Chapter Twenty-Two

Finlay bit back a groan of frustration when Charlotte began to stir in his arms.

Curse the morning. He’d done his best to keep her up late into the night with bouts of lovemaking interspersed with lively conversation. He’d tried, repeatedly, to get her to disclose her late husband’s name, but with no success. If only she trusted him enough to tell him who was threatening her, he could help her. He had yet to hear from Torres regarding his suspicions about the Townsends and did not feel he could make any moves to protect her until he knew for certain they were the threat.

But Charlotte proved to be as circumspect as the most devout Catholic priest.

He’d been telling her about the time he’d been chased up an oak tree by the old bull he’d been warned, repeatedly, to stay away from, when her soft snores caught his attention. Looking down at her nestled into his side, he’d been struck by how young and vulnerable she looked. Her no-nonsense mask had fallen away, and only the true, tenderhearted Charlotte remained. He’d watched her slumber in the light of the gas lamps from the street below until his eyelids grew heavy and he could no longer ignore the lure of sleep.

Now, he mourned that their time together was at an end. He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers into his forehead when he realized how pathetic his thoughts were. He’d morphed into that damn, pathetic Romeo overnight.

Charlotte slowly blinked her eyes open, staring up at the ceiling for a long moment before they slid to meet his. Her lips stretched into a lazy smile. “Fin.”

His name on her lips was a benediction. And a knife to the chest.

She sat up, pulling the sheet to cover herself. “I didn’t think you would still be here.”

“Of course I’m still here.” He pressed his lips to her temple. “I would never leave without saying goodbye.” He chucked her under the chin. “You’re the one who slinked away.”

“I didn’t slink.” She frowned. “I just thought a goodbye would be hard.”

And what would a goodbye feel like now that he knew her so well? Knew the tenor of her laugh. The sparkle that glinted in her eye when she was amused. The fierce protectiveness she felt for those close to her.

The inferno that burned in his chest gave him a good indication of how he’d feel when Charlotte said goodbye. Forcing himself not to drag her into his arms, he asked, “Do you want me to leave?”

She stared straight ahead, silent for a long moment. Finally she nodded. “It would be for the best.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“What do you mean?”

Finlay sighed. “I’ll see you at the home, will I not? You don’t intend on disappearing, do you?”

Her expression was unreadable. “I don’t intend to leave.”

Leaning back against the pillow, Finlay allowed himself a breath of relief. “My sister and her husband are due back in port today. I’d like to bring them by the House on Monday or Tuesday, depending on their schedules. I’d like you to meet them…if you’re amenable.”

Charlotte turned to look at him, her eyes wide. “You want me to meet the duke and duchess?”

Finlay frowned. “Of course I do.” He raised his brows. “Do you object?”

She lifted a shoulder, and yet the action didn’t appear casual. “I just can’t imagine Their Graces being interested in meeting me.”

“You assumed my sister’s teaching spot after she married. I’m sure she’d loved to ask after her former students.”

“I suppose.” She slid from the bed and disappeared behind the screen in the corner.

Scrubbing a hand down his face, Finlay set about getting dressed. It was obvious Charlotte was uncomfortable with his presence, and he didn’t wish to press his attentions. Plus, the later it became, the more they risked discovery. As much as he hated to admit it, they both had a great deal to lose if they were discovered. He longed to be with her, but if she consented, they would have to plan the announcement of their relationship very carefully. The gossip would be horrendous, thus he’d prefer for it to happen after the election.

And that was if the secret bastard son of an earl could even marry a Jewish schoolteacher.

He was buttoning his waistcoat when she stepped out from behind the screen. She wore a simple, brown muslin dress, her hair pulled back into a loose bun. She watched him as he continued to dress, but stepped forward when he began to tie his cravat.

“Allow me.”

He studied her face as she focused on knotting the square of linen, smiling at the little lines of concentration that crinkled her forehead.

“There,” she said, stepping back. “You look the urbane aristocrat once again.”

