by Martha Keyes
It was but two minutes before Finmore’s figure appeared in the doorway.
Philip eyed him with disfavor. “Is this a new habit of yours, then? Early morning visits? I don’t particularly care for it.”
Finmore smiled and took a seat in the chair beside the bed, reaching for a slice of toast on Philip’s tray. Philip smacked at his hand, but Finmore ignored it, taking a bite out of the warm, buttered bread.
“Got a head, have you?” Finmore nodded at the half-full brandy decanter that sat on the other side of Philip’s bed. “Must have been a bad night. It isn’t like you to consume so much. Though it looks like you still needed some help.” He got up and walked to the other side of the bed, taking the decanter and glass back with him to his chair.
“For heaven’s sake, Fin. It’s ten o’clock in the morning.”
Finmore only smiled as he poured himself a glass. “So, the Swan.”
Philip’s brows drew together, and he stabbed a piece of ham with his fork.
“Took my advice after all, did you? And yet you kept mighty quiet about it.”
“Can you blame me? I had no desire to be forever teased and mocked.” He stared forward in silent consternation as Finmore took the piece of ham Philip had just cut, tossing it in his mouth with two fingers and washing it down with a swig of brandy.
“Is that why you didn’t tell me? I had thought it was something else perhaps.” He reached for the plate again, but Philip shifted it out of his reach.
“And pray tell what reason that might be.”
Defeated, Finmore sat back in his chair. “That you’d fallen in love with the girl.”
Philip slowed for a moment cutting the meat then finished the slice with fervor. “You mean to say you knew the Swan was a woman?”
“Not at all. Hadn’t any idea of it.”
“Well, neither did I at first.”
“And yet you kept her around after discovering it, didn’t you?” His eyebrows snapped together. “Come, Ox, I cannot allow you to treat that innocent piece of ham so violently.”
Philip set down his utensils in annoyance. “You mean to say that, because I didn’t send her packing, I must necessarily be in love with her?”
“No.” Finmore reached for the unattended breakfast tray and pulled it onto his own lap. “I am saying that I have known you long enough to see that you’re lovesick—and a fool besides.”
“A fool! Yes, she made certain of that, didn’t she?” He threw his legs over the side of the bed and pulled his crumpled shirt over his head. He hadn’t even bothered to change it the night before.
“Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself,” Finmore said. “It isn’t a good look. If you truly don’t want the girl, perhaps I shall try my luck.”
Philip whirled around. “Don’t you dare so much as touch her.”
Finmore raised a brow, a smile pulling at his mouth. “That’s what I thought.”
Philip turned away, opening the door of his wardrobe and standing behind it as he changed into a new shirt and pantaloons.
“Can’t blame you for falling for the girl. She’s a taking thing.”
Philip tucked his shirt into his pantaloons, feeling his blood course through his veins at Finmore’s words. “And that is your conclusion after a full sixty seconds in her company?”
“No.” The fork scraped on the plate, and there was a pause. “That is my conclusion”—he spoke with a mouth full of ham—“after visiting her this morning.”
Philip froze then stepped backward. “After what?”
Finmore poured enough brandy into his glass for a few more swallows, replacing the crystal top with a slight clanking. “Visiting her this morning.” He said the words slowly and distinctly, emphasizing each syllable. “You really do have a head, don’t you?”
“What the devil did you mean by doing such a thing?”
Finmore shrugged, unmoved by Philip’s anger. “Thought I would see what all the fuss was about before you drove her off. Couldn’t move a foot without hearing your name and hers being whispered at the Walthams’ last night.”
Philip clenched his jaw, wishing he could throw what remained of the brandy into Finmore’s face. “You are the busiest, most gossip-hungry man I have ever had the misfortune of knowing.”
Finmore only smiled. “If you want my opinion, you’ll marry the girl, Ox. Never thought I would advise such a thing to a man in your position, but there you have it.”
