Chapter Twelve

“I hadn’t realized you and Mrs. Taylor were familiar with each other.”

Finlay locked his jaw. “I don’t know what you mean.”

The marquess’s snort rankled. “You seemed awfully concerned for her safety.”

“And you weren’t? Someone tried to abscond with her, after all.”

“Of course I was. And I still am, especially because we have no information to work with.” Inverray paused. “But then, I’m her employer. What are you to her?”

Angling his head away, he lifted a shoulder. “Her friend.”

“Her friend. Of course.” The marquess laughed. “If you continue to show interest in her, there will be talk.”

“There will always be talk.” Feeling a sting, he uncurled his fists to reveal vivid crescent nail marks on his palms. “I’ve never been frightened of talk.”

Arching a brow, Inverray huffed. “Probably because you’ve never had anything to lose.”

Oh, but he did. His courtesy title, his claim as the heir to Rockhaven, his very livelihood was one well-timed whisper away from collapsing about his ears. If his true parentage were revealed, he’d be completely ruined. Finlay bit his tongue so he did not correct the marquess.

The men continued their walk in silence, an awkward tension stretching between them. The marquess was right, but Finlay’s concern for Charlotte was fierce. He wouldn’t allow himself to consider why.

Instead, he asked himself why someone had tried to abduct her. Aside from her beauty, she didn’t possess wealth or connections to make her a valuable target. With a jolt of insight, Finlay remembered how her expression had shuttered when he’d asked her why anyone would seek to take her. She claimed not to know, but her demeanor proclaimed her a liar.

Such a discovery only led to more questions.

Why would she lie about the villain’s motives? It was obvious she was terrified by what had occurred. When he’d first noticed her sitting in the Campbell House drawing room, he’d been struck by how pale and small she looked. In their few encounters, Charlotte had never been small. She’d lived large in his memory for over a year. Yet, when he took her slender hands into his own, he’d noticed they quivered.

She’d been frightened, yet she didn’t want to reveal why. What was she hiding?

Why did he care?

Finlay inhaled, the crisp air dispelling the tightness in his chest. The tandem sound of their footsteps on the path was lulling, in spite of the bustle and noise of the city around them. Soon, he was able to temper his concerns for Charlotte and focus on his meeting with the formidable Earl Matthews.

“Matthews will tell you to keep your nose clean and your name out of the papers,” Inverray intoned as they came to a stop in front of a dignified white townhouse around the corner from Belgravia Square. “It’s imperative the voters believe you are someone they can trust to push through reforms. Someone who will make their interests paramount.”

The marquess looked up at the home, his expression speculative. “I’m still trying to discover more about Abernathy, but the Tories love to tout his ties to the church. Apparently, several of his uncles are vicars, and one is the undersecretary to the archbishop. You can wager your quarterly allowance there’s a scandal lurking somewhere.”

Finlay chuckled, but the Scotsman’s mien was grave. “You have more ground to cover in convincing people you’re serious about standing in Parliament. If this were one of your father’s pocket boroughs, no one would care. But it’s not, which means you’ll have to work for it. So while playing knight for Mrs. Taylor is gallant, it’s also foolish.”

Inverray climbed the steps and dropped the doorknocker. “For all his clever strategies and liberal ideas, Matthews is a horrible snob,” he shared under his breath. “He will find fault with you no matter what you do, so I’d prefer not to give him additional ammunition.”

“Kind of you.” Finlay felt a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth at the man’s disgruntled tone.

The Scotsman’s snort was cut off when a dour-faced butler opened the door. He nodded his gray head when he saw the marquess, stepping back to allow the men entry.

“Good morning to you, my lord.” He assisted Inverray with his coat while a footman appeared to take Finlay’s. “If you gentlemen would follow me, His Lordship awaits you in his study.”

Finlay trailed behind Inverray, discreetly peering through the open doors of rooms they passed. His quick, cursory glances revealed stately rooms decorated in subdued tones of beige, creams, and umbers. Gold leaf wallpaper ran up and down the hallway, and he rolled his eyes at such a display of wealth.

Certainly any investments Earl Matthews had made with his father had not left him in financial straits.

The butler knocked once on the last door on the right, before swinging it open. “The Marquess of Inverray and Viscount Firthwell to see you, your Lordship.”

