The Heart That Hides (Regency Spies Book 2)

by April Munday

  Finally she heard the words that meant her release.

  “I yield. Take your prize.”

  Finch let her down, offering her to Freddie, and knelt in submission.

  Mary tried very hard not to laugh. She curtsied unsteadily to Freddie. Finch stood and caught her about the waist again and she was grateful for his support.

  “My lord, how can I thank you for saving me from this vicious pirate?”

  “I think you’re supposed to marry me, like they do in the stories.”

  Finch ruffled his son’s hair.

  “You have good taste, Freddie, but you’re a bit young for marriage, even to a very young woman like Miss Wilding. You’ll have to make do with, oh, I don’t know, a song?”

  Finch turned to her, allowing her to say no. She could see his embarrassment at having manhandled her. She turned to Freddie.

  “If you will accept it, Freddie, I shall be happy to give you a song.”

  Finch offered her his arm, to help her downstairs and she took it, even though the dizziness had passed.

  They went into the drawing-room where Finch opened the pianoforte for her and she sang for them.

  She chose a song that they had discussed when he had interviewed her. It was a favourite of his and she knew that he sang it well, for he sang it to himself sometimes when he thought no one was near.

  Mary watched Finch’s face as she sang and saw that he became distant. What had she done wrong?

  When she finished he said, “That was a favourite song of my wife. Thank you for singing it.”

  “Did Mother sing like that?” asked Freddie.

  It took Finch a while to reply.

  “No. Miss Wilding sang it better.” He held his son before him and kissed the crown of his head. “Mother liked to hear me sing it.

  “Will you sing it for me?”

  “Another evening, if Miss Wilding will play.”

  Mary nodded.

  “Did Mother sing well?”

  “Very well, but she liked it better when I sang. Your Uncle George and I used to play and sing songs to make her laugh. I’ve told you how much she liked to laugh.”

  Freddie smiled his acknowledgement.

  “You look more like her with each day that passes;”

  Mary had searched Freddie for any likeness to the portrait in Finch’s study. It seemed to her that he resembled his father more, except in his readiness to smile. Freddie was always ready to smile; Finch was more thoughtful, more measured.

  Finch kissed his son.

  “Go up and get ready for bed. I shall be with you soon.”

  Freddie bowed to her and left them.

  “I did not mean to make you sad,” she said when they were alone.

  “You did not make me sad. I miss my wife a great deal, but Freddie never knew her. It pleases me to have the opportunity to talk to him about her.”

  Mary thought for a moment, then said, “You don’t have to lie to me.”

  “What!”

  He sat and put his head in his hands. She sat down next to him so that he would not realise that he was sitting while she stood.

  He raised his head and looked at her.

  “You’re quite right, Miss Wilding, it does make me sad. I miss her greatly. Worse, I fear I will forget her.”

  “I don’t think it’s possible to forget those we have loved.”

  “I loved her and I killed her.”

  It took Mary a moment to understand what he meant. Then she reached across and took his hand in hers. It seemed appropriate that it was his broken hand.

  “Agnes told me that Mrs Finch was very happy those last few months.”

  He had tears in his eyes.

  “If I had not...” he started.

  “Then something else would have taken her. Life is uncertain. My brother died when he was a young child. My parents... Well, I will not speak of that, but they did not know old age.”

  “You are a fatalist.”

  “A realist.”

  “I knew you would be good for Freddie,” he said quietly, “but I didn’t know how good you would be for me.”

  He sat up straighter and she let go of his hand. He looked at her as if he was struggling to remember something, then he nodded.

  “Please, use the pianoforte whenever you wish. It is a good one. It doesn’t get enough use since I broke my fingers.”

  He stared at his damaged hand and she had lost him again.

  “Do not fear to speak to me of my wife,” he said, when she had thought he would never come back to her. “Freddie must know about her. I know he asks Meldon…I think he’s afraid it would upset me too much.”

  “She looks very happy in her portrait.”

  “She used to say that I felt everything too much and thought too much.”

  Mary had come to the same conclusion herself.

  “As long as Freddie knows how much she wanted him.”

  “She held him, as she lay dying. We prayed for him together.”

  “You should tell him that.”

  He nodded absently and it was some time before he came to himself again.

  Chapter Five

  “I wish we could dance together more,” said Louise after Finch had escorted her into her house one evening after a ball. “No one dances as well as you.”

  These days Finch danced with no one else, but Louise seemed to enjoy his jealousy when she danced with other men. He would stand on the edge of the ballroom watching the way she entertained her partners. She would laugh with them and Finch’s anger would grow. Knowing that she did it to torment was no help. He was finding it increasingly difficult to control himself with her. By the time they returned to this house after each ball or dinner his desire was heightened by jealousy and tonight was no exception.

