Chapter Four

“Mrs. Taylor, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you fidget so. Whatever would the young ladies in your deportment class think of your behavior?”

With an effort, Charlotte managed to drop her hands from where she clenched them before her waist. Her fingers felt stiff and foreign. “They would understand that sometimes uncomfortable situations bring out our insecurities, but we must rise above them and see to our duty.”

“You view an evening in Grosvenor Square, socializing amongst the ton, as seeing to your duty?”

A scowl threatened to break through her composure, but the effort of containing it proved too much for her tongue. “Naturally. How else am I to view it?”

Lady Flora Campbell twisted her mouth into a considering pout before she nodded. “Events such as these can be entertaining…or a dash uncomfortable. I wish Inverray had not held it.”

“I thought the evening’s festivities were your idea.” Charlotte swallowed a smile at the disgruntled expression that marred her employer’s visage.

“Details, Mrs. Taylor. Details. I may not want to be here, but I understand that we can do so much for Little Windmill House if we mine the connections we have amongst the elite and accept outside donations.” The Scotswoman leaned in close. “But it doesn’t mean either of us has to like it.”

“It was a noble and grand idea.” Charlotte swallowed. “Plus, I’m sure we dislike such scenes for very different reasons. You were born to this.”

Flora laughed, a cutting sound. “Don’t think that because my father is a duke, I’ve somehow been absolved of being a Scot.”

“Never, my lady.” Charlotte knew all about being judged and found wanting for circumstances of her birth.

“Why are you not happy to be here?”

Charlotte fought the urge to shrug, her eyes alighting on the guests who filled the two connecting drawing rooms at Campbell House. “I feel like an imposter.”

And yet, she had attended her share of dinner parties and soirees as the wife of the undersecretary to the governor of India. She knew how to make small talk. How to smile and simper and flatter. She knew exactly what was required in such a setting, and she used to perform her role with aplomb. But her former in-laws had always been quick to list all the reasons why she was an outsider, and despite her best efforts to the contrary, they played across her mind.

You’re nothing but a poor, useless shopgirl.

A stupid Jewish girl with no connections doesn’t belong with the son of an MP.

You must have done something scandalous for him to bring you here today.

She mentally shook away the cursed memories. Reliving her past did not change her present.

Returning to the moment, she found Lady Flora watching her with sadness softening her face. “Everyone is playing a part.”

Her words were low, but Charlotte heard them all the same. “Some more so than others, I’d assume. But if anyone belongs here, wouldn’t it be you? This is your home.”

“This isn’t home.” Her smile was contrite. “Ignore me, Mrs. Taylor. I’m merely homesick for the Highlands.”

Charlotte understood homesickness. She’d felt it more than once…although the bout she’d suffered had been for people more than a place.

Lady Flora sipped her lemonade and set her glass on a side table. “Niall is beckoning me. Isn’t that a foul word? Beckoning? Like I’m a dog or such pet that exists for my master’s pleasure.” An odd look settled on her face. “I will find you later. And don’t stress yourself about speaking with guests. If they address you, by all means engage them. But I will not judge you if you find the library down the hall, let’s say, more to your enjoyment.”

Charlotte pressed her lips together. “I appreciate the tip, my lady.”

With that, the other woman swept away, and Charlotte was left on her own to face the invading army of guests.

Sidestepping a trio of women in gowns of silk and satin who barely glanced at her as they sailed past, she reached the refreshment table, where she accepted a glass of lemonade from a footman with a word of thanks.

When she had first entered the drawing room at Campbell House, she’d been impressed by the understated elegance of her surroundings. During her marriage, she’d frequently found herself in grandiose settings, and she’d learned to recognize those designed to impress and intimidate and those constructed for the purpose of comfort. For all its rich detail, she suspected the Campbell family holding in London fell in the latter category.

The room had once seemed vast, but now, with the guests chatting and laughing, their noise made the room shrink in size, and suddenly fifty was a very large number of people, indeed.

Gulping down the remainder of her punch, she squared her shoulders to navigate through the crowd. Once she reached the hall, she made for the library, willing her feet to maintain their normal pace, even when they longed to break free of her hold. In as stately a manner as she could muster, she opened the heavy door on her right and quickly entered the room. She shut the door behind her, sagging against the wood when she glimpsed the rows of bookshelves stretching before her. She didn’t know what she’d do if she’d chosen the wrong room.

Turning, she rested her forehead on the cool oak, allowing her spine to curve as the stress fled her body. She’d thought relearning to navigate social events would be as comfortable as donning an old pair of stockings. She’d been wrong. But with some practice, her people-pleasing smile would be ready to shine.

