Chapter Eighteen

It had been billed as afternoon tea in the fundraising invitation, and yet Finlay was certain dinner soirees had less attendees.

“Lord Firthwell, would you like another raspberry tart? I noticed you seem to favor them.” Mrs. Townsend’s round cheeks were flushed as she gestured toward the display of confections and pastries threatening to collapse the sideboard.

Dipping his head politely at his hostess, Finlay watched as the woman stacked three tarts into a perfect little tower on a plate. She handed them to him with a wink.

He shoved one into his mouth in lieu of a response. In the thirty minutes since he’d been welcomed into the Townsends’ cramped library, he’d been peppered with questions about everything pertaining to his desire to stand for Weobley, how he entertained himself while in London, what he thought of the passage of the Catholic Emancipation Act, as well as some heavy-handed hints about whether he intended to search for a bride. This last question, asked by a countess with three unmarried daughters, drew the most reaction. He could practically see the way some people in the room inched to the edge of their chairs and straightened their spines in preparation for his answer.

Such inane questions and comments had lulled Finlay into a false state of relaxation, so he struggled with his composure when the line of questioning turned abruptly serious.

It all started innocently enough.

After sitting quietly, listening to Finlay’s thoughts on labor taxes, Townsend straightened his waistcoat and asked, “So Firthwell, what does Lord Rockhaven think of you standing for Weobley?”

Mr. Townsend had a thick, curving mustache he played with when contemplating something or someone. He appeared to be the kind of man who would chuck you under the chin and encourage you to smile, before slipping you a licorice or peppermint. Finlay quickly learned how dangerous it was to have underestimated the man based on his appearance.

Any mention of his sire made his head ache as if he’d swallowed too much ice at once. Considering the amount of times people brought him up to Finlay, he’d learned to mask his reaction. Or so he hoped.

“I’m not sure. I wrote him after I decided but have not received a reply. He may not have received the letter because he’d moved on in his travels.” Keen on changing the subject, Finlay pivoted to the young woman sitting next to him. “Miss Anderson, this is your first season, is it not? Have you had a chance to visit the British Museum since you’ve been in London?”

The shy redhead blushed and stammered for a reply but was interrupted by Mr. Townsend. “He didn’t send you his travel itinerary?”

Blinking, Finlay slowly shook his head. “No.”

“Odd, that.” Townsend laid a hand on his round belly and stroked his mustache. “As his heir, shouldn’t he be keeping you abreast of his plans? I would think he’d want to know the status of his estates and investments. From what I remember of Rockhaven, he was always working on various deals and schemes.”

That he was, Finlay begrudgingly agreed, and they had hurt so many people.

Clenching his jaw until it throbbed, Finlay said, “It hadn’t really occurred to me. My father has wanted to travel and see more of the world, but the demands of an earldom are great. I am honored he felt confident enough in my abilities to oversee the estates that he finally set out on his grand adventure.” His lips curved. “But if you feel you have advice on how he should or should not be communicating with me, then by all means send him a letter. I’ll provide you with the last known address I have for him.”

Several nervous titters sounded through the air. For Townsend to have addressed Finlay in such a manner was uncouth, and he felt more than justified in his curt response.

Yet the man didn’t seem chastised in the least. He merely relaxed back in his chair, a speculative look causing his forehead to crinkle. “I would never dream of telling an earl how he should conduct his affairs.”

“Only a viscount.” Finlay laced the words with as much humor as he could rally.

The older man chuckled along with the rest of the occupants of the room, but his eyes remained shrewd. “Only when he’s running for a contested seat, I assure you.”

“Well, I’m certain if my father were accessible by mail, he would offer a plethora of advice on the issues and how I should be running my campaign.” Finlay brushed a crumb from his lap. “And he would have a thing or two to say about my stances.”

“Is that why Rockhaven didn’t give you one of his pocket boroughs?” Townsend braced his hands on his spread knees and leaned forward, his expression rapt. “I would think any father would want their son voting in block with him from Commons.”

Annoyance crept down Finlay’s spine, making him shift in his seat. “Perhaps. But then, my father is not here to vote his seat.” He reached for his teacup, needing to hold something in his hand. He only wished it contained whisky instead. “I think it’s quite obvious my father and I differ on many of the issues facing our country, and I have never been shy about expressing my opinion. But the reason I am standing for Weobley instead of taking one of my father’s boroughs is simple: I feel I could learn more and do more at Weobley.”