  She led him into the drawing-room where a servant was waiting to pour drinks. When he had done so, Louise dismissed him and Finch took her into his arms for a possessive kiss. He forgot himself so much that he touched her face with his left hand. She had made her distaste for it clear. As the Frenchwoman shrank away from him, he was so full of desire for her that he apologised and didn’t feel the insult.

  “I’m sorry. I forget sometimes...”

  “I appreciate your passion.”

  She smiled seductively and Finch pulled her back into the kiss. She was distant, however, and he released her.

  “Is something else wrong?” he asked.

  “No. What could be wrong? I’m escorted everywhere by the most handsome man in London. Women look at me enviously.” She sighed. “Edmund, so many of your pleasures are public.”

  “We are private here,” he stated flatly.

  “And is it enough for you that you kiss me?”

  “For the moment.”

  She turned away from him and took a sip from her glass. He considered his answer. He hadn’t lied. Great though his desire was, kissing her was sufficient pleasure. An unexpected thought occurred to him.

  “Had you expected a proposal by now?”

  Louise laughed and sounded genuinely amused.

  “I know that any other woman would not expect you to have gone so far without one, but, no, it is not the lack of a proposal that makes me pause.” She brushed a kiss against his cheek. “You kiss so well that I should be satisfied.”

  “Yet you are not.”

  He touched her throat and brushed his fingertips down until he reached the neckline of her gown. Louise’s eyes widened. He exerted a little pressure and kissed the exposed flesh.

  Louise caught his hand and pulled it lower and he stepped away from her.

  It was his turn to take a sip of brandy.

  “I’m sure I’ve told you more than once that I am to be the seducer.”

  “You arouse such passion in me. Is it any wonder that I lose control?”

  Finch didn’t think she had lost control of herself; it was her lack of control over him that seemed to concern her.

  “You do not seduce,” she compl
ained.

  “Perhaps you would rather I stopped seeing you.”

  It was an empty threat; he had no more intention of giving her up than she had of being given up.

  She pretended to consider it, then shook her head with a smile.

  “We both know where this must end,” she said.

  Finch wasn’t sure they both had the same end in view. Once he had bedded her, and there was little doubt in his mind that he would, what would she want and would he be willing to give it to her?

  Finch emptied his glass.

  “Do you wish me to leave?”

  For answer she flung her arms around his neck and waited.

  “You see how well I can learn my lessons,” she said.

  Finch disdained to comment and set his lips to work against hers. Once again he kissed the swell of her breast visible above the neckline of her gown.

  “Please,” she begged and he pulled it a little lower and kissed her again.

  Her sigh of pleasure was a thread of breath.

  Finch placed his hand over her heart; it was beating so fast he thought she might faint.

  “I think you will be worth the wait,” she murmured as she nibbled his earlobe.

  Despite himself he was reminded of Emily, for that had been one of her pleasures. He had been thinking more and more of her recently and it disturbed him that he should think of her while he was holding another woman and contemplating her seduction. He must have swayed, for he caught himself and straightened.

  “Edmund, are you alright? I thought you were going to fall.”

  “No, merely remembering something... something sad.”

  What would Emily think of him now, standing here with this woman who didn’t understand what she was offering him?

  “I forget sometimes that you are still unwell. Come and sit.”

  They sat beside one another on the sofa and she stroked his cheek.

  “I did not mean to upset you.”

  “You did not. I allowed my mind to wander. I do that sometimes. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologise. I wish only to make you happy.”

  “I’m afraid my character tends towards the melancholy.”

  “I would not change that,” she said. “I wish only...” She kissed his cheek and Finch sighed at the lightness of it. “You’re not alone. You don’t have to bear your sadness as if you were.”

  “Ah, Louise, sometimes I think your own character tends towards melancholy.”

  “It is true. I tend to dwell too much on what might have been.”

  “I...” Finch reconsidered. He would never be able to talk to this woman about Emily and she was all he wanted to think about. “I think it is time I left. I shall try to be more cheerful the next time we meet.”

  A few days later Finch came into the house just as Mary was coming down the stairs. He had not seen her yet today and it was the first time he had seen her in one of her new dresses. He knew that she had gone out with Agnes to choose some material and had seen her sewing something on his visits to the schoolroom or when they sat together after dinner. Now he watched her come towards him and knew that Agnes had guided her well. The blue was a more sombre colour than he would have chosen, but it went very well with her chestnut hair.

  “Good day, Miss Wilding.”

  “Mr Finch, good day.”

  “May I say how well you look in that gown?”

  “Thank you. It was kind of you to send Agnes with me. She has very good taste.”

  “Yes, she has. I believe she has aspirations to be a lady’s maid.”

  Mary nodded and blushed.

  “Ah, I see there is some secret here.”

  “Only that she hopes to be lady’s maid to your wife.”

  “Oh.” For a moment Finch was angry at Agnes’ impertinence, then it seemed to him that he had given her reason to believe that her wish might soon be fulfilled.

  Neither of them moved for a moment. He was the first to speak.