Until then, she’d shamelessly seek out refuge.

It wasn’t until a throat cleared from the other side of the room that Charlotte realized she wasn’t alone.

“Finlay,” she breathed unchecked as she turned, and her eyes landed on the figure rising from a chair nestled between two rows of bookshelves. However had she missed him?

Despite the year that had passed since the foolhardy night they spent together, she still remembered his name like she remembered the Shema. She often wondered if he’d imprinted himself into her blood.

A smile curved his lips, his face brightening. “You remember my name.”

Charlotte looked down, unnerved to meet his gaze. “Of course I do.”

She remembered the feel of his hands on her skin. The taste of his lips. The sound he made as he shuddered in her arms.

She remembered too much.

“After you left that morning without saying goodbye, I wasn’t sure.”

Clutching a hand tightly to her chest, she shifted on her feet. “I thought it was for the best.” And it had been, although the memory of his laugh came to her on nights she was lonely. Those nights had become more frequent than she cared to admit.

He nodded. “Perhaps.” He studied her, his green eyes still vivid. “But you’re here now. However do you know the Campbells?”

“I’m employed at Little Windmill House. I teach French.” Charlotte linked her hands, feigning a calmness she didn’t feel. “Deportment. History on occasion.”

Finlay pressed his lips together. “My sister used to teach French there.”

“She did? The twin sister you mentioned before?” She considered the former teachers she’d heard mentioned. “Was that before the duchess taught it? The position I now hold opened when she married, I was told.”

Finlay cocked his head to the side. “My twin sister is the duchess.”

Charlotte blinked. “I beg your pardon. You did not tell me she was a duchess!”

His eyes never leaving her face, he took a step toward her. “Alethea is the Duchess of Darington. She taught at the foundling home before she married her duke and left for the West Indies.”

Horrid clarity chased away the fog smothering Charlotte’s thoughts, and the blood leached from her face. “Your sister is a patroness of the home. So, what d-does that make you?”

“Viscount Firthwell, forgive me for keeping you waiting,” the Marquess of Inverray said as he stepped into the room, his eyes touching on Finlay before landing on Charlotte. His eyes widened in surprise, but a polite smile graced his face. “Ah, I didn’t realize you were here, Mrs. Taylor. Have you met his lordship?”

Charlotte opened her mouth to respond, but Finlay moved forward, extending a hand in greeting to the marquess. “We met just before you walked in. I was plying her for information about the home. Considering how dear it is to my sister, I was curious.”

“Naturally,” the Scotsman said, indicating with a wave of his hand for Finlay to sit. He directed a smile to Charlotte. “Thank you for answering the viscount’s questions, Mrs. Taylor. I won’t keep you from the party any longer.”

Charlotte dipped her head politely and turned to leave. As she slipped out the door, she looked over her shoulder. Finlay watched her, a smile shining bright in his eyes.

Cor, why did his smile feel like a scandal in the making?

…

Finlay was learning firsthand the art of feigning attention when one’s mind was occupied by other thoughts. A useful skill for any politician.

For how he was expected to follow his conversation with Lord Inverray after seeing Charlotte for the first time since she slipped from his life, he didn’t know. But as Lord Inverray discussed the chaotic political climate and what issues he expected Parliament to tackle, all Finlay could think of was how blue Charlotte’s eyes had been. How enticing the curve of her mouth was when she admitted she hadn’t forgotten him. Randomly catching Lord Inverray’s amused smirk, Finlay suspected he needed more practice polishing his acting skills.

“I have to say I was surprised to hear you’d shown interest in political affairs,” the marquess said, propping an elbow on the armrest of his chair. “The Viscount Firthwell I’m familiar with from the gossip pages is infamous for trying to sing an aria over the principal performer so he could capture the attention of an Italian opera singer. He’s known for his elaborate storytelling. For being banned from Almack’s one night and then reinstated the next.”

“Princess Lieven has a soft spot for rogues.” Finlay clenched his teeth. “Have you heard any of these stories over the last year?”

Inverray stroked his chin as he studied him. With his towering, broad-shouldered form, rugged features, and long black hair he kept tied in a cue, he looked like a Highland warrior—if one ignored his expensive gentleman’s clothing. Finlay would be slightly intimidated if it weren’t for the man’s easy smile, complete with a dimple some might consider feminine. But there was nothing feminine about the Scotsman.

“No. I have not.”

“Of course you haven’t.” Finlay leaned forward. “Because I have been busy seeing to the Rockhaven estates. I had no incentive to be serious and stately before my father left to the Continent. Now…well, now my circumstances are quite different.”

