The Heart That Hides (Regency Spies Book 2)

by April Munday

  “It has been a pleasant evening,” he conceded.

  It had been more pleasant than he had hoped when he had accepted her invitation. He had finally managed to find some subjects that they could discuss without making it sound as if either one of them was seducing the other. They had talked fairly intelligently and Finch was beginning to think he might introduce her to Freddie. That would only come after Meldon and Lady Anna had met her. Meldon’s eye would be impartial and Lady Anna’s perception would see through any attempt at disguise. Finch was aware that it was not normal to set such store on the opinions of others and he wondered why he felt he couldn’t allow her and Freddie to meet until he had his friends’ approval. The thought and its implications distracted him until he heard Louise say, “Coffee?”

  “I’m sorry. My mind wandered.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  She stood when he shook his head and Finch followed her.

  He had never been in the room they now entered. There were well-executed portraits on the walls and Finch glanced at them. His attention was drawn by the largest portrait in the room. It showed a man dressed in the current fashion with a book in his left hand.

  “A relative of yours?” he asked.

  “You know I have no relatives.”

  “I know only that your parents and brother are dead, for that is all you have told me.”

  “I have told you that I have no one in this country.”

  “So you did.”

  She came to stand beside him, her hand brushing his as she did so. Even though he was expecting it, it brought a smile to his lips and he caught one of her fingers in his.

  “It is a friend of mine, Georges Joude.”

  Finch waited, but she said no more. It was an invitation for him to ask a question, so he accepted it.

  “How do you come to have his portrait in your house?”

  “He gave it to me.”

  She laughed and he released her finger; this was not what he had expected.

  “Why?”

  “Now you are being... Ah! I don’t know the word. English is such a stupid language.”

  “I can think of a number of reasons why a man might give a woman his portrait.”

  Finch was not going to be put off; Louise was showing him this portrait for a reason. If he was supposed to be jealous, he wanted to know what he was supposed to be jealous of. Since he suspected that she had had lovers, he knew that he would not be jealous of them. A man who was still a lover was another proposition.

  He started to list his reasons why she might have the man’s portrait.

  “He might no longer be able to keep it himself, either because he has nowhere to put it or because his wife objects to it. He might have presented it to the woman he hopes to marry. She might have asked for it. It might be part of the furnishing in the house in which he has set her up as his mistress.” He turned to face her, his face expressionless. “Shall I go on?”

  “Not if you are going to be insulting.”

  She was pale with anger.

  “I did, of course, intend the insult, so I shall not beg your pardon.”

  Although she was skilled at hiding her thoughts, he could see that she was going to lie when she spoke.

  “He wished to marry me, but I have nothing and his family would not allow it.”

  Finch turned back to the portrait, deciding not to pursue the lie for now.

  “Is it a good likeness?”

  “Yes.”

  Joude was approaching forty. His stern face did not seem to be of the type that would attract the exquisite woman beside him, for it was dark and plain. If the man was only half as intelligent as the painter had made him appear, Finch would not like to find himself on the wrong side of him.

  This, he thought, was surely the man who paid for this house, for the servants and for the clothes on her back.

  Finch studied the man, for if he was to pursue Louise he would have to manage Joude, perhaps even fight a duel with him, although the thought appalled him.

  “Is he also a supporter of the king?” he asked, seeing a more likely reason for the rupture between them.

  “No, he supports... Bonaparte.”

  Did he imagine the hesitation before she said ‘Bonaparte’? Had she meant to say ‘the emperor’?

  “And that is why his family would not accept you?”

  “A wife’s politics are not important.”

  “Of course they are.”

  Finch thought fleetingly of Emily whose political understanding had been so much better than his. She had spent many hours educating him and Meldon. How he missed her. He could understand and predict what men did, but she had understood why.

  Finch turned back to the portrait. It was important to Louise, for it had pride of place in this room. Why had she brought him here? Was it to show him that he had a rival and had better make his move? If she already had a lover, why did she want him? He knew that she wanted him; her attempts to seduce him demonstrated her desire. He considered briefly that her desire might be feigned for some other purpose. He found he couldn’t dismiss the thought as quickly as he had hoped.

  A servant brought the coffee and they sat to drink. In order to placate her for his insult, Finch sat next to her on the sofa. This did not seem to please her, however, and she was uneasy. Their thighs were touching, which he thought she would welcome.

  “Is there anything wrong with the coffee?” asked Finch, as he took a sip from his own cup.

  “No, there is nothing wrong with it.”

  “Would you rather I sat somewhere else? I thought our relationship was progressing well enough, but perhaps I am too eager.”

  “Oh, Edmund, my dear, you know you could not be too eager for me.”

  She patted his thigh delicately to prove her point. He was, however, unmoved by the intimacy of her caress. She removed her hand. This was unexpected; usually she touched him frequently, hinting at her desire for what he withheld from her.