“I’m curious what I looked like before.”

“You looked….” She pressed her lips together as she considered him. “You looked approachable.”

“Approachable is good.”

“You shouldn’t be approachable to me, Fin.”

“Stop that.” Finlay grasped her shoulders, waiting until she met his gaze. “After everything we shared last night, why are you so intent to put up walls again?”

She wiggled until she broke free of his hold. “There will always be walls between us. At least I have control over the construction of these ones.”

Releasing a sigh, Finlay threw his coat over his shoulders and grabbed his top hat from the hook by the door. “I don’t want to argue with you about this right now. But we will discuss what happens next between us. Soon.”

She nodded once, her mouth pressed into a firm line.

She followed him to the door and didn’t object when he pulled her close and kissed her. “Thank you. I’ll come to call soon.”

Charlotte held his gaze and nodded. “Very well. I hope you enjoy your time with Their Graces.”

As Finlay stepped into the bright morning sunshine, he turned to look up at Charlotte’s window. He could make out her outline through the curtains, and although she didn’t wave goodbye, he felt her gaze follow him down the street.

There had to be a way for him to erase the hopelessness from her eyes. She made him happy, and he liked to think he brought her happiness in return, but Jews and Anglicans were not permitted to marry.

Either she would have to convert or he would have to. But as a Jew, he would not be able to take a seat in Parliament or inherit the Earl of Rockhaven title.

He would have to give up everything he had worked so hard for.

Frustration pressed down on him, making each step he took painful and slow. An idea brought his head up. She’d been married before, so there had to be a way forward. He needed advice, and he suddenly knew who could provide it.

With a determined gait, he directed his steps toward the synagogue located several blocks away.

Charlotte had done very little since Finlay departed.

She’d returned to bed almost immediately after he’d left, burying her face in the sheets and inhaling his crisp scent that clung to the fabric. She longed to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. Those she’d loved had never stayed, so the pain of loss was a strange comfort in itself.

Now, as the afternoon light began to wane, she stirred herself to set a pot of water to boil for tea. She stared out her small window sightlessly, reliving the previous night with Finlay.

A knock sounded on her door.

Gooseflesh raised on her arm as she approached it. Finlay would not have returned so soon, and Mrs. Gladington usually yelled out a greeting when she knocked.

All her senses became alert as she realized who it could be.

When the booming voice responded to her inquiry, Charlotte found she was not the least bit surprised, yet her hair still stood on end.

“Thank you for inviting us in,” Mr. Townsend said, shoving his wife into the flat and following closely after her.

Charlotte shut the door, leaning back against the wood for support. Although this confrontation was years in the making, she needed a moment to fortify her defenses.

“I’m sure you’re surprised to see us,” he began, glancing about the room. Mrs. Townsend walked about the space, inspecting Charlotte’s bookshelf then studying the watercolors on the walls with a curled lip. “Although after the note I left, perhaps not.”

“I see you were able to make it past the footman downstairs.”

He shrugged. “His privy visit was fortuitous.”

“Your man assaulted me.” Her lip curled.

“Yes, well, you’ve been difficult to find.” Townsend turned to study her, his gaze critical. “But then, your kind has always been adept at finding holes to hide in.”

Blinding white rage briefly incapacitated her, which was probably for the best because she wasn’t certain she could have stopped herself from attacking him.

With an effort born from years of enduring such hateful comments, Charlotte smoothed her hands down her skirts and suffocated her temper. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

She gritted her teeth around the question, bitter she felt compelled to make the offer.

“That won’t be necessary. We won’t be here long enough to warrant it,” Mr. Townsend said, flicking his hand dismissively.

She raised her chin. “Then perhaps you can get to the point of your unexpected and uninvited visit.”

Townsend arched a brow, and Mrs. Townsend whirled around in a cloud of disgruntled black bombazine, her eyes slits of indignation. “Surely family never needs an invitation.”