Inverray advanced into the room and offered a polite bow to the older man rising from behind a cherry wood desk. As the gentlemen exchanged pleasantries, Finlay discreetly inspected the earl. Although he had seen Matthews at various social events his father had made him attend since he’d graduated from university, he’d never actually been introduced to the man.

He was surprisingly fit, with broad shoulders and a trim frame. While his hair was peppered liberally with gray, his jawline was still firm, showing none of the sag that age and the excess of rich food and drink encouraged. He held himself like a pugilist, as if he bounced on the balls of his feet, ready to dodge a jab or block a punch. Finlay recalled the man had never married, many saying the business of running England was his mistress. If Matthews had a vice, he’d been unable to discover it.

When the earl turned his attention to Finlay, his brown eyes were piercing.

“Lord Firthwell, how do you do?” he said cordially, although his crisp tone would never be described as warm.

Finlay offered him a bow. “I’m well, my lord. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

The earl indicated the two chairs before his desk with a sweep of his hand. He considered Finlay with unblinking eyes. “Yes, well, it seemed imperative to determine for myself if you were truly up to challenge Abernathy for the Weobley seat. Inverray claims you are, but he hasn’t been at this as long as I have. Oftentimes, a seasoned eye is needed to pinpoint a potential candidate’s strengths and weaknesses and see through his empty words and promises.”

Crossing one leg over the other, he risked a fleeting glance at Inverray, who studied his hands, his expression blank. After an internal debate, Finlay said, “I’m certain you’ll find plenty of weaknesses. My hope is that they don’t outnumber my strengths.”

Matthews’s lips turned up in what could only be described as a semblance of a smile. “Spoken like a politician.”

“I’ve been practicing.” Finlay was pleased to note the earl’s mouth twitched.

“I hope that aside from fine-tuning your wit, you’ve been studying the issues.”

“Of course. I see no point in throwing my hat into the ring if it’s merely for vanity. I’m sure enough of that fills Westminster as it is, and I can find more pleasurable ways to stroke my ego than debating middle-aged men whose white wigs are bigger than their brains.”

Inverray rubbed a hand across his mouth but not before a soft snigger escaped, while Matthews rested his chin on his hand. Finlay wondered what the earl thought of his sentiment, but the man’s mien gave nothing away.

Finlay took a heartbeat to order his thoughts. “I’m aware that until now, my life has been filled with frivolous pursuits, as is not uncommon for men of our status. I understand I may have to convince some I take this position seriously. And I’m ready to do that.” He rubbed his hands down his thighs. “With the Catholic Relief Act, it’s been decided that a man’s religious beliefs shouldn’t exclude him from participating in the governing of our great country. Next, I think Parliament should lift the landholding requirement that determines which men can vote and which can’t. And with the continued spread of manufacturing across England, the welfare of the working poor needs to be considered. Working conditions in both factories and mines can be drastically improved. And don’t even get me started on child laborers. Many of the youngest, thus the very smallest, are given the most dangerous jobs. It’s deplorable.”

Matthews pressed his lips together but held his silence, so Finlay pressed on. “Surely, the party can expand on the legislation passed by Peel. I’d argue no child under the age of three and ten should be working, and older children should work no more than eight hours every day. Their bodies are still growing, and so they’re often warped, if they don’t break completely, under such harsh conditions. Parliament needs to address these issues, as well as wage requirements, before the largest sector of our community unionizes and runs us out of power.” He paused, inhaling deeply as he looked both gentlemen squarely in the eye. “Let’s not forget the many lessons of the French Revolution.”

“Working conditions? Wage requirements?” Matthews flicked his hand as if he’d gotten something foul on his fingers. “I’d say there are many more important considerations to focus on.”

“Respectfully, my lord, I can’t imagine what’s more important than the welfare of our good people.” Finlay straightened his spine. “Aristocrats are taught to believe the working class beneath them, but I believe they’re the backbone of the country.”

“You do?” The earl’s lips twisted. “And who taught you such a thing? Surely not your father.”

“Life taught me that lesson. Having two eyes in my head and the willingness to pay attention to those around me.” Finlay propped a boot on his knee, quelling the urge to bounce it. “It’s working-class men and women who make England prosperous.”

Matthews said nothing, merely staring at him.

