Page 18 of To Resist a Scandalous Rogue
“From the panicked look on your face, I’m going to assume you’ve realized the multitude of problems you face if the answer is yes,” Amstead said, his tone grave.
Problems, indeed. If Matthews had worked with his father, which seemed plausible, Finlay could speculate how their association ended. But he couldn’t be certain until he checked his father’s records. He hoped…and prayed…he didn’t find the man’s name amongst the paperwork.
Damn.
With a start, Finlay realized Amstead was watching him expectantly. He adjusted his cravat as he collected his thoughts. “I’m assuming, as I’m sure you already have, that if Matthews worked with my father in any way, he’s either going to back my campaign or capsize it before it’s even launched.”
Amstead raised his cup to him. “Precisely.”
Finlay closed his eyes. How could he forge his own path if his father still served as a roadblock, in spite of time and distance?
“I’m surmising Inverray doesn’t know about your father’s business dealings.” Amstead paused, the air seeming to spark with the unspoken implication. “Do you think you should tell him?”
“What would I tell him?” Finlay plopped his cup on the table with athud. “That my father swindled investors? That his speculations often came to naught, leaving broken friendships and empty coffers in their wake?” He dare not disclose how the Earl of Rockhaven’s closest friend killed himself after his father wrongfully implicated him in a crime. That the earl’s desperation led him to commit all sorts of dishonorable acts, like murdering one duke and attempting to murder another.
His heart lurched when he thought of the most explosive secret of all, outlined in painful detail in his mother’s diary. A secret that could not only obliterate any chance he had to sit in Commons, but completely ruin him.
“My father has many sins to atone for, but they’re notmysins.”
“Touché.” Amstead tipped his cup to him. “Does anyone else know of his business practices? Anyone who might spill secrets in the heat of a contentious campaign?”
Finlay tapped his chin with a fist. “I can’t be certain. He did business with all sorts of men.”
“Well, hopefully no roaches crawl out of the dung pile. I would sit on the truth of your father’s past and hope it doesn’t come to light when you least need it to.”
Chapter Seven
“’cuse me, miss,” a reedy voice huffed.
Charlotte jumped to the side, allowing the young woman with the overflowing basket in her hands to walk past. She was chagrined to find her attention had wavered to the point that she was stopping morning traffic. She was too consumed with darting her eyes up and down the block, wary of catching a glimpse of the men who had come searching for her the day prior. She’d probably get hit by any one of the many carts bustling on the street.
She needed to pay attention. Easier said than done. Between Finlay’s sudden appearance and the men searching for her under her married name, she was panicked.
Terrified.
She pulled her bonnet down about her ears, ducked her head, and hurried toward Little Windmill Street. Thankfully, her walk was a short one, and soon, she was looping her pelisse and scarf around a hook in the small closet off the kitchen.
“Busy day today, Mrs. Taylor?” Cook asked when Charlotte appeared in the doorway. She pounded dough with her fists before smoothing it flat with a rolling pin.
“I have French, as well as two deportment classes,” she said, taking a seat at the wide pine table and accepting a steaming cup of tea with a strained smile from a young scullery maid. She hoped the hawkeyed cook didn’t notice how her hands shook. “Plus, Mrs. Stevens and I are meeting to discuss apprenticeship opportunities for the older girls.”
“So, busy day then,” Cook said, meeting her gaze with a smile lurking in her own.
Charlotte nodded.“Yes. Busy, indeed.”
She sipped on her tea, willing her fraught nerves to relax. She was content to let the older woman babble, for it allowed her time to regain her self-possession. After a period of time, the older woman’s voice cut through her thoughts. “Do you not have a lesson to prepare for?”
Cook gestured to the clock on the wall with her chin, andCharlotteblinked as she wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Thank you for keeping me on schedule.”
“This whole house would fall apart without me,” she grumbled, whacking another innocent piece of dough with her rolling pin. A puff of flour billowed into the air, and the older woman blinked against it.
“We’