“You never considered me family, and you certainly never treated me as such.” She pursed her lips. “Perhaps Roderick was of the same opinion. It would explain why he was so anxious to take the position in India.”

“You little—”

“That is enough, my dear.” Mr. Townsend sighed as his wife swung away in a huff. “We are here for the ring.”

Charlotte jerked back. “I’m afraid—”

“That ring has been in the Townsend family for generations!” Mrs. Townsend snapped, her jowls shaking in indignation. “And you up and took it when my sweet boy died.” She raised a laced handkerchief to dab her eyes.

“Your sweet boy slid that ring onto my finger himself because I was his bride. It was mine to keep.”

Mrs. Townsend face darkened, but Mr. Townsend laid a hand on her arm. “Calm yourself, my dear.” Turning to Charlotte, he regarded her with a calculating gleam in his eyes. “Mrs. Taylor, the ring belonged to the Townsend family and was not yours to keep. Roderick’s will very clearly states his property was to revert back to his parents.”

Charlotte clenched her teeth until her jaw screamed in pain at the reminder. “But that was not his property. It was mine.”

“As his wife, your property was his property.” Townsend smirked. “We need you to return the ring.”

“I don’t have the ring any longer.”

Mrs. Townsend gasped, and Mr. Townsend shook his head in disgust. “Then I’m afraid you will need to compensate us for its loss. It was last appraised at two hundred pounds.”

“You must know I do not have that kind of money.” Charlotte felt as if her brain had liquefied into a pool of sticky wax.

“Perhaps you don’t, but no doubt your titled friends do.” He scowled as he looked about her small flat.

Charlotte clutched a trembling hand to her breast, where her heart threatened to race right out of her chest. “You’d have me swindle two hundred pounds from my employers?”

“Surely they value you enough to extend a small loan.” Mrs. Townsend’s smile was predatory. “Or perhaps your wealthy viscount would be willing to pay it.”

Ice encased her limbs. “Wealthy viscount? Surely you jest.”

“My dear Mrs. Taylor, we have had our men watching your home.” He paused from shining his watch on his coat to smile indulgently at her. “We know Lord Firthwell arrived here last night and didn’t leave until this morning.”

Charlotte cursed mentally as her cheeks grew warm. Knowing the Townsends were aware Finlay had spent time with her was mortifying…but knowing what that could mean for his political career made her sway on her feet.

Gritting her teeth, she said, “Lord Firthwell is an honorable man who will advocate for the voters of Weobley. To use him to punish me is despicable and beneath even you.”

“You should not have brought such an honorable man into your mess.”

She spun away, certain she’d strangle the man if she didn’t create some distance between them.

“It appears you have three choices before you.” His voice grew louder as she assumed he approached her. “You can ask your employers for a loan. You can ask Viscount Firthwell for assistance. Or you can turn yourself in to the authorities at Fleet Street.”

It was an effort to turn and meet their gazes. Mrs. Townsend had crossed her hands in front of her waist, seeming to be not at all concerned she’d just dropped a figurative anvil on Charlotte. Mr. Townsend considered her with his head cocked to the side.

They were finally to have their revenge because she dared to marry their darling son in spite of their objections. The pure hate of the gesture left her gasping.

“Friday.” Mr. Townsend looped his wife’s arm around his own and opened the front door. “You have until Friday to return the two hundred pounds, or sadly, we’ll be forced to take the matter to the constable ourselves.”

With those parting words, they swept from the room. Charlotte watched them go, panic threatening to swamp her like a crushing wave.

She latched the door shut and slowly made her way to the bed, sinking onto it like an iron anchor. They knew about Finlay. His political future lay in their corrupt hands.

The thought made her bury her face in her hands.

There was also no way she could repay the debt. Her brain could barely comprehend such an amount.

What was she to do?

If she approached Lady Flora for help, would the woman decide she was not the sort of person she and Lord Inverray wanted running Little Windmill House? Lady Flora was keen on forming a group of patronesses to fundraise for the home, and one ill-placed word from the Townsends would ruin her well-laid plans.

