Chapter Nineteen

“When did this arrive?” Finlay asked, excitement making him bounce on the balls of his feet. He walked to the doorway of his dressing room and peered around the frame.

“Not five minutes ago, my lord.” Norris looked up from the cravats he was sorting and folding, his nose wrinkling with indignation. “It’s not my habit to hold on to letters and messages meant for you.”

Finlay rolled his eyes. “I didn’t think it was and certainly did not intend to imply as much. I was merely curious.” He unfurled the foolscap again, reading the brief few lines again with a smile on his face.

“Will Their Graces be in port today?”

“Tomorrow, Darington believes.” Finlay tucked the note into his coat pocket and returned to his chamber, his valet in tow. “I can’t believe I’m to see my sister. The last year has felt so long.” He paused. “And yet so short.”

“The whole house is anxious to see Lady Al—Her Grace—again.” Norris jerked on his lapels, as if disgusted with his title slip. “Do you plan to host the duke and duchess for dinner soon?”

“Of course. At some point. But first I plan on stopping by Darington Terrace, invitation be damned.” Finlay was certain he required no invitation to visit his sister and her husband.

“I’d expect nothing less from you, my lord.” Norris paused as he opened the door and looked at Finlay over his shoulder. “Shall I instruct Cook you will be home late tonight?”

Biting the inside of his cheek, Finlay considered the many items on his agenda. “Please tell her I’ll eat at the club. I honestly don’t know when I’ll be back, so I’d rather not have her waiting for me.”

“Very good, sir.” Norris executed a swift bow. “I hope your day is productive.”

After his valet had left, Finlay crossed to the window and pulled aside the drape. Late morning light cut through the tree boughs, casting shadows across the walk, and a cold breeze caused the branches to scratch against the side of the house. He rested his forehead against the windowpane, the chill seeping into his body and slithering down his spine.

He had a full day planned, including various meetings and a rally to attend, but he wanted to pull back his coverlet and crawl into bed. The promise of seeing Alethea had buoyed his flagging spirits, but the reality of his day had depressed them once again.

With a sigh, he pushed back from the pane and rubbed his hand across his brow, warming his skin. A sudden thought made him pause. He slowly rotated his head in the direction of his closet. Should he?

He hurried into the room and headed for the panel hidden behind a collection of coats. After turning the knob to the combination, he slowly opened the door and peered inside. It was still there where he’d placed it the year before, when he’d snatched it from his brother-in-law’s room. Alethea had given it to Darington as a sign she trusted him with their deepest secret. Except Finlay had more to lose if the truth was made known. At the time, taking his mother’s diary had made sense. Seeing it now made him pause.

Finlay propped his arm on the safe door and rested his chin on it, his eyes fixed on the items safeguarded in the chamber. Pulling a greedy breath into his lungs, he reached in and grasped the book. The leather creased in his grip, and, for a moment, he considered simply ripping the offending item to shreds. Instead, he stared at its worn, now recognizable cover with a feeling of dread and infinite sadness smothering him. Exhaling so deeply his lips vibrated with the motion, he placed the book back in the safe. It contained his mother’s most heartfelt and heartbroken thoughts, written in her own hand. So much of her legacy had been proven a lie, but Finlay couldn’t bring himself to destroy the raw confessions of her heart. When the time came to do so, he and Alethea would do it together.

Instead, he reached and grabbed a piece of simple green tartan that lay folded in the back of the compartment. He unwrapped it slowly and paused as the light hit the tarnished gold of the locket.

He studied it for several tense seconds before he rewrapped it and shoved it in his coat pocket. Alethea deserved to see it and help him decide what should be done with it.

Straightening his spine, he adjusted his cuffs and smoothed a hand along his cravat. He opened the door and headed downstairs, stopping in his study to pick up notes before heading out the front door to confront the first item on his schedule.

…

Surely, this was how it felt at the start of a cockfight. Loud. Chaotic. The threat of violence thick in the air. Except instead of razor-sharp claws, the opponents possessed conflicting views and cutting insults.

