Page 56 of To Resist a Scandalous Rogue
“Of course. At some point. But first I plan on stopping by Darington Terrace, invitation be damned.” Finlay was certain he required no invitation to visit his sister and her husband.
“I’d expect nothing less from you, my lord.” Norris paused as he opened the door and looked at Finlay over his shoulder. “Shall I instruct Cook you will be home late tonight?”
Biting the inside of his cheek, Finlay considered the many items on his agenda. “Please tell her I’ll eat at the club. I honestly don’t know when I’ll be back, so I’d rather not have her waiting for me.”
“Very good, sir.” Norris executed a swift bow. “I hope your day is productive.”
After his valet had left, Finlay crossed to the window and pulled aside the drape. Late morning light cut through the tree boughs, casting shadows across the walk, and a cold breeze caused the branches to scratch against the side of the house. He rested his forehead against the windowpane, the chill seeping into his body and slithering down his spine.
He had a full day planned, including various meetings and a rally to attend, but he wanted to pull back his coverlet and crawl into bed. The promise of seeing Alethea had buoyed his flagging spirits, but the reality of his day had depressed them once again.
With a sigh, he pushed back from the pane and rubbed his hand across his brow, warming his skin. A sudden thought made him pause. He slowly rotated his head in the direction of his closet. Should he?
He hurried into the room and headed for the panel hidden behind a collection of coats. After turning the knob to the combination, he slowly opened the door and peered inside. It was still there where he’d placed it the year before, when he’d snatched it from his brother-in-law’s room. Alethea had given it to Darington as a sign she trusted him with their deepest secret. Except Finlay had more to lose if the truth was made known. At the time, taking his mother’s diary had made sense. Seeing it now made him pause.
Finlay propped his arm on the safe door and rested his chin on it, his eyes fixed on the items safeguarded in the chamber. Pulling a greedy breath into his lungs, he reached in and grasped the book. The leather creased in his grip, and, for a moment, he considered simply ripping the offending item to shreds. Instead, he stared at its worn, now recognizable cover with a feeling of dread and infinite sadness smothering him. Exhaling so deeply his lips vibrated with the motion, he placed the book back in the safe. It contained his mother’s most heartfeltandheartbroken thoughts, written in her own hand. So much of her legacy had been proven a lie, but Finlay couldn’t bring himself to destroy the raw confessions of her heart. When the time came to do so, he and Alethea would do it together.
Instead, he reached and grabbed a piece of simple green tartan that lay folded in the back of the compartment. He unwrapped it slowly and paused as the light hit the tarnished gold of the locket.
He studied it for several tense seconds before he rewrapped it and shoved it in his coat pocket. Alethea deserved to see it and help him decide what should be done with it.
Straightening his spine, he adjusted his cuffs and smoothed a hand along his cravat. He opened the door and headed downstairs, stopping in his study to pick up notes before heading out the front door to confront the first item on his schedule.
…
Surely, this was how it felt at the start of a cockfight. Loud. Chaotic. The threat of violence thick in the air. Except instead of razor-sharp claws, the opponents possessed conflicting views and cutting insults.
Not for the first time, Finlay fought the urge to roll his eyes and laugh. But he held back, certain it wouldn’t do him any good if the angry rally-goers saw him laughing at the complaints one of their fellow rabble-rousers was listing.
Canvassing had revealed that the race between Abernathy and him was very close, so the other gentleman had requested a show-of-hands type poll. If the informal poll favored one candidate over the other, there was little reason to continue with the election. Finlay swallowed down a vat of nerves. He hoped his campaign didn’t end in such a way.
He had been to more than his share of political rallies, but rarely had the vitriol, the overarching generalizations, and unfair biases bothered him as much as they did at that moment. While he overheard encouraging words of praise, he also caught bits of exaggerated claims of his stances, outright lies about his background, and jests about his motivations. The worst slander, though, came from his opponent.
“Lord Firthwell has said mechanization is unreliable and would hurt factories. But if you were to study his father’s estate in Herefordshire, you would discover they’re moving forward with the construction of a mill, complete with machines capable of processing his apple and peach harvest in half the time as the standard method.” Abernathy paused, his brow rising sharply. “It seems to me mechanization is acceptable when it benefits only Lord Firthwell and no one else.”
Finlay didn’t even realize he was advancing on the man until a hand tugged his arm. Jerking around, he met Townsend’s gray eyes.
“Let go of me,” he growled, already looking to find Abernathy once again. “I said no such thing. He’s twisting my words!”
“Of course you didn’t. Anyone here with half sense knows that.”
Grinding his teeth, Finlay asked, “And is there anyone here with half sense?”
Townsend pressed his lips together as his eyes darted about. “Don’t ever react out of anger. Abernathy is baiting you.” He inclined his head toward the gentleman in question.
Finlay’s stomach sank when he saw Abernathy looking at him with a smirk brightening his pale face. Clenching his teeth so hard he almost feared he’d lose one, he dropped back into his seat and attempted to project an air of boredom his father had worn like cologne.
Townsend leaned close. “I know that was difficult. If it were me, I would want to plant him a facer.”
“Or two,” Finlay admitted with a small smile.
Townsend narrowed his eyes at the speaker. “He’s getting quite desperate. The tied poll count was a blow for him, no doubt. With your reputation about town, I believe Abernathy suspected there wouldn’t be much of a contest.”
“Even without my father to guide me?”
“It was not well done of me to bring up your father like that.” He paused, stroking a hand across his thick mustache. “I merely wanted to know what kind of hold, if any, he still had on you. I am a father, and I know what it’s like when a son doesn’t…behave in the manner in which you expect. Or live up to your expectations.”
As in marrying a charming, demure, young shopgirl?Even in the crowded, raucous hall, it was easy to recognize the grief lurking in the older man’s gaze.
