The Heart That Hides (Regency Spies Book 2)

by April Munday

“You will doubtless think me foolish.”

  He stopped and turned to her. Seeing that he had embarrassed her, he said, “You have a fine mind. I understand that sometimes you might need to rest it with something... something less demanding.”

  “I cannot accept your offer.”

  “Why not? A good library should have variety in it.”

  “Your library should not contain such things.”

  “It’s my library,” he said. “It can contain whatever I want.”

  “Nonetheless...”

  She straightened her back and started forwards again.

  Resignedly, Finch went with her.

  “I shall still open an account for you. It will be easier than you giving me a list and me sending it to my bookseller. We should do it now.”

  He felt her resistance as they turned a corner that led them out of their way and down a narrow street, but he persisted and they went into the small establishment where he had spent some time earlier today.

  “Mr Finch. Have you forgotten something?”

  Rogers greeted him with surprise.

  “No, Mr Rogers, thank you. This is Miss Wilding. She is governess to my son. I wish her to have the use of my account and a separate account in her own name. You will send me the bills for the second account without listing the books.”

  “Mr Finch, please!”

  “Miss Wilding, whether or not you use the account is up to you.”

  Rogers bowed.

  Seeing Mary looking longingly at the shelves, Finch said, “Would you like to look around now that we are here?”

  “I’m sure you have much business to attend to.”

  “Apart from my house, this is my favourite place in London. Let me show you around.”

  He spent the next hour learning more about her taste in books. Their discussions only reinforced his belief that her taste matched his own almost exactly and he wondered why she felt the need to borrow from the circulating library. He also discovered that she knew precisely what he had in his own library, for he suggested that she might like to purchase a particular book and she told him that he had it and she had read it recently. She did, however, find a book for Freddie that they purchased and it was added to Finch’s purchases from earlier in the day.

  They started towards home again.

  “You have good taste,” he said, as they left the shop. “Why do you need novels from the circulating library?”

  She blushed.

  “I told you. They’re a distraction.”

  “Is life so bad for you in my house?”

  He was disappointed. Freddie adored her and the servants, whilst in awe of her, respected and liked her.

  “Oh, no,” she said, turning to him and stopping. “I’m very happy in your house.”

  He was surprised by the pleasure her passion gave him.

  “Then...?” he prompted.

  “Sometimes... Very rarely.”

  She stopped.

  Finch was patient; he had enough experience of questioning people to know that it rarely helped to push them.

  “There are times,” she said eventually, “when I feel very sad and lonely and then I read the books from the circulating library. They are so dreadful that I wouldn’t dream of asking you to purchase any of them. They’re not worth it.”

  “Is there anything I can do to make you less sad and lonely?”

  He wasn’t sure what she might ask him to do, but he had become responsible for her when he had asked her to live with them. He steeled himself in case she should tell him about her lover.

  She turned away, but not before he had seen the tears in her eyes.

  “No,” she said, “but I thank you for offering.”

  “Sheer arrogance,” he said breezily, “I can’t face the idea that you might have a problem that I can’t solve.”

  Rather than laugh at his joke as he had hoped, her shoulders began to shake and she turned away from him. Damn! He’d made her cry. He was tempted to hold her until she stopped crying, but, although the alley was very quiet, people did occasionally pass down it and her reputation had also become his responsibility when she moved into his house.

  Wishing that he had the carriage nearby to spare her embarrassment, he guided her back into Mr Rogers’ establishment.

  “Mr Finch, is anything wrong?”

  “Miss Wilding felt faint. I hope you don’t mind me bringing her back in here.”

  “Not at all. Please sit down, Miss Wilding. Let me send for some wine for you.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Finch, reaching into his pocket for his hip flask. “Just a glass, please, Mr Rogers.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mr Finch,” gasped Mary when she could speak.

  “Please, it’s my fault. I should not have pressed you. You do not have to explain all your actions to me and, if you have a way of dealing with your loneliness, then please continue with it.”

  “I know you intended to help...”

  “But I have made things much worse.”

  Uncertainly, he stood by her waiting for Rogers to return.

  “No, please don’t think that.”

  She turned her tear-stained face up to him. His esteem for her increased; how many women would be prepared to allow a man to see that they had been crying?

  Rogers returned and Finch poured some whisky into the glass.

  “It’s not brandy, I’m afraid, but whisky.”

  She hesitated before she reached for the glass.

  “There’s not enough there to do you any harm,” he promised.

  Finally her lips curved upwards in a faint smile and Finch was filled with relief.

  Mary swallowed the whisky in one go and choked.

  “I should have told you to sip,” said Finch, as he began to rub her back to ease her choking.

  “I thought it might be more effective this way,” she said between gasps for breath.

  Finch allowed himself to chuckle.

  “I hope you will permit me to teach you how to drink whisky.”

  “Do you think that would be quite proper?” she asked and he knew the danger had passed and she was recovered.

  “Not entirely,” he conceded. “It is your choice.”

  “I think I shall be happy to learn how to drink whisky, provided you do not expect me to drink too much.”

  “My dear Miss Wilding, perish the thought.”