Battling a sudden case of nerves, Finlay stood and rounded his chair, gripping the back within his fists. “England is changing. I know I don’t have to tell you that. No longer will the power and economic structure of our country be tied to agrarian estates. With the rise of industries that are tempting workers to walk away from the fields and into factories, the power structure has begun to change. Commons will soon be filled with clever, self-made men determined to change the world to benefit them. It’s in our interest to understand such men, their motivations and goals, so we can work with them to make our country strong for all of us. Because with money comes power. And money is no longer reserved for the titled.”

Finlay’s mouth suddenly felt dry. His monologue was unplanned…and perhaps unwise. He cautiously slid his gaze to Inverray, skeptical of what the man’s reaction would be to his words. Challenging Matthews on issues was one thing, but encouraging a party leader to change how he views the men he deems below himself was quite another. He was supposed to be courting the earl, not giving him a lesson on the political climate, something the man was very aware of.

He found Inverray idly drinking a cup of tea from a tray he was unaware had been delivered, a black brow arched in amusement. Finlay’s lungs filled with relief.

“Excellent.” Matthews slapped his hands onto the desktop. “I like your fire, Firthwell. You’re quite the idealist, but try not to let the frustrations, the prejudices, the…monotony of Parliament extinguish it.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

The earl trained his penetrating gaze on him. “I think you’ll quickly find that Parliament isn’t so much about leading the crusade against injustice, as it is about protecting the common good. The wheels of change are slow.”

“Compromise.” Inverray set his cup of tea on the edge of the desk and folded his hands over his waist. “The value and art of a good compromise is every Parliament member’s first lesson.”

“Actually, I think the first lesson all aspiring members of Parliament need to learn is adherence to the party line.” Matthews grabbed his quill and twirled it with his long fingers. He looked to Inverray. “Nothing sinks a rising political career as quickly as being a rebel.”

Finlay abruptly felt as if he’d found himself in the middle of a long-standing point of contention between the two men. By all accounts, Inverray was a bit of a rebel…and the public loved him for it. It was hard to argue with his success when he’d garnered a stable full of political victories.

“Perhaps. But then, a true rebel is not as concerned about making a career as he is about influencing change.”

Matthews narrowed his eyes. “We’ll see, I suppose.” After a long, tense moment, he directed his attention to Finlay. “Before I publicly support your challenge to Abernathy, I have several questions.”

“Of course,” Finlay said, proud to note his voice sounded normal, for his hands were suddenly clammy and his cravat felt as if it were choking him.

“Who is funding your campaign?”

“I am.” He lifted his chin. Smart investments had yielded him a respectable nest egg.

“With a borough the size of Weobley, courting voters—” Finlay must have made a face because the earl sighed. “You’ll want to buy them food and drinks before and after events and possibly even at the polls. Perhaps you will want to sponsor the repairs to the church rectory or spire. The schoolroom may need new desks or primers. Such contributions will endear you to the voters but quickly burn through whatever funds you managed to set aside after cleaning up after your father’s reckless investments.” The earl drummed his fingers on the wooden desktop. “We’ll have local party members create a committee to fundraise for you. It will also allow us to test the amount of interest voters have for your candidacy. I’ve contacted Townsend to organize it.”

He nodded, more than a little overwhelmed. “I appreciate it.”

“Your father,” Matthews continued without preamble, “is he returning?”

Finlay clenched his jaw. “He is not.”

Matthews dropped the quill with a thud. “That is fortunate. For all of his influence, Rockhaven was not well liked. Let’s hope that doesn’t affect your chances.” He paused. “I don’t think it will. You don’t carry a cloak of arrogance about you like he did.”

Finlay hoped the man was right.

“Are you aware I invested with your father and the late Duke of Darington in a disastrous colliery venture?”

“I am.” Finlay cleared his throat. “After I learned of it, I was surprised you agreed to meet with me.”

“But you’re not your father,” Matthews said so matter-of factly Finlay blinked. “I understand the new Duke of Darington married your sister. Are you still investing in ventures together?”

“We are. And he and my sister return soon.”

“Excellent.” Matthews folded his hands in front of his face. “I don’t think it’s appropriate to ask a duchess to canvass voters for you, so we will have to organize with local Whig party members to canvass on your behalf. This will be key. However, I recommend you ask Their Graces if they’d host a ball for you. It would be the perfect way to showcase your support, and hopefully such support will lead to campaign donations.” He pointed a finger at Finlay. “It would also be an effective way for them to reintroduce themselves to society after their lengthy absence.”