  “Is it Joude? Were you so in love with him?”

  “How can you...?” She jumped to her feet and it was only Finch’s quick reaction that prevented her cup from falling to the floor. He placed both cups carefully onto the table and took her into his arms.

  “I’m sorry,” he said into her hair.

  Her body shook slightly, though whether from tears or laughter he could not tell, nor did he care. Half-ashamed of this thought, he gave his hands and lips free reign until she looked up at him.

  “The next time you come the portrait will be gone.”

  He could barely wait for her to get the words out before he kissed her again.

  It was later than he had intended when Finch entered his own house, his mind full of thoughts of Louise and his body full of the feel and taste of her. He wasn’t ready yet to go up and say goodnight to his sleeping son, so he took up a candle and went into the library to find something to distract him. He was about to close the door behind him when he realised that there was already a light in the room set on the small table by the window. Next to it sat Mary, asleep and curled up in his favourite chair. She seemed to be wearing nothing more than her nightdress and a light shawl wrapped about her. Her feet were bare and her hair hung loose about her face and shoulders. All thought of Louise Favelle went out of his head as he looked at her. She looked peaceful with her head leaning against the wing of the chair, a faint smile on her lips. Then he wondered how to get her back to bed with the least inconvenience and embarrassment to her. Stepping closer he saw that his first impression had been correct and it was only the book in her lap that he had missed. She must have been reading it when she fell asleep, for one of her beautiful hands rested on its open pages, as if marking her place.

  He considered leaving her in the chair, but years of experience of falling asleep in chairs by Freddie’s bedside told him that she would suffer in the morning if she stayed there, even though it was the most comfortable chair in the house. He could easily carry her to her b
ed, but he would have to enter her bedroom and they would both be embarrassed when she knew that he had done so. If he woke her she would know that he had seen her in this state of undress and that was also unthinkable.

  He had resolved to go out into the hall and make a great deal of noise on his way upstairs when the clock in the corner of the room began to strike the hour and she started awake.

  “Oh! Mr Finch?”

  She pulled her shawl tighter around her and it was a moment before he could speak, for the movement had emphasised the fullness of her breasts.

  “Miss Wilding. I’m sorry to startle you.”

  He bowed.

  “I should not be in here.”

  “Why not?”

  Finch was puzzled; he was certain he could remember giving her access to the library. A governess needed books. Although he hadn’t expected her to come here at this time of night or in her nightgown, it didn’t seem to him to be the transgression she seemed to consider it.

  “I came to read for my own pleasure.”

  As if noticing it for the first time, she picked up the book that she had dropped on falling asleep and placed it on the table beside her.

  “That does seem to be one of the purposes of a library, for me, anyway.”

  When she did not smile, he did.

  “That’s it exactly. It is your library.”

  “Don’t let that stop you finding pleasure in it. I think I’ve already told you to fill it with anything that you feel is missing.”

  “Thank you, but I find it already contains more than I can contemplate reading before Freddie goes to school.”

  He was surprised by the sadness that filled him at the thought of her departure. She had been here only a few weeks and already it was difficult to imagine her leaving them, which she must do one day, for, without Freddie, she had no place in this household.

  “Assuming that I am still here when he goes to school,” she added quietly.

  “Unless you want to leave us before then for some reason, of course you will be here,” he insisted, dimly remembering that he had said something similar before. Didn’t she trust him? Their conversation about the library showed that she didn’t always listen to him.

  Slowly Mary lowered her feet to the floor, tugging down her nightdress to cover her legs. Finch watched for a moment, admiring the shapeliness of her calves, then he remembered that he should not be looking and tore his eyes away.

  “Forgive me, Miss Wilding, it was very improper of me to stay after you awoke.”

  He fixed his eyes on her face.

  “Mr Finch, please, I... You...”

  She took a breath as she stood and crossed the room to stand in front of him. Once more he forgot that he should not be looking and he noticed that her body had filled out since he had first seen her. Her shape was now more feminine and there was much pleasure to be had in looking at it. Once more his eyes lingered on her breasts before he dragged them back to her pale, unhappy face.

  “The impropriety is all mine,” she said.

  It was on the tip of his tongue to demonstrate that it was his, by pointing out how beautiful her hair looked now that it was unconfined, when she turned pale and her hand moved towards his neck before she remembered herself and pulled it back.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s blood on your cravat... a lot of blood.”

  Louise had scratched him. He’d known it had gone deep, but he thought he’d managed to stop the flow of blood. She had made no offer to clean the wound and bind it, but she had been very aroused. They had been kissing when she did it and he had bitten her tongue in his shock. Her hands had set his skin on fire, but he could only admit to himself now that her love of inflicting pain had frightened him. He had pushed her away and tried to stop the bleeding, but Louise had wanted more and he had thought he would have to resort to violence himself to stop her. It was a dark game she played and it held little attraction for him.