Philip inclined his head ironically. “Next time I wish for your opinion, you can be sure I will inform you of the fact.” He turned away, his hands trembling slightly. He wanted to ask Finmore questions—to know what he had discovered on his visit—but his pride wouldn’t let him.
“She loves you. Heaven only knows what she sees in you, but she does love you.”
Philip snorted. “And she told you this, no doubt—knowing you would come relay the information to me.”
“She did not. She hardly said a word, in fact. But believe me—I have spent enough time with enough women to know the look of love when I see it, and Miss Hawthorn can hardly see straight for how consumed she is with Philip Trent.” He put up a hand, cutting off Philip’s attempt to speak. “And don’t try to tell me her regard is unreciprocated—a man doesn’t look at a woman or hold her like you held Miss Hawthorn without being very far gone indeed.”
Heat rose in Philip’s neck and face. “How the deuce—”
Finmore sent him a commiserating glance. “I saw you from the terrace—couldn’t understand why you had left in the middle of the waltz, so I went looking for you.”
Philip’s heart thumped and thundered as images and sensations from the previous evening flitted unbidden through his mind and body, but he focused on choosing a waistcoat. “Perhaps you missed this in the midst of all your philandering last night, but she played me, Fin. Like a flute.”
“Did she?” He crossed his ankles. “Sounds to me like the girl was headlong in love with you from the moment she laid eyes on you but never thought herself good enough to so much as shine your boots—or to attempt to make you into less of an embarrassment around women, God bless her.”
“She lied to me, Fin. She lied to everyone.” Philip tugged his boot so harshly that his fingers lost their grip and flung him in the face.
Finmore watched with amusement. “She did. She was in an impossible situation, from what I can gather. And she will spend the rest of her life regretting it, I imagine.”
“Good.” Philip swallowed, keeping his head down to avoid Finmore’s eye.
Finmore stood and shrugged, setting his glass down. “Very well. It is your affair, after all. But don’t look to me for comfort when regret comes knocking on your door.”
“It will be a sore trial, but I will endeavor to drown my sorrows elsewhere.”
Finmore stepped toward the door and stopped with his hand on the knob. “Oh.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “She sent this back with me.”
Philip took the note with a leaping heart, and Finmore watched him. “You’re a fool, Ox.” He closed the door behind him.
Philip unfolded the note hurriedly, and his heart plummeted as three hundred bills in bank notes fluttered to the ground.
Mrs. Barham’s assertion that things would look less dreary in the morning had not rung true for Ruth. She had woken with a gaping hole inside—a rude reminder, along with the mask that lay on the bedside table, that it was no nightmare. It was all real.
Standing in the entry hall of the house in Upper Brook Street, she looked at the coins in her hand—all that remained of the twenty pounds Philip had given her. It was barely enough to afford the stagecoach fare to take them back to Marsbrooke. It was frightening how quickly the sum had been spent during their time in Town.
It was only another minute before Topher joined her there. His face was hard, his eyes lifeless, and the puffy bags beneath them evidence of how similar his night had been to Ruth’s. Ruth didn’t even need to
ask what had happened with Miss Devenish.
A hackney carriage conveyed them to the inn from where the stagecoach would depart, and once inside, Topher finally spoke.
“What did that fellow want?”
Ruth looked up from her contemplation of her gloves. She had thought Topher asleep when Mr. Finmore had unexpectedly arrived that morning.
“Nothing, really.” She looked through the carriage window, hoping he wouldn’t ask any more questions. And he didn’t. She didn’t want to tell Topher she had rejected Philip’s money—all three hundred pounds. She hated that, even in his anger at her, Philip had chosen to give her the full three hundred, even though she had not fulfilled the terms of their agreement. There had been no note with the money—only the monogrammed name and address at the top of the paper—and that silence had told her everything she needed to know.
Mr. Finmore had watched her as she opened the note, his eyes never wavering from her face. And though she had spent the last month playing a part, she was not a skilled enough actress to hide the hurt that filled her at the sight of the money and the blank page it was couched in.