  “You came down for something...”

  “The library.” Mary turned needlessly and pointed. “I need a book for Freddie. An atlas.”

  “There are two or three to choose between. One of them should suit your purpose. They’re on the shelves next to the window.”

  Mary smiled. “Thank you. I shall take good care of it.”

  “Of course. The library is at your disposal. As I told you, you can take whatever you want. It is at your disposal. Come, let me show you where they are.”

  He led the way to the library and held the door open for her.

  “I’m looking for a map of the Holy Roman Empire.”

  “Before Bonaparte destroyed it, you mean.”

  “You spoke to me about the restoration of trade with that part of Europe and I thought to prepare Freddie.”

  “You are indeed a treasure, Miss Wilding. Does this mean that you are starting German lessons as well as French?”

  “I thought, since your German is so good, that we would start with German and he could practise with you.”

  Finch smiled. How well she had come to know him, even in this short time.

  “I should like that very much.”

  “Then next year we will begin French.”

  “Please do not believe that I’m one of those who hate to hear French spoken and won’t admit to speaking it themselves.”

  Finch was thinking about Meldon and his friend’s intolerance for the habit many fashionable people had of littering their conversation with French words.

  “On the contrary, I consider you very enlightened in that respect.”

  She hesitated and Finch wondered what it was she wanted to say that she thought would offend him.

  “Out with it, Miss Wilding. I’m not easily offended, not by you, at least.”

  She blushed again and it struck him that, with her newly curled hair and fashionable blue gown, the blush made her quite pretty. If he wasn’t careful, he would lose her to a young man looking for a sensible and intelligent wife.

  “Please forgive me, Mr Finch, but your French is not of the same standard as your German.”

  Finch laughed.

  “Why should I forgive you for stating what is true? I know that my French is poor...”

  “I did not say poor,” she interrupted and Finch laughed again.

  “You did not, but I acknowledge that it is.”

  “Your accent is not so good,” she admitted.

  “But yours is.”

  “My mother was French.”

  This was the first piece of real information about her life before she had become a governess that she had given him and Finch put the fact away to think about later.

  “French was the language you spoke at home,” he hazarded.

  “No, it was the language I spoke with my mother.”

  Did that mean her father was not French, as he had just now supposed, or simply that he refused to speak French after he had come to England?

  “So you wished to offend me by suggesting that you improve my French before you start teaching it to Freddie.”

  “I did not wish to offend you, but the rest is true.”

  “Then I accept your offer gladly. I’ve told you before that I believe that the war will shortly be over and that trade will begin again. I wish to be ready. Let us see which of these atlases best suits your purpose,” he said taking one down from the shelf.

  He placed it on the table and they both made to turn back the heavy cover, their hands bumping together as they did so.

  “I apologise for my clumsiness. Have I hurt you?” asked Finch.

  “Not in the least.”

  She showed him her hands as proof. He had not paid them much attention before, but now he pulled his eyes away regretfully, for they were beautiful and worthy of study.

  “You look in this one and I’ll get the others out,” he said.

  He placed the atlases side by side along the table. His pride in the collection was bolstered when he saw her poring o
ver the detail of the first, tracing the outlines of countries with her finger.

  She had long, narrow fingers with elegantly shaped nails, doubtless Agnes’ work again. Held by the beauty of her hands, he watched them for several minutes.

  “This is a wonderful book,” she breathed at last.

  “Yes, I think so, too. My father brought it back from Vienna, before the war, before the revolution in France, even.”

  She looked up from the book and searched his face carefully.

  “You must be able to remember before the revolution, before the Terror.”

  Her earnestness killed the laugh in his throat at the reminder of how much older he was than her. Instead he nodded.

  “I travelled in France and the Holy Roman Empire with my father. I was eleven at the time of the revolution. My father and I were travelling through France when it began to become violent. We had been to Rome and Vienna and he had bought the atlas in Vienna. I don’t think he intended to give it to me originally, but when we realised that nothing would be the same again, he gave it to me in remembrance of what was then our last visit to France.”

  “What was it like?” Finch’s surprise must have shown, for she added, “My mother would never tell me what her life was like before she came here.”

  Finch needed little encouragement. He and his father had spent many hours on their trip and on their return discussing what was wrong with France and what might be done to put it right.

  “Poverty,” he said. “Everyone was poor, even the aristocracy.”

  He could still remember the shock he had felt at seeing just how poor some of the people had been.

  “Think of the poorest person you’ve ever seen and that person would have more than the wealthiest French peasant or labourer.”

  Finch’s father had, he knew, been horrified by what he had seen on his trip to France. A Quaker who believed that all men and women were equal and who treated his employees well, he had not been able to understand how other men could allow their fellow man to descend into such want. Finch remembered the beggars and the women offering their bodies for a meal. Even as a boy he had understood what they were offering and why.

  He looked over her shoulder.