Page 17 of To Resist a Scandalous Rogue
When he arrived, Finlay feared his face was a red, sweat-dotted mask of exertion. Patience never was his strong suit.
A footman relieved him of his coat, and he proceeded directly to the dining room. It was filled at this time of day with groups of men discussing political issues, current events, and the latest gossip while enjoying their midday meals of beef steak. The noise level was quite loud,clanksof silverware on boneware china and guffaws of laughter greeting his ears with all the finesse of an out-of-tune violin.
Finlay scanned the room, hoping to catch a glimpse of the earl’s graying auburn head. He offered nods and brief waves to friends and acquaintances who called greetings, but kept to his task; he had business to see to.
When he didn’t see Matthews, he paused. Where was the earl?
“Ho, Firthwell. You look as if someone has stolen your bowl of porridge.”
Finlay turned toward the gruff yet friendly voice and met the dark gaze of the Marquess of Amstead. With another quick glance around the room, he approached the marquess’s table and offered him a brief smile. “Not porridge. But perhaps bacon.”
Amstead clutched a hand to his chest. “Now that is a true tragedy.”
He snorted. “My lord, how do you do? I hadn’t realized you were in town.”
“I arrived just last night.” Amstead pushed out the chair across from him. “Have a seat and tell me about your stolen bacon.”
Finlay reluctantly sat, although he perched on the edge of his chair. If he saw Earl Matthews, he wanted to be able to excuse himself quickly. At any other time, he would have welcomed the gregarious marquess’s company, but now he was too agitated to appreciate the man’s witty conversation.
“Are you expecting your thief to pop out from around a corner and throttle you?” Finlay’s attention jerked back to the man, who raised a brow at him. “Or are you hoping to surprise him with a good throttling?”
A chuckle escaped. “I suspect I may be throttled.”
“Aww.” Amstead took a sip of coffee. “Who are you searching for?”
“Earl Matthews. Have you seen him?”
“Not ten minutes ago. He left.”
“Bollocks.”
“My condolences.” The marquess ran a finger around the lip of his cup. “Why did you want to meet with the old killjoy anyway? I know I don’t come to town frequently, but I think even I would have heard if you turned up proper, like His Priggishness.”
“I need his support.”
The marquess was silent. After a moment, he pointed a finger at him. “You’re standing for the Weobley seat.”
Finlay huffed. “Apparently everyone knows what I’m about.”
“You should probably work on that, if you want to stand a chance in Commons.”
“Just add it to my list.”
The marquess laughed, signaling to a footman to bring coffee for Finlay. “So Inverray’s given you a list, has he?”
“Why do you suppose I’ve spoken with Inverray?” Finlay hedged, not at all sure how he felt about Amstead guessing so much about his actions and motives.
“Because if you want to win, you’d be a fool to try to stand without Inverray’s support.” Amstead took a sip from his cup. “He’s been brilliant in Commons.”
“Your voice held a note of surprise when you said that.”
“Did it?” The marquess crossed his arms. “Well, I’m not surprised. Inverray was always a clever fellow. If he’s championing you, I don’t see why Matthews won’t.”
“But…he could?” Finlay drew out the last word like a question. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something in the marquess’s demeanor gave him the impression Earl Matthews wouldn’t be so easily won.
Amstead cocked his head. “Did Matthews ever do business with your father?”
The breath caught in Finlay’s lungs. He hadn’t even considered the possibility.