Not for the first time, Finlay fought the urge to roll his eyes and laugh. But he held back, certain it wouldn’t do him any good if the angry rally-goers saw him laughing at the complaints one of their fellow rabble-rousers was listing.

Canvassing had revealed that the race between Abernathy and him was very close, so the other gentleman had requested a show-of-hands type poll. If the informal poll favored one candidate over the other, there was little reason to continue with the election. Finlay swallowed down a vat of nerves. He hoped his campaign didn’t end in such a way.

He had been to more than his share of political rallies, but rarely had the vitriol, the overarching generalizations, and unfair biases bothered him as much as they did at that moment. While he overheard encouraging words of praise, he also caught bits of exaggerated claims of his stances, outright lies about his background, and jests about his motivations. The worst slander, though, came from his opponent.

“Lord Firthwell has said mechanization is unreliable and would hurt factories. But if you were to study his father’s estate in Herefordshire, you would discover they’re moving forward with the construction of a mill, complete with machines capable of processing his apple and peach harvest in half the time as the standard method.” Abernathy paused, his brow rising sharply. “It seems to me mechanization is acceptable when it benefits only Lord Firthwell and no one else.”

Finlay didn’t even realize he was advancing on the man until a hand tugged his arm. Jerking around, he met Townsend’s gray eyes.

“Let go of me,” he growled, already looking to find Abernathy once again. “I said no such thing. He’s twisting my words!”

“Of course you didn’t. Anyone here with half sense knows that.”

Grinding his teeth, Finlay asked, “And is there anyone here with half sense?”

Townsend pressed his lips together as his eyes darted about. “Don’t ever react out of anger. Abernathy is baiting you.” He inclined his head toward the gentleman in question.

Finlay’s stomach sank when he saw Abernathy looking at him with a smirk brightening his pale face. Clenching his teeth so hard he almost feared he’d lose one, he dropped back into his seat and attempted to project an air of boredom his father had worn like cologne.

Townsend leaned close. “I know that was difficult. If it were me, I would want to plant him a facer.”

“Or two,” Finlay admitted with a small smile.

Townsend narrowed his eyes at the speaker. “He’s getting quite desperate. The tied poll count was a blow for him, no doubt. With your reputation about town, I believe Abernathy suspected there wouldn’t be much of a contest.”

“Even without my father to guide me?”

“It was not well done of me to bring up your father like that.” He paused, stroking a hand across his thick mustache. “I merely wanted to know what kind of hold, if any, he still had on you. I am a father, and I know what it’s like when a son doesn’t…behave in the manner in which you expect. Or live up to your expectations.”

As in marrying a charming, demure, young shopgirl? Even in the crowded, raucous hall, it was easy to recognize the grief lurking in the older man’s gaze.

The pair sat quietly for several minutes. Finlay had just pulled a small notepad from his coat pocket to record some notes when Townsend’s gravelly voice cut through his concentration. “I was not aware your sister was also a patroness at Lord Inverray’s little foundling home.”

Tingles of suspicion one again raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He had written Torres a note detailing his belief the Townsends were connected to Charlotte in some way, and such a comment made him thankful he had. “Darington and she both are and have been for some time.”

“I’m sure it was mentioned at the fundraiser at Campbell House and it slipped my mind.” Townsend extracted a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “I’ve been meaning to pay the home a visit, seeing as how Mrs. Townsend and I now count ourselves as donors.”

Finlay mumbled some sort of affirmative, while he feigned furious notetaking.

“Is it true Lady Flora hired one of the foundling home teachers to serve as a companion?” The older man’s tone contained a note of derision. “I’m surprised Inverray would allow such a lowly person to accompany his sister to events in society.”

“I’d hardly call a teacher a lowly person.” Only when his pencil snapped in two did Finlay realize how tightly he’d been holding it. “From my understanding, the marquess and Lady Flora hold the young woman in high esteem.”

“A Mrs. Taylor, correct?”

Finlay groaned internally. “Yes, I believe so.”

“Do you hold Mrs. Taylor in high esteem as well?”

He forced himself to shrug. “I don’t see why I wouldn’t. I trust Inverray and Lady Flora’s judgment.”