  To his relief, Mary laughed. She handed the glass back to Rogers.

  “Thank you, Mr Rogers. I feel very well now.”

  Finch put out his hand to help her out of the chair. He hoped he imagined her hesitation before she took it.

  “Let’s go home,” he said.

  One afternoon when it was raining, Mary thought it would be better to keep Freddie inside rather than walk to the park, so Finch offered to teach him some mathematics. She suspected that they were playing together in the school room and she was looking forward to spending some time in the library. She decided to please herself in the choice of reading, rather than seek out something for Freddie.

  A pile of books on the table showed that Mr Rogers had recently delivered Finch’s order. Surprised by the number of French novels and volumes of poetry, Mary began to leaf through them. She thought it odd that some of them were not already in the library and some were so obscure she wondered that Finch could have been interested in them. One pamphlet was so subversive she thought Mr Rogers could not have known what he had. It was this that she took to a chair near a window and read, horrified, but fascinated by the violence and intemperance of it.

  “Ah, there you are, Miss Wilding.”

  She glanced over at the clock; she had been here for two hours.

  “I’m sorry, Mr Finch. I lost track of the time.”

  He smiled.

  “Then may I hope for great things from that document?”

  He came to stand beside her and she saw the concern on his face when he saw what she was reading.

  “That’s not something
I should have expected you to be interested in.”

  Reluctant to criticise him, she didn’t point out that he was the one who had brought it into his house, presumably because he was interested in it.

  “I believe that it is as well to understand all sides of an argument,” she said.

  “And do you understand that side of it?”

  “It is not well-argued and the violence is exhausting.”

  “Perhaps we can discuss it one evening.”

  She hesitated at his suggestion.

  “You fear I bought it because I sympathise with the sentiments,” he said.

  Mary nodded.

  “He advocates violence to bring about change,” said Finch, nodding at the pamphlet. “I can’t agree with that. I can accept that violence might be necessary to protect what is dear and loved and that’s... What he advocates is more than a step too far for a Quaker.”

  “My parents were murdered by people who supported his views.”

  “My dear Miss Wilding.”

  Finch reached out and held her hand. She recognised the helplessness he felt.

  “They were French and they could see the way things were going so they came to England. They had nothing, but thought they had escaped. When the Terror came they were even more certain they had escaped.”

  Her memories of the early years were happy ones. When Philippe had been born, they had all thought that life was perfect. By then her parents had learned what they must do to survive and they were not too proud to work hard. Despite the wealth they had known in France, they had always known that they were responsible for those who depended on them. It was not fear of these people that had caused them to flee to England, but events in Paris. Her father had made enemies there, despite his good intentions.

  “They saw that people like us were going to be persecuted,” she said. “England was safe, so they came here and they worked hard.”

  She had been brought up to fear. Strangers might bring good or bad news, but more often bad. Friends and relatives had been killed and they knew they were in danger themselves.

  “Gradually, after the Terror had ceased, they began to think it was over and they stopped being afraid. Then there was war and then Philippe died.”

  She felt the tears on her cheeks. Philippe had been their hope. There had been no more children after him.

  “I think a part of my parents died then.”

  Still they had stayed in Worthing. She had tried to convince her parents to change their name, but they said they were not ashamed of it. Life went on as it always had and they continued to survive.

  “Three years ago we were comfortable. My father was a tailor and my mother a seamstress. They made sure that I was well-educated. I had none of their talents, but I could teach and I was to be a governess until I married. I read to them while they worked and we discussed everything.”

  Was it because her days here reminded her of that time that she was happy here? She would think about that another time.

  “We were happy... at least, I was.”

  Since Philippe’s death they had had less hope in the future. A daughter could not restore their fortunes.

  “And then...?” prompted Finch.

  She had almost forgotten he was there. She looked down into her lap where both his hands held hers. He was kneeling in front of her.

  “One evening I was in the kitchen. I was making things ready for the next day. Someone knocked at the door. My father said he would go and I stayed in the kitchen. It was later than a neighbour or a customer would usually call, but it wasn’t unknown.”

  Once the door was open, they had burst in, four or five of them. They asked where the children were. Her father had had the presence of mind to say that his son was dead. They asked about his daughter. “Gone,” he’d said. “Married.” They’d asked about her married name. “Smith,” was all he would say and they’d killed him then.

  “I ran away,” she said, “through the kitchen window. As quietly as I could.”

  Mary froze and could not continue. She saw Finch open his mouth to ask a question, but shook her head wearily. How could she tell him about the fear that had taken hold of her and robbed her of her senses until she had been found the following morning by Hettie, the maid of the family upstairs, when she had opened the backdoor to go to the pump?

  Even now Mary remembered little of that dreadful day. Hettie had taken her upstairs when she had started to scream as the woman had tried to take her into what had been her home. Mr Thompson had gone downstairs to fetch her mother and had returned pale and shaking, still retching. Somehow the authorities had been notified and Mary had stayed with the Thompsons until after the funeral. They had not wanted her there. For all they knew she would bring the murderers into their home as well. Hettie had been kind, but the Thompsons had been distant.

  Then she had been alone.

