pile left to be sorted?’ she enquired. He didn’t miss the slight note of alarm in her tone.

      ‘In the bookcase. Behind portraits. Inside every possible hiding place you’d imagine.’

      Her complexion turned sickly at his statement. ‘Oh, dear.’

      ‘Aye. I won’t be asking you to sort all of it. We’ll try it for an hour. That will be forfeit enough.’

      Even so, he intended to speak with Alban about the extra ledgers. It was a good idea, and it would make it easier to organise the materials. The truth was, he’d been avoiding this task. A part of him thought it would be just as easy to lock the door and walk away. But he had to learn how Tavin had lost so much money over the years.

      ‘Shall I begin gathering the papers?’ Miss Goodson suggested. ‘I could go through the bookcase and find them. Since you already know where your stacks are, you could put them where they belong.’

      Lachlan shrugged. ‘If you like.’ It was as good a place to start as any. He took three pages and placed one behind the sconce and a second on the pile for 1808.

      Miss Goodson glanced outside. ‘What time is it, Locharr?’

      He flipped open his pocket watch and answered, ‘It’s half past three.’ He didn’t know why she had asked, but he supposed it was growing later in the day.

      ‘Should I ring for tea to be served here?’

      ‘Aye. If you’re hungry.’ Now that she mentioned it, food did sound good right now.

      She rang for Alban, and Lachlan ordered sandwiches and tea for her to drink, though he personally would have preferred whisky. Miss Goodson pulled out a slim volume from the bookshelf and found it stuffed with papers. Her eyes narrowed at his father’s handwriting, but she managed to find a date. ‘This one is 1805.’ She passed it to him, and he stacked it beside the window.

      They found a rhythm of working together that was effective. Miss Goodson went through the papers, calling out each date before she passed it to him. One date was particularly difficult, and she squinted. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I have no idea what these numbers are.’ She held it out and he studied it closely with no luck.

      ‘I’m thinking he was half-tippled when he wrote it.’ But he placed it in the 1806 pile nonetheless.

      ‘One might need to be deep in his cups to make sense of all this,’ she muttered beneath her breath.

      Lachlan hid a smile at that. ‘In an hour, we can have a wee nip, if you’re wanting something.’

      ‘No, thank you.’ Her lips pursed together in the manner of a prim governess, and he rather wondered what she would be like with her hair loosened around her shoulders, her mouth softened.

      When Alban arrived with the tea, Lachlan directed him to put the refreshments on the table by the window. Before the footman could leave, Miss Goodson cleared her throat.

      ‘Pardon me, Locharr, but do you think Alban could acquire the ledgers you need to sort through all of your father’s papers?’

      The elderly footman turned back with a pained look. ‘How many would you be wanting, do you think?’ His gaze passed over the papers as if he wanted to set them on fire.

      ‘I should think that eight would be sufficient, don’t you?’ She looked back at him for confirmation.

      Lachlan only shrugged. ‘It doesna matter to me. Bring eight, and if we’re needing more, I’ll send for them.’

      Miss Goodson brightened at his support. ‘Good. That will help you put away what you’ve already sorted.’ Once the footman had departed, she tucked a wayward curl behind one ear.

      ‘Eat,’ he commanded. ‘You could stand to be fattened up a bit.’

      She gaped and then said, ‘Please don’t speak to a lady about her figure, Locharr. If you mean to offer a sandwich, then do so, but say nothing about fattening her up. I am not a pig about to be roasted for supper.’

      He knew that, but he hadn’t been able to resist teasing her. With a shrug, he said, ‘I meant no harm.’ He’d only wanted to watch her indignant reaction. Her cheeks flushed, and when she corrected him, she tended to straighten her shoulders, revealing the outline of her bosom.

      Miss Goodson walked towards the window and picked up the plate. ‘Well, be that as it may, it is easy enough to simply offer a sandwich.’

      He took one and devoured it with a single bite. Aye, he knew it was barbaric, but he was enjoying tweaking her. ‘It’s no’ bad. Ye should try one.’

      She raised an eyebrow at him, and her expression turned into that of a prim schoolteacher. ‘Were you a difficult boy in school?’

      ‘Very. My friends and I were always avoiding our classes.’ He expected her to chastise him, but there was a gleam in her eyes as if she thought it an adventure instead.

      ‘I suppose your teachers grew frustrated,’ she teased. ‘You are quite a challenge. But I believe I can succeed in helping you, Locharr.’

      ‘Why?’ He set down the plate, deliberately wanting to challenge her. ‘Are you forgetting that you’re no’ my governess, Miss Goodson? And that you’re leaving tomorrow?’

      Her expression dimmed at that. ‘I haven’t forgotten. But I want to help you as much as I am able, in whatever time I have remaining.’

      ‘Because you believe you can change my mind about keeping you here?’ He reached for another sandwich. ‘It willna happen. The last thing I need is someone telling me what to do and how to do it.’

      Her face flushed, and she didn’t move. Those river-green eyes turned the colour of a storm cloud. ‘That wasn’t my intention.’

      Oh, but it was. And he wanted to be quite clear that he would not allow her to give him commands.

      ‘You’re no’ going to stay,’ he responded. ‘No matter what you say or do.’

      ‘We’ll see about that.’ Her challenge brightened those cheeks, and she glared at him. It intrigued him further, and he wondered if she would keep her temper.

      ‘Are you wanting a sandwich, Miss Goodson?’ he asked. He deliberately spoke with exaggerated politeness as he pressed the bread to her mouth.

      The colour deepened in her face, and she turned away. ‘I’m not hungry.’

      ‘I am.’ He took the sandwich and ate half in a single bite. Miss Goodson’s expression appeared pained, but she did not correct him.

      ‘Do you want the other half?’ He held it out, knowing that she wanted to say something. But she didn’t dare, knowing how that her place was tenuous.

      Instead, she turned her attention to another distraction, and she poured a cup of tea for each of them. ‘Do you take milk or sugar in your

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