Chapter Six

“Lud, Firthwell. It’s not like you to be so distracted,” Featherington said as he wiped his hand across his brow, sweat falling to the floor in large drops. “I’m surprised you dodged that last punch. You seem somewhere faraway today.”

Finlay was surprised as well. His body might be present, but his mind was still fixated on his ever-growing to-do list. He had several key items to accomplish before he met with Lord Inverray later in the week, and he wasn’t certain he could do it all. Just thinking about them made his head pound.

His visit to Gentleman Jackson’s was supposed to help him spar off his excess stress. So far the exercise had not met success.

Perhaps he should have allowed Featherington to land that punch.

He rolled his head before jumping up and down. He needed to focus. “You have this foolhardy idea you’re quick. You may as well be punching through water—of course I dodged it.”

Featherington sneered. “Water? You’re cracked.” He pounded his fists together. “Try dodging this.”

The men threw themselves into their sparring match with renewed vigor. Each delivered a punch or series of jabs, and after Finlay landed a particularly punishing hit to the baron’s ribs, Featherington held up his hand.

“I can’t say I’m glad you decided to pay attention,” he spat out, accepting a towel from an assistant. When he reached his hand up to wipe his face, a grimace pulled it taut.

“I hope it’s not too debilitating.”

“I’ll be fine,” Featherington said with a dismissive wave. “It won’t affect my ability to sit at the card tables or visit my mistress, and I may just receive some extra attention from Cordelia because of it.”

The baron’s brow waggle made Finlay roll his eyes. “So glad I could be of assistance.”

His friend laughed, and the men chatted as they washed up and changed out of their sparring clothes.

“I’m supposed to go to the tailor to get fitted for a new frock coat.” The baron frowned. “My purple one is already fitting snug in the shoulders.”

Finlay was not surprised. His old friend led a decadent lifestyle, and it was quickly catching up to him.

“I hope it will be ready in time for Belling’s house party,” the man continued. “What day will you be arriving?”

“I’m not attending,” Finlay said, adjusting a cufflink.

“But…you left early last year.”

He nodded. After Charlotte had fled his room and not returned, the party lost much of its allure.

“And you’re going to miss it completely this year? You’re the one who gave him the idea to throw it in the first place.”

Finlay studied his cravat in the mirror, determined not to make eye contact. “I can’t afford to be away from the Court that week.”

“You’re returning to Herefordshire?” Disbelief colored the baron’s words. “What on God’s green earth could be more important than Belling’s bloody house party?”

“We’re breaking ground for the new pressing mill.”

An odd silence rang loud in the room. Finlay turned to find his friend staring at him, his jaw slack. He hastened to explain.

“We’ve been sending our orchard harvest to pressing plants outside of London for at least twenty years. But Allie calculated how much we’d eventually save if we built our own plant on Rockhaven property. Plus, we can take in crops from neighboring estates and charge for pressing them or buy them outright to sell ourselves.” Catching Featherington’s eye, he stopped.

“I cannot believe you, the famed rogue, are once again missing Belling’s infamous house party for a pressing mill.”

“You always were a tad slow.” Finlay snorted. “Don’t act like you’ll be upset by my absence. Without me there to attract all the courtesans’ attention, you lot won’t have to fight for the pickings.”

The baron drew himself up. “I had no problem charming my way into Cordelia’s bed.”

“That’s because I supplied you with the words to woo her. I was your very own Cyrano.”

“Yes, well.” Featherington tapped his top hat on his hand. “When you declined to accompany us to Madame Tremaine’s, I assumed you were ill. When you skipped the card room at the Ashwood ball to speak with the duke, I assumed you had a common investment venture.” The baron frowned. “I never dreamed you were actually taking this whole running-the-estate business seriously.”

“Of course I’m taking it seriously. Rockhaven is my inheritance, and with my father away on the Continent, I will not let it flounder.”

“Why the devil did the earl go away in the first place?”

The question made Finlay blink. Not because he hadn’t expected it at some point, just not for Featherington to raise it. It was a dangerous truth that the Earl of Rockhaven was traveling the Continent not on a grand adventure, as he and his sister had spread about, but instead because he’d been sent into exile for his treacherous misdeeds. Pushing down his anxiety, he aimed for a carefree smile. “When a man has reached a certain age, he wants to see the world.” He shrugged. “That’s what he told me at least when he boarded his ship.”

“He has that a bit backward, doesn’t he?” Featherington wrinkled his rather large nose. Lord knew it was the perfect target during their sparring matches. “Aren’t noblemen supposed to take a grand trip after university but before they settle down with a bride?”

“Swintons have never done things quite as they ought.”

After making plans to meet the following day for a rematch, Finlay took his leave and thanked Mr. Jackson as he left to his club.

He endeavored to keep his steps measured as befit a man of his station, but nervousness urged his feet to hasten. Inverray had asked him to speak with Earl Matthews, a key member of the party whose support could mean the difference between victory or defeat. Finlay had never met the earl, but his father had mentioned the man several times. Rumor was the older gentleman was not terribly friendly or easy to pin down, so when Finlay learned he took lunch at his club every Tuesday, he had to seize the opportunity.

When he arrived, Finlay feared his face was a red, sweat-dotted mask of exertion. Patience never was his strong suit.