And Finlay? If he consented to help her—but why would he expose himself to such a dreadful situation?—it would serve as a signal to the Townsends that she was important to him. They would forever hold the knowledge of their relationship over him, in ways big and small. Finlay’s vote would essentially belong to Mr. Townsend, and quite possibly his coin purse.

She stared at the ceiling for what felt like an eternity while she sifted through the various options available to her. Her choices were distressingly small.

When the room began to grow cold, she managed to pull herself from the bed to shut the windows. As she drew the curtains closed, something under the chair caught her attention. Dropping to her knees, she peered underneath and spied a strip of green fabric. She didn’t recognize the tartan pattern, which meant Finlay must have left it behind by mistake. Drawing it out, she felt something hard hidden in the folds. She frowned as she opened it to reveal a gold locket. The weathered, dull hue of the metal was a testament to its age, and she wondered who had been its original owner.

Freeing the clasp, her eyes landed on the likeness of a blond gentleman. He was handsome. Young. His green eyes were very much like Finlay’s, except they lacked the humor and warmth she had come to know and love. The man’s clothing was outdated and made it clear the miniature had been painted years before. It was easy to guess the man was the Earl of Rockhaven, his father.

The other side of the locket was empty…until Charlotte peered closer and realized a piece of parchment had been placed where another miniature would go. She brought it closer to the light spilling from the candle she had lit and looked closer.

Dearest Cait,

I hope you wear this close to your heart, as I keep you close to mine.

Yours, desperately,

Alistair

Charlotte stared at the script, pondering its meaning, when suddenly it occurred to her.

Finlay’s father had given the locket to his mother—his real mother—at some point before or after his marriage to the late Countess of Rockhaven. Turning it over in her hand, she noticed an engraving on the back.

C + A.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Finlay must have been devastated when he found it. But why had he had it on his person when he visited her?

Despite how her heart lodged in her throat when she considered what she held, the framework of a plan began to germinate in her mind. She was repulsed by her thoughts, but practical enough to realize how it could solve her problems.

The Townsends were an old, respectable family with connections in not just Parliament, but at Bow Street and in the judiciary. Charlotte could take her modest savings and hire a solicitor to defend her from their unscrupulous charges, but it would all be for naught. They possessed the kind of power that crushed the scale of justice and would relish the opportunity to see her at Newgate, where they long attested she belonged.

With reluctant movements, she opened the locket once more, forcing herself to consider if she had the mental and emotional fortitude to do what she must to survive.

Because in the end, the only person she could count on to save her from disaster was herself.

…

“Lud, Fin, you almost look respectable.”

Finlay grabbed his lapels and waggled his head mockingly. “Almost? I’d say I look mostly respectable.”

Alethea shook her head in mock disgust even as her mouth stretched into a grin. “Perhaps the standards for such things have become less…discerning in my absence.”

“Or perhaps your memory has suffered in the stifling West Indies heat.”

A dry chuckle drew both Finlay and Alethea’s heads around. Declan Sinclair, Alethea’s husband and the Duke of Darington, considered the twins over a glass of amber liquid. With his elbow propped against the mantel, he looked the picture of elegance. The smile that lurked on his mouth hinted at his happiness.

“You’ve not been here for five minutes, Firthwell, and already you and Allie are back to your old antics.”

Alethea crossed the room to claim a seat near her husband. “It’s obvious no one has been around to take Fin in hand while I’ve been away. He’s probably been running wild.”

Finlay’s lip curled. “Do you really believe that?”

“Of course I don’t.” Her face softened. “Aside from your letters, Torres has kept us abreast of your happenings. I’m impressed with the strides you’ve made with the estate. It never would have occurred to me to level the old, rotted-out barns in the far west fields and plant hops. That was quite brilliant of you.”