  There had been enough money from her parents to get her to London and she had her references. Having decided that she was more likely to get a position with an English name than a French one, she had asked for them to be written for Mary Wilding.

  That story could be told to Finch another day, when she felt up to it. She knew she would tell him, if only to make up for the things she couldn't.

  She felt Finch wipe the tears from her cheeks.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “They protected me to the end.”

  “That’s what parents are for.”

  “I’m glad you understand.”

  “And I’m glad you’re here. Please make it your sanctuary.”

  “I think you’ve done that for me already.”

  “I have wealth, Miss Wilding. It can buy comfort and protection. You have only to tell me what you need.”

  Despite his words, she knew he wasn’t suggesting that his money could make up for the murder of her parents, merely that he would make her life as comfortable as he could.

  “You are most generous. I am at my ease here. I hadn’t realised until it was gone that I had lived all my life in fear.”

  He frowned.

  “That won’t do.”

  She dared to look into his wonderfully blue eyes and saw a depth of sadness there she hadn’t noticed before.

  “I am perfectly content. My parents said I was born to teach and I think it was true. Until now I didn’t have the right pupils.”

  “Freddie and I are your devoted servants.”

  “May not I be your servant?”

  He sat back on his heels while he thought about this.

  “No,” he said, “you may not.”

  He kissed her hands.

  “I see you have need of a clean handkerchief again.”

  “I have one,” she said, then she blushed as she remembered that it was his handkerchief she carried.

  “Then I may leave you to make the necessary repairs? It is almost time for dinner.”

  He stood.

  “I am always grateful,” he said, “that you chose to take refuge with us.”

  With that he was gone.

  Chapter Nine

  September 1812

  “Your friend Meldon must be very wealthy,” said Louise as the carriage drew up outside Meldon House.

  “I believe so,” said Finch.

  He was, himself, richer, but preferred not to draw attention to his wealth, especially in these times when the mob could be cheering the Regent one minute and rioting outside his house the next, because of his extravagance.

  “It is strange that you are friends, for you are so different.”

  “In what way?”

  “He is very reserved, but you are open. He lacks passion, but you...”

  She smiled at him knowingly.

  “Sadly, there will not be much time for that tonight, but tomorrow, before I leave London...”

  “I wish you were not going or that you would take me with you.”

  Her pout was not attractive and he had told her so many times, but it did not stop her. />
  “There would be little point. We would see so little of one another.”

  It would also scandalise his father if he arrived in Birmingham with a woman to whom he was not married.

  “But when we did see one another, there would be such pleasure.”

  Would there be, he wondered. He was coming to see that his idea of pleasure and Louise’s were very different. Although she was a very sensual woman and enjoyed touching and being touched, she also like physical pain, whether his or hers didn’t seem to matter. When she had scratched his neck, she had been surprised that he had not responded in kind and had seemed disappointed that he had not enjoyed it. Sometimes he wondered what dark games she had played with other men, or they had played with her.

  “When I return...”

  “If I decide to wait for you.”

  “It’s two months, Louise.”

  “Which will become three. I will miss you unbearably.”

  “And that’s why you might not wait?”

  Finch was angry and disappointed. He knew that he was besotted with this woman, but her character concerned him. If he wasn’t careful, he would be on his knees begging her to go with him to Birmingham. When they were out in society, there were always plenty of men around her. Any one of them would take her away from him given half a chance.

  Finch helped Louise down from the carriage, not sure what he was going to do. He now regretted mocking Meldon for being unable to court Lady Anna properly. His current indecision displeased him.

  They were amongst the earliest guests to arrive and the Meldons greeted them enthusiastically. Lady Anna already looked uncomfortably warm and Finch knew neither of them would dance, for Meldon would only ever dance with his wife, giving as his excuse that no one else would put up with the unevenness of his steps and Lady Anna’s pregnancy was too advanced to allow her to move easily.

  “Thank you for inviting me,” said Louise, “this is going to be a splendid evening.”

  “We’re glad you could come,” said Meldon stiffly.

  Finch knew he had been right; his friend did not like Louise. Things had not gone well when they had dined together. Louise had been charming, certainly, and had not gone so far as to flirt with Meldon, which Finch had feared, but she had not been able to draw him out. Meldon had been at his most reserved and shut in, even to Finch. Louise had paid little attention to Lady Anna, despite the countess’ attempts to engage her in conversation. “She is too beautiful,” Louise had said to him afterwards. “I am afraid I will lose you to her.” Finch had protested that Lady Anna was the wife of his best friend and this had been dismissed as irrelevant. Another cause of his displeasure was the hint that he could easily be tempted to infidelity. It had been a long and uncomfortable evening. When the invitation to the Meldons’ ball had arrived, Louise had told him that she would refuse it, as it was bad enough that a woman be seen out in Lady Anna’s condition without making a spectacle of herself by throwing a ball. Finch had explained that Meldon always gave a ball within a few weeks of arriving at Meldon House and this was his opportunity to show off his wife, who was unknown in London, before she retired from society. Louise had accepted this gracefully, but the conversation had given him, and the Meldons, some warning of the comments that might be made about their behaviour.