A footman relieved him of his coat, and he proceeded directly to the dining room. It was filled at this time of day with groups of men discussing political issues, current events, and the latest gossip while enjoying their midday meals of beef steak. The noise level was quite loud, clanks of silverware on boneware china and guffaws of laughter greeting his ears with all the finesse of an out-of-tune violin.

Finlay scanned the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of the earl’s graying auburn head. He offered nods and brief waves to friends and acquaintances who called greetings, but kept to his task; he had business to see to.

When he didn’t see Matthews, he paused. Where was the earl?

“Ho, Firthwell. You look as if someone has stolen your bowl of porridge.”

Finlay turned toward the gruff yet friendly voice and met the dark gaze of the Marquess of Amstead. With another quick glance around the room, he approached the marquess’s table and offered him a brief smile. “Not porridge. But perhaps bacon.”

Amstead clutched a hand to his chest. “Now that is a true tragedy.”

He snorted. “My lord, how do you do? I hadn’t realized you were in town.”

“I arrived just last night.” Amstead pushed out the chair across from him. “Have a seat and tell me about your stolen bacon.”

Finlay reluctantly sat, although he perched on the edge of his chair. If he saw Earl Matthews, he wanted to be able to excuse himself quickly. At any other time, he would have welcomed the gregarious marquess’s company, but now he was too agitated to appreciate the man’s witty conversation.

“Are you expecting your thief to pop out from around a corner and throttle you?” Finlay’s attention jerked back to the man, who raised a brow at him. “Or are you hoping to surprise him with a good throttling?”

A chuckle escaped. “I suspect I may be throttled.”

“Aww.” Amstead took a sip of coffee. “Who are you searching for?”

“Earl Matthews. Have you seen him?”

“Not ten minutes ago. He left.”

“Bollocks.”

“My condolences.” The marquess ran a finger around the lip of his cup. “Why did you want to meet with the old killjoy anyway? I know I don’t come to town frequently, but I think even I would have heard if you turned up proper, like His Priggishness.”

“I need his support.”

The marquess was silent. After a moment, he pointed a finger at him. “You’re standing for the Weobley seat.”

Finlay huffed. “Apparently everyone knows what I’m about.”

“You should probably work on that, if you want to stand a chance in Commons.”

“Just add it to my list.”

The marquess laughed, signaling to a footman to bring coffee for Finlay. “So Inverray’s given you a list, has he?”

“Why do you suppose I’ve spoken with Inverray?” Finlay hedged, not at all sure how he felt about Amstead guessing so much about his actions and motives.

“Because if you want to win, you’d be a fool to try to stand without Inverray’s support.” Amstead took a sip from his cup. “He’s been brilliant in Commons.”

“Your voice held a note of surprise when you said that.”

“Did it?” The marquess crossed his arms. “Well, I’m not surprised. Inverray was always a clever fellow. If he’s championing you, I don’t see why Matthews won’t.”

“But…he could?” Finlay drew out the last word like a question. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something in the marquess’s demeanor gave him the impression Earl Matthews wouldn’t be so easily won.

Amstead cocked his head. “Did Matthews ever do business with your father?”

The breath caught in Finlay’s lungs. He hadn’t even considered the possibility.

“From the panicked look on your face, I’m going to assume you’ve realized the multitude of problems you face if the answer is yes,” Amstead said, his tone grave.

Problems, indeed. If Matthews had worked with his father, which seemed plausible, Finlay could speculate how their association ended. But he couldn’t be certain until he checked his father’s records. He hoped…and prayed…he didn’t find the man’s name amongst the paperwork.

Damn.

With a start, Finlay realized Amstead was watching him expectantly. He adjusted his cravat as he collected his thoughts. “I’m assuming, as I’m sure you already have, that if Matthews worked with my father in any way, he’s either going to back my campaign or capsize it before it’s even launched.”

Amstead raised his cup to him. “Precisely.”

Finlay closed his eyes. How could he forge his own path if his father still served as a roadblock, in spite of time and distance?

“I’m surmising Inverray doesn’t know about your father’s business dealings.” Amstead paused, the air seeming to spark with the unspoken implication. “Do you think you should tell him?”

“What would I tell him?” Finlay plopped his cup on the table with a thud. “That my father swindled investors? That his speculations often came to naught, leaving broken friendships and empty coffers in their wake?” He dare not disclose how the Earl of Rockhaven’s closest friend killed himself after his father wrongfully implicated him in a crime. That the earl’s desperation led him to commit all sorts of dishonorable acts, like murdering one duke and attempting to murder another.

His heart lurched when he thought of the most explosive secret of all, outlined in painful detail in his mother’s diary. A secret that could not only obliterate any chance he had to sit in Commons, but completely ruin him.

“My father has many sins to atone for, but they’re not my sins.”

“Touché.” Amstead tipped his cup to him. “Does anyone else know of his business practices? Anyone who might spill secrets in the heat of a contentious campaign?”

Finlay tapped his chin with a fist. “I can’t be certain. He did business with all sorts of men.”

“Well, hopefully no roaches crawl out of the dung pile. I would sit on the truth of your father’s past and hope it doesn’t come to light when you least need it to.”