“Of course it was,” he mumbled, looking away. Alethea’s praise embarrassed him even as it warmed his chest. Clearing his throat, he sank into a chair across from his twin. “So, I expect you to tell me all about St. Lucia.”

“I can speak of St. Lucia for hours.” Alethea clutched her hand to her chest, a faraway look in her green eyes.

“She can,” Darington echoed, his tone weary but his gaze affectionate. “Be careful what you ask for.”

Alethea seemed determined to prove her husband correct, for she spoke of St. Lucia and their time in the Caribbean for what felt like days. Or surely several hours. And although Finlay wanted to tease his sister for her loquaciousness, in truth, he was simply content to hear her voice so full of happiness as she spoke of her island home. To see the love shining from her eyes as she looked at her husband. To glimpse Darington, who’d been a childhood friend to both of them, gaze upon his sister with a restrained sort of awe. Although he’d be loath to admit it to Alethea, he’d sit through decades of her chatter to see her so happy.

Thankfully, the butler interrupted to deliver a refreshment tray, and Alethea paused her recollections to pour the tea and allow them to partake of the offering. After settling into his chair, Finlay took a bite of a roast beef sandwich as Darington looked at him with narrowed eyes. “So…Parliament. Tell us about your campaign. Is there anything we can do to help?”

The question caught him unawares. As he coughed into a napkin, grateful tears welling in his eyes, he watched Alethea and her duke exchange a glance.

When his hacking subsided, he took a deep gulp of tea. “So you know.” At Darington’s crinkled brow, he rolled his eyes. “Of course you know. No doubt Torres told you.”

“He didn’t, actually.” Alethea idly stirred her tea while she considered him. “Lockely saved all the papers discussing your campaign.”

“What made you decide to stand for Parliament?” Darington asked.

Placing his plate on the narrow table next to him, he considered what to tell them. Should he recite his political answer? The one he tossed out when others asked about his motivation for standing for Weobley? He met first Alethea’s interested gaze before sliding to catch Darington’s inquisitive one.

“Change is happening. And not just in the hallowed halls of Westminster.” He braced his hands on his thighs. “From the farthest reaches of Aberdeenshire, to Cornwall, to Dorset. The way in which our country has conducted business, has enacted laws, is changing. And I want to be a part of it.”

He told them about the issues that had finally encouraged him to enter the race, what he hoped to accomplish, who his competition was, and what progress he’d made. Alethea and Darington listened quietly, without interrupting, as he animatedly explained the events of the previous twelve months.

“My, Fin, I didn’t expect you to be so…so…passionate,” Alethea said, her gaze bright.

“I suppose the passion has come about over time. It’s hard not to feel such when you’re surrounded by the repercussions of Parliament’s inactions every day.”

“Inactions? Or their deliberate maneuvering to maintain the status quo?” Darington countered.

Finlay scowled. “I think we all know the answer to that.”

“I know I do.” Alethea relaxed back into her monopodium armchair and raised a teacup to her mouth. “When I taught at the foundling home, I often thought of how ill Society treats children.” She paused and cut him a look. “Did you ever get around to visiting it?”

Finlay looked down at his lap. “I did, actually,” was all he said. He’d tell her at another time how much the visit had changed his life.

His sister and Darington peppered him with questions for several minutes, and Finlay found himself impressed with the depth of their knowledge of current issues despite the fact they’d been abroad. It was obvious Alethea’s passion for social reforms had been spurred by her time in St. Lucia, and whether by coincidence or love for his wife, Darington was sympathetic with her viewpoints. Finlay was also relieved to know he’d have a strong ally in the House of Lords.

Alethea studied him over her teacup. “Is there anything we can do to assist you with your campaign?”

Stretching his legs out in front of him, Finlay toyed with the cup in his hands. “Well, since you asked…Lord Matthews believed it would be helpful if I hosted a dinner or ball. Would you be willing to serve as my hostess?”