  She had seen this and had shown him that she could touch and kiss him entirely for his pleasure. She had brought his body to life and now he was exhausted as well as bleeding.

  “It’s only a scratch,” he said.

  “There’s a lot of blood,” she repeated. “Please let me look.”

  Finch untied his cravat. When Mary became even paler, he knew it was worse than he had thought.

  “Sit down,” said Mary. “I’ll fetch some water to clean it and...”

  “Please don’t bother. I can manage.”

  “You haven’t managed very well so far,” she retorted, then blushed. “I do beg your pardon.”

  Finch sat.

  “Your rebuke is justified and I accept it.”

  He watched her leave the room, then set his mind back to Louise.

  When Mary returned he wondered if he should have some excuse for her, something to explain how he had come by his injury. He thought she might be too innocent to guess, but he could feel her disapproval in the impersonal way she touched him.

  He was so tired that he wanted nothing more than to rest his head on her and sleep. She stood so close to him, his head had only to fall a little...

  It was pain that jerked him awake again.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  The effort to raise his head from her breast was almost more than he could manage.

  “You’re tired. I’m almost finished.”

  Her voice shook. Anger? Fear? What did she think he had done this night?

  “It is done,” she said, as she finished and he could turn his head to look up at her.

  “Thank you. I’m sorry to have put you to this trouble.”

  Mary bit her lip and he waited until he realised that she wasn’t going to say any more.

  She seemed to realise again that she was wearing only her nightdress.

  “Please take care,” she said, as she turned and left the room.

  Finch sank back down into the chair and rested his chin on his clenched hands. He could only imagine that he had drunk a great deal more than he had realised, for he was confused and his mind would not clear enough to allow him to think properly. He was still trying to make sense of what had happened when he fell asleep.

  Mary was crying as she went upstairs and her candle shook in her hand. How could that woman abuse him so and how could he let her do it? She’d known as soon as she saw the wound that it had been caused by finger nails dragging through Finch’s perfect flesh. She also knew it was no accident; that would have left a much shallower wound. Even though she dismissed it quickly, she considered the possibility that the woman had been defending herself from an attack by Finch.

  She wondered if Finch’s mistress hadn’t also caused the broken lip she had noticed before he went away on his business trip. How many other wounds did he have on his body that she hadn’t seen?

  The thought that most disturbed her was that Finch must like such treatment; otherwise he would not keep going back to her.

  Her own reaction to his wound had not surprised her and she had used the time that she spent fetching water and ointment to govern herself. She had wanted to take him in her arms and cover him with kisses as she did with Freddie when he hurt himself. It was a different kind of emotion, however, that prompted that reaction and a different kind of kiss that she contemplated.

  From the start she had known that her love for Finch would bring her only grief. Even if there had been anything about her to attract his attention, he had already been in love before she had come into his house.

  Although she wanted to stay with him and Freddie, could she still do so when he married his mistress and brought her here? Perhaps he wouldn’t marry her. The servants were divided on that point. They called her “that woman” and even the ones who hadn’t seen her didn‘t like her. Most of them maintained that Finch was a respectable man and would marry her, whatever sort of woman she was. The rest said that he was too ashamed of her to bring her to live with Mr Freddie. They were unanimous on one point; she
didn’t deserve him.

  Mary had never joined in any discussion of Finch’s relationship with that woman. She knew only that he often returned home weary and came into the room where she was sitting at the pianoforte and sat in a chair listening for a while. He never said anything, but he always seemed less weary when he rose with a bow of thanks and went to bed.

  Some evenings he returned so late that she could not reasonably sit up and play and then she lay awake until she heard him go into Freddie’s bedroom which was next to her own. It was only after she heard him leave that she allowed herself to fall asleep, relieved to know that he was safe.

  She didn’t think he knew how much of a refuge he had made this house, nor how much he needed it.

  Weeping wouldn’t help, she told herself. Finch would never love her, but she would never forget that tonight he had rested his head on her breast, put an arm around her waist and slept peacefully for a while, because he was with her and not that woman.

  Chapter Seven

  “You look terrible,” said Meldon, when he entered Finch’s drawing-room the next day.

  “I fell asleep in a chair.”

  “Too drunk to get to bed?”

  Meldon was unsympathetic.

  “It was fifteen years ago, Meldon. Will you never let me forget it?”

  Finch couldn’t even remember now the cause of his loss of control on the night he had drunk himself insensible a few days before his marriage. He could, however, remember the delight Meldon had taken in seeing the friend who was constantly being set before him as an example behave so badly.

  Meldon grinned.

  “I shall remember it forever. You saved me the trouble of ever getting drunk myself. I thought you were going to die.”

  “No, you didn’t. You were a beastly child. And you forget the afternoon you got drunk at Meldon Hall before you...”

  Meldon held up his hand to stop him.

  “The day you were engaged to Anna,” Meldon said softly.