She had looked away from it, folding it back into the paper without allowing herself a second glance. She wouldn’t take that money for all the world. She would find a different way to care for her family. She had to.
After nearly a month traveling in Sir Jacob’s well-sprung equipage, the stagecoach was a jarring experience. More than once, Ruth was obliged to steady herself on Topher or Lucy as the wheels dipped into ruts made by the recent rain. She found a strange satisfaction in the jolting discomfort, though. It was no more than she deserved, and it was an unavoidable reminder of her place in life. The stagecoach was where she belonged—not the luxurious carriages and chandeliered masquerades of London.
“What will we tell Mother?” Topher said as they made their way from The Red Lion in Marsbrooke to the house.
“The truth,” Ruth said, readjusting the valise in her arms. She was sick to death of lies.
A bit of silence ensued, broken again by Topher. “The Weekly will be expecting another column. We must get it to Jolley by tomorrow if it is to be printed with this week’s edition.”
Ruth shook her head. “I am done with the Swan, Topher.”
“What?”
She said nothing, and neither did he.
The house came into view, and Ruth smiled as George’s face appeared at the window, only to vanish as quickly as it came. The door opened soon after, and Joanna and George emerged, wrapping their arms around Ruth’s legs and crying her name and Topher’s.
She stooped down, wrapping her arms around them and breathing in their familiar scent. She shut her eyes on the tears that sprang there. She was home—dirty and small as it might be. Empty-handed and broken-hearted as she was. She was home.
Joanna took Ruth’s face in her hands, pulling her head up so that Ruth was forced to look at her through her blurry vision. “Did you bring my doll, Ruthie?”
Ruth glanced at Topher, and he grimaced before sweeping George into his arms.
“I am so sorry, Jo.” Ruth put a hand on her sister’s dirt-stained face—no doubt she and George had been playing in the small garden where the laundry hung to dry. “We were obliged to leave in a hurry, and I hadn’t any money for a doll.” Her voice broke, and Joanna’s eyes reflected her disappointment.
“That’s all right.” Joanna smiled bravely. “I would rather have you than a doll. I am glad to have you back, Ruthie.”
“I am glad to be back,” she choked out.
Chapter Forty-One
Philip sat back in his chair, clasping his hands and frowning at the folded paper on the far edge of his desk. Aside from bringing it to his study after Finmore returned it to him, he hadn’t touched it. It was the source of too many conflicting emotions he didn’t feel ready yet to unravel.
It had been three days since the masquerade, and Philip was waiting for his emotions to achieve a more bearable balance. This pendulum, swinging from anger to pain and regret, was exhausting. The hurt had been poking its head through the fissures in the fury, and he thought that the anger was preferable.
A knock sounded, and Draper entered. “Mrs. Barham is here, my lord.”
Philip grimaced. He had wondered if she might show her face after the debacle at the Walthams’.
“Show her in. And have some tea brought.”
Draper bowed himself out, and moments later, Aunt Dorothea glided into the study. “Philip, my dear.”
Philip invited her to take the seat across from him. “I was wondering when you would come.”
“Yes, well”—she smoothed her skirts—“I thought I would give the Trent conceit some time to dissipate.”
Philip tried to control a smile. Aunt Dorothea had never been shy about what she thought of the family her sister had married into. “The conceit is something I come by from both my father and mother, I’m afraid.”
“Of course it is.” She looked around the room with bland curiosity. “My sister was unbearable. I confess I was glad for your sake when she died—may she rest in peace—for I was certain that, between her and your father, they would raise you to be some sort of monster.”
Philip hid his laugh behind a cough. “Pardon me,” he said. Somehow his aunt’s plainspokenness always caught him off guard. He had known that she and his mother had not been close, but he had never heard her speak so candidly about her opinion of her sister.
She nodded at the bank notes that peeked through the half-folded paper. “Is that Miss Hawthorn’s money?”
Philip’s smile faded.
“She sent it back, I take it.”