The sound she made could only be described as a squeal. “I’d be delighted! And why don’t we have it here at Darington Terrace?” Alethea looked to her husband, who was already considering her with a bemused smile. “We’d discussed throwing a ball to introduce ourselves to the ton, but we can do that by hosting a gathering for you.”

“Superb idea, my dear. Two birds and all that.”

After more discussion about possible dates, as well as particulars for the guest list, Alethea sighed. “Goodness, Fin, I’m so very proud of you. You’re building a life for yourself that fits your interests and exploits your strengths.” She hesitated, then rushed to add, “Plus, it’s free of Father’s long shadow. You have definitely become your own man.”

Uncomfortable emotions clogged his throat, and he raised his cup to his mouth to hide his expression. He was unable to formulate a response, but he knew his sister didn’t expect one.

The twins were silent, each feigning interest in their tea or the selection of cakes on the tray, while they corralled their emotions. Darington, to his credit, went on consuming his lunch as if completely oblivious to the sentiments pulsing in the air.

Finlay experienced a jolt of surprise, therefore, when the duke was the first to speak. “We also have news to share,” he said, as he rose to his feet.

Darington laid a hand on Alethea’s shoulder, and she tipped her head back and flashed him a smile. A grin, really. A cat-who-got-the-cream sort of grin.

Placing her cup and saucer on the delicate side table next to her, she patted the corners of her mouth with a napkin before knotting her hands in her lap. “I’m increasing.”

“Err…what?” Finlay mumbled, his jaw going slack.

Darington laughed, the sound merry and light. “We’re expecting a child, Firthwell. You’re to be an uncle.”

“A child.” A feeling much like joy bubbled inside him. “But that’s wonderful!”

“We think so, too,” Alethea said, a tear slipping down her cheek.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he swooped her up in his arms and swung her in a circle, whooping in delight.

“Ho, have a care,” Darington cautioned, but Alethea huffed at his concern.

“I’m fine. The baby is well protected. If anything, he or she is enjoying the sound of their uncle’s laugh.”

Darington scowled but said nothing else. Nevertheless, he hovered close by like an overprotective nanny.

After releasing his sister, Finlay shook his head in wonder. Alethea was to be a mother. She had so much love to give, and he was thrilled she had a chance to lavish it on a child of her own. She’d be everything their own mother had not been able to be to them.

He cleared his throat. “I don’t wish to ruin the happy mood, but I brought something as well.”

As he reached into his coat he met Alethea’s questioning gaze. “I was sorting through some of Mother’s items that were still in her bedroom.” He shook his head. “I’m not sure why I was even in there, but for some reason I was. And I found this.” He stuck his hand in a pocket and found it empty.

He tried another pocket. Empty. And another one. They were all empty.

It was gone.

Finlay felt lightheaded. A sweat broke out over his skin, and he gripped the back of a chair for support.

“Fin, whatever is the matter?” Alethea’s voice was raised.

He looked up, locking gazes with his sister before slowly sliding it to meet Darington’s.

The duke frowned. “What did you lose?”

“I found a locket. A locket Father gave Aunt Cait.” He swallowed. “It had his portrait in it. And a love letter of sorts. I had wanted you to see it and decide what we should do with it.”

Her green eyes bulged. “Could you have left it somewhere?”

He nodded, his mind immediately thinking of Charlotte. “Yes. I suspect I know where it is.”

“Is it somewhere safe?” she whispered hoarsely.

“Definitely,” he said, reaching out to squeeze her hand.

And still, panic set his nerves on edge. If the locket was not at Charlotte’s home, where else would it be? And if it was found, would the person know whose portrait was inside? Would they understand the grim importance of the note? And if they did, would he be able to survive the scandal?

As a duchess, Alethea could weather the worst of the storm, but he…well, he would be destroyed. For how could an illegitimate son inherit his father’s title? His bid for Weobley would be over.

But it had to be with Charlotte. And he trusted her. He had to.

As if sensing his mental battle, Darington thrust a tumbler of liquor into his hand, and he consumed it in one fiery gulp.