“Indeed they are.” Inverray pinned him with a direct look. “I’m guessing that’s why you didn’t opt to stand for one of your father’s pocket boroughs.”

Finlay shifted in his seat, the wood creaking ominously under him. “I decided if I was going to stand for Parliament, it would be for a seat unconnected with my father.” He lifted his chin. “I don’t want to give anyone the impression the earl has any sway over my opinions or votes.”

The marquess tapped a finger against his cleft chin. “Admirable. So often people believe a son is merely an extension of his father, an extra limb, incapable of thoughts and beliefs of his own.” His mouth creased into something resembling a smile. “How I’ve delighted in correcting them of that foolish notion.”

Finlay nodded but held his silence.

“Considering I’m acting on gossip. Well, and the fact that you’re here tonight.” Inverray snorted. “Aside from that, Firthwell, what say you? Are you truly interested?”

Beads of sweat dotted his forehead. Was he ready for such a step? Debating the issues at his club and in coffee shops was one thing; standing for a seat in Commons was quite another.

Instinctively, he thought of his father and what the man would think of such a decision. The Earl of Rockhaven would have scoffed. The gesture would have been done good-naturedly, but it would not have lessened the sting. Finlay could almost hear the earl declare that a Swinton would never stoop so low as to barter himself for votes.

That thought, more than anything else, provoked him to say, “I’m definitely interested.”

“Excellent.” Inverray clapped his hands together. “Ever since Harris’s sudden death, the party has been looking for a clever, well-connected man to step into the Weobley seat, and I think they’ll agree you’re just the man for the job.”

“I don’t know that my friends would say I’m clever, but I would be honored to stand for Weobley,” Finlay said with a smile. Relief, followed closely by excitement, pumped hot and fast like whisky through his veins. With an ally like the Marquess of Inverray behind him, the stress over the unknown fell away. Victory in the elections seemed a real possibility.

The men discussed the next steps he would have to take to be added to the ballot, including courting influential voters and members of the party.

“Are you free to meet next week to discuss your progress?” Inverray asked as he stood.

Finlay rose to his feet as well. “Of course. Would you like to meet here? Or perhaps at the foundling home?” The thought of seeing Charlotte again made the appointment all the more appealing. “What time?”

“Late morning. I am usually at the home most mornings before I head to Westminster, and I’m locked in committee meetings for the rest of the day.”

“Next Wednesday morning it is, then.”

After taking his leave of the marquess, Finlay reentered the fracas of the drawing room, debating whether to hunt down his quarry or leave the matter for another day.

“How was your discussion?” Lady Flora appeared suddenly at his elbow.

He cast her a disgruntled look before scanning the crowd again. “Quite well. We conferred over whether I’d have a chance if I stood—”

“Of course you would,” she interrupted with a snort. “And Niall knows that, too, which is why I’m sure he was happy to speak with you.”

“He led me to believe as much.”

Flora was quiet for a long moment. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” His gaze darted about once more before returning to meet hers. He hoped his disappointment wasn’t visible.

She cocked her head to the side. “Why does it seem like you’re still expecting someone to walk through the door and share something momentous?”

Finlay fought valiantly to hold her gaze. He had no notion he was behaving in such a way, and if he denied it, she might see through his objections. Because, if he was honest with himself, he was hoping to catch another glimpse of Charlotte. Perhaps invite her on a walk. Or to get an ice. He had many questions to ask her.

Just thinking about her made his heart thunder in his throat.

But he wasn’t about to admit such to Flora. He knew better than to provide her with any ammunition against him.

“Perhaps I’m anxious for Alethea to return.” He sighed, hoping it sounded genuine. “I’m certain she will be thrilled when she hears of my decision.”

“She will be.” Flora smiled. But it wasn’t as bright as her normal ones.

Before she could question him further, Finlay said, “I’m to meet with your brother again next week.”

“Where?”

“At the home.” He snatched a glass of wine from a passing footman and busied himself with drinking it. “It seems to work with his schedule, and I can be flexible with mine.”

“How convenient.” The latter word was drawn out in a manner that could only be described as sarcastic. “I fully intend to write you in for the supper waltz at the Gillingham ball,” she said, nodding to a passing couple.

“I should hope so.”

“Until then, my lord,” she said as she moved away.

Finlay observed her saunter away, smiling by default at those who greeted him in passing. After a year of steady work and dutiful service to the earldom, his life had suddenly become interesting again. He hoped he was up for the challenge.