The lie came so easily for Finlay he was surprised he felt even a smidgeon of guilt for uttering it. He may have been annoyed, and hurt, when his father refused to give him one of the many boroughs under the control of the earldom, but he was not going to admit that to Townsend. And not all of what he’d said was false. With no ties to his father, he felt free to align himself with other MPs who viewed the issues as he did. He felt free to vote as his conscience saw fit.

And he’d learned so much in just the few weeks his campaign had been active. Meeting voters, listening to their concerns, learning from others who’d navigated the political circus with success, like Inverray and Matthews, had helped shape him into a better candidate. The sort of candidate Weobley voters deserved.

“I find it very admirable,” Miss Anderson said, the tips of her ears turning pink before she ducked her head.

Tension eased from his limbs. “Thank you, Miss Anderson. That’s kind of you to say.”

Mrs. Townsend clapped her hands enthusiastically. “I quite agree. If your father were here, I’m sure he would be quite proud of you, even if his politics differ from yours.”

Mercifully, the conversation turned to other topics, with several smaller groups breaking off to discuss the latest political intrigue or societal gossip. Finlay allowed himself a moment to collect his composure and indulged in eating the rest of his tart. As he washed the pastry down with a mouthful of tepid tea, a soft voice broke through his repose.

“Lord Firthwell, did you enjoy Miss Eddington’s pianoforte performance the other night?” Miss Anderson’s cheeks were florid, and yet she met his gaze unwaveringly.

“I did.” Finlay wiped his mouth with a napkin and turned to face her fully. “I must admit that I didn’t have very high hopes for the quality of music I’d hear. Not, of course, because I doubted Miss Eddington’s ability, but because one never really can trust a review unless it’s one’s own.”

Miss Anderson giggled, a low sound that suggested she felt guilty for engaging in such behavior. “I understand perfectly.”

“I hadn’t realized you were also in attendance. I regret I did not have a chance to make your acquaintance at that time. We’d be old friends by now.” Finlay flashed his best smile, and she fluttered her hands in her lap.

“Th-there were so many people in attendance, it was hard to meet everyone.” Her voice dropped in tone…but not in volume. “Plus, you seemed quite engaged with Lady Flora Campbell and her lovely dark-haired friend.”

Charlotte. Just thinking of her heated his skin. He did his best to tamp down the sensation. “Mrs. Taylor. She is Lady Flora’s companion and a teacher at Little Windmill House, the foundling home my sister and Lady Flora, as well as other illustrious patrons, sponsor.”

Miss Anderson tilted her head demurely, although he noticed her gaze remained trained on his face through her lashes. “Oh. Well, then no wonder it appeared you knew her so well. And how nice she is able to accompany Lady Flora to events. I’m sure she doesn’t much get the chance to attend such elevated gatherings as a mere teacher.”

The dash of condescension in her words took Finlay aback, and he blinked. “On the contrary, Mrs. Taylor is quite well traveled and has seen more of the world than I or Lady Flora have. I’d wager we’re learning more from her than she’s learning from us.”

“How has she been able to travel if she’s a schoolteacher?”

Finlay immediately opened his mouth to answer when he caught a glimpse of Mr. Townsend standing just a few feet away, his gaze glued to him as a glass of lemonade dangled precariously from his hand. It was not difficult to tell the man was waiting for his answer, and Finlay felt his pulse spike.

“You’ll have to ask her because that is her story to tell.” Miss Anderson reached out a hand to lay on his arm, no doubt intending to accompany the gesture with another question, but Finlay was determined to draw the conversation to a close. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Anderson, I see a gentleman I need to speak with. It was a pleasure to have met you.” With a crisp bow, he slipped away.

After receiving directions from the butler to the men’s receiving room, Finlay stood staring at his face in the small mirror that hung over a water-filled basin. With rote movements, he submerged his hands in the bowl before reaching for the soap. As he produced a lather, he considered what had just occurred.

Why would Miss Anderson suddenly start asking questions about Charlotte? Why would Townsend seem so engrossed in his description of her? A stone abruptly dropped into the pit of his stomach, and he covered his face with his dripping hands as he pondered the damage he’d possibly done.