“Naturally.” Townsend patted his belly, and a predatory smile lurked on his lips. “I was merely curious.”

Of course he was, Finlay thought, as his misgivings began to solidify into certainty.

…

After classes were completed for the day, Charlotte convinced Lady Flora that she wanted to observe Shabbat in her own home. The Scotswoman had been agitated, concerned the men who had tried to take her would return to see the job done, but relented when Charlotte agreed to allow a Kilmorow footman to remain nearby as protection. Even now, the young but strapping Jimmy sat in the small foyer downstairs reading a dime novel and sipping a cup of Mrs. Gladington’s tea.

Charlotte was grateful for the privacy, especially after the painful revelation at the dinner party that any fanciful future her mind dreamed up between Finlay and her was as corporeal as smoke.

During the short ride, she realized how she missed her home. Living at Campbell House was a luxury. Instead of putting her in the servants’ quarters, Lady Flora had insisted she stay in the guest wing, assigning her to a room of the likes she’d not seen before. Also, her employer had gone out of her way to make Charlotte feel comfortable. Flora walked with her down to breakfast every morning and supper every evening, and even took the Shabbat meal with her. She had asked thoughtful questions about the blessings and rituals, and her genuine interest and respect were palpable. And rather than depart at night to one of the many events she was invited to, the Scotswoman seemed content to stay in and challenge her to rousing games of chess. And on those evenings Lord Inverray dined with them, he engaged them in stimulating conversations about current affairs and listened to their opinions on political issues.

The Campbell siblings had made her feel like an honored guest, and that was the rub. No matter how luxurious her surroundings or how included she was made to feel, she was keenly aware she was not their equal.

Over the last few days, she’d come to regard her little flat as a refuge. A place where she didn’t have to worry about her grammar, or whether her opinion would offend a powerful marquess, or whether her feisty employer would finally decide she’d helped Charlotte long enough. She simply craved some time on her own to just make sense of everything that had happened over the last week.

Her flat looked exactly as it had when she’d last visited, although the air smelled slightly stale from being locked up. She crossed to one of the narrow windows and flipped the latch, opening the panes and breathing deeply as cool air rushed in. Her shoulders suddenly felt less tense, and she turned to survey the room with a sigh. She was home.

After setting the tea kettle to boil, Charlotte set the table for her Shabbat meal. When she finished her simple dinner of pea soup with challah bread, she slowly wandered about the space, running her fingers over the worn spines of her beloved books. She slipped out of her shoes and pried off her stockings, sinking her toes into the hook rug she’d made the winter before. When she caught a glimpse of her kinnor peeking from the trunk in the corner of the room, her heart clenched.

One of her earliest memories was of her father strumming a melody on an old, battered kinnor, and her mother singing softly along. She could only remember a few of the words, but the combination of music had been beautiful. Her father had taught her how to play, and through the years, she’d always longed for a lyre of her own.

Several months ago, she’d finally been able to purchase one. Mrs. Gladington had been immensely patient as Charlotte relearned the instrument, with sometimes ear-splitting practices. But once she’d mastered several songs, her landlady frequently asked her to play for her at night.

Charlotte cradled it in her arms and sank onto her bed. The mattress wasn’t nearly as soft and inviting as the one in her chamber at Campbell House, and yet she preferred it infinitely more because it was hers.

Her fingers danced across the strings, the familiarity returning quickly until the tune of an old folk song filled the air. The tension that had taken root in her bones slowly leached away as she relaxed with the well-known melody.

Abruptly, her mind returned to the morning Finlay had called on her. The morning he’d set her ablaze with a kiss. In a flash, her body heated at the memory. She squeezed her eyes shut and allowed herself a moment to simply remember the sensation of his lips moving against hers.

Thus, it took her several moments to recognize the sound of knocks on her door.

Her palms turned clammy as her breaths grew short.

She’d only just returned. Could she have tempted danger so soon? Remembering Jimmy was downstairs, she steeled her spine as she crept to the door. Pressing her cheek to the wood, she asked, “Who is it?”