Something in the man’s tone grated along Finlay’s spine like coarse wool. He dragged air into his lungs to cool his rising temper and exhaled as discreetly as possible. Inverray had warned him Matthews was overbearing, and the earl was certainly proving the Scotsman correct.

Seeming to sense his struggle, the marquess raised his teacup to Matthews in mock salute. “Capital idea, my lord. A grand ducal ball would be the perfect way for Firthwell to officially announce his intention to stand for Weoebly, and Their Graces of Darington can charm all of London with one fell swoop.” He turned to Finlay, a smile ghosting across his mouth. “Be sure to sell it to your sister as such.”

“I’m not above employing some sibling blackmail to entice Her Grace to assist me. I knew keeping tabs of her sins would eventually come in handy.”

While Inverray laughed, Matthews tapped his fist against his mouth. His eyes didn’t waver from the desktop, as if it contained the answer to all of life’s questions. Once the marquess’s laughter had ceased, the earl stood.

“You should also marry.” He offered a cup of tea to Finlay. “Or, at the very least, announce an engagement.”

Finlay blinked. He accepted the cup while he opened his mouth, and then closed it after several silent seconds. Or perhaps they were minutes.

Marry? Just the word turned the thoughts in his head into porridge.

He wasn’t naive. Marriage was an eventuality, and if he was honest, he was looking forward to it. He liked women. Respected them. Admired them. And he liked the idea of belonging to one woman as much as she belonged to him. But such a relationship was never meant to be a part of some grand strategy of his. As a future earl, he was supposed to view his future wife in terms of her connections and bloodline. A plump dowry would be a bonus.

But every time he remembered the way Alethea’s face had lit up like a candelabra in a darkened chamber when she saw Darington at the end of the aisle, well his heart ached. Just a little. And when he recalled how the duke’s face softened and his eyes twinkled every time he said Alethea’s name, how could he want anything less for himself? Heaven knew his sister and he were the product of the ultimate society marriage, which imploded in a storm of fire and infidelity, only to be covered up in scandal.

“Why do you think I should do that?” he managed to ask without sounding strangled.

“If I’m remembering my society gossip correctly, which I admit I might not be as I’ve never been one for the gossip rags,” Lord Matthews said with an arched brow. “But if I’m not mistaken, you have a bit of a reputation as a scoundrel. A rogue.”

Unable to think of a suitable reply, Finlay gave a brusque nod.

Matthews cocked his head. “And with your father’s sudden abdication from responsibility, I’m not certain the Rockhaven and Swinton name is quite what it used to be.” At Finlay’s scowl, he held up a hand. “Even with your sister marrying a duke, it wouldn’t hurt for you to shore up your reputation with an alliance to a proper, highly bred daughter of a peer. I can send you a list of possible candidates by tomorrow.”

Finlay swallowed, forcing down glass with the motion. “Are you certain marriage is the thing? Inverray is unmarried yet.”

Matthews slid a look at the marquess, who smiled gamely in return. “I recommended the same thing to the marquess, but true to his Scots blood, he rebelled.”

“And it seems not to have affected him at all.” Finlay resisted the urge to fuss with his cravat or shift in his seat.

“Inverray is a phenomenon not likely to be replicated,” Matthews drawled, as if the marquess’s political savvy and success was a miracle. “Also his father, the Duke of Kilmorow, is not a haughty, manipulative snake like yours.”

Well,” Finlay said, drawing the sound out. He’d give free reign to his anger about the marriage decree in the privacy of his chambers at Rockhaven House. “So, find a proper, well-connected chit to make my future countess.”

The men spoke for several more minutes, before they exchanged goodbyes. As Finlay followed Inverray out of the room, Matthews called him back.

The earl looked stern when he said, “I know I don’t have to tell you this, but I will anyway. Keep your name out of the gossip pages. Everything you say and do will be commented upon, and if you’re serious about winning this seat, you need to prove you’re a serious candidate. I’ll rescind my support at the first hint of scandal.”

His mother’s diary and the horrible secret it contained floated through his mind like a poisonous cloud. It dissolved suddenly, revealing Charlotte’s pale face etched with fear.

Scandal could take many forms.