“She did.”
“Of course she did.”
Philip felt a flash of annoyance at the implication of his aunt’s words—as though the fact surprised her not at all. It had surprised Philip, and that sparked his guilt and his misgiving. He had hoped Ruth would take the money. It would have confirmed everything to him—it would have made it easier for him to hold onto his anger and reconfirmed that she was not for him—that he had misjudged her when he had taken her to be the goodhearted woman he’d come to think her.
But she had sent it back—and he knew how badly she needed it. A quick walk to his uncle’s had confirmed what he had suspected—she and her brother were already gone.
And then the worry had set in. How had they afforded the journey back to Marsbrooke? And what would they do once they were home?
“And you let her go.” Aunt Dorothea sat back in her chair, fixing her direct gaze on him.
He said nothing, feeling that words were unnecessary—and perhaps not wishing to confirm the low opinion his aunt obviously had of him in that moment.
“Well,” she said, rising from her chair. “Your mother would be proud of you.” She paused to stare him in the eye. “And that is not a compliment.”
Philip’s eyebrows snapped together. “What am I to take from that, if you please?”
Aunt Dorothea pursed her lips. “How am I to know what you take from it? Surely you are not so incapable and reliant upon others that you require me to tell you how to interpret every single comment made to you.” She lifted her chin and directed an expression of disappointment at him. “But if you are to base your actions upon what others think and expect of you, I will at least make my own opinion known. Here it is: I thought more of you, Philip. I hoped more of you. But I was wrong. You are a Trent through and through. That is all.” She moved toward the door.
“Wait, now.” Philip hurried to stop his aunt’s progress from the room, putting his hands out to stop her. “If you are expressing your opinion, then give it full rein, by all means—but do me the service of allowing a response rather than retreating before I can defend myself.”
She raised her brows. “Have you a defense, then?”
“Of course I do.”
She gave a smile of faux politeness, blinking as she waited for him to continue.
He shift
ed his weight, suddenly feeling foolish. “You cannot truly believe that Ruth—that Miss Hawthorn—is the person I should marry.”
Her brows rose even higher.
“Let us leave aside all of her deception—pretend that she had done nothing to give me a distaste for her company. She is precisely nobody. No money. No experience in Society—save a few weeks dressed as a man. And you are telling me that you think her fit to be the next Viscountess Oxley? To fill the shoes of my mother?”
Aunt Dorothea’s brows drew together. “Your mother’s shoes?” Her head shifted slowly from side to side in disbelief. “Listen well, Philip. I loved my sister—loved her because she was my sister. But I was not stupid enough to be fooled by the mask she wore in public. She may have filled the role of viscountess well, but it was the only thing she did well. She made your father miserable, but she was too busy pleasing herself and the rest of Society to care for such a thing. Miss Hawthorn is ten times the woman my sister was. And she may have deceived you or embarrassed you, but if the result is a bit of compelled humility on your part, then so much the better! Let me ask you this: who is more fit to hold the unimaginable honor of the title you offer? Someone skilled enough to appear as though the role fit her perfectly? Whose façade hides a selfish heart? Who bought the position with her wealth and then used it to appeal to her own vanity? Or someone like Miss Hawthorn, who is unassuming, selfless, and who seeks no such honors—indeed, who eschews them, but would take them on if it was what being with you required?”
Philip stood speechless, battered by his aunt’s words.
Her face softened as she looked at him, and she let out a sigh. “You must decide, Philip, if what you want is veneer or substance—appearance or essence. You may choose a viscountess who looks the part—who brings with her all the things Society applauds—or you can choose a woman you love and respect, and who loves and respects you in return. The former will please Society, and perhaps she will please you well enough, too. But the latter…that woman will enrich your life. She will challenge you and make you a better man—and a better viscount—than you otherwise would have been. To forgive Miss Hawthorn may cost your pride for a moment. But it will enlarge your soul for a lifetime.” She went up on her tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. “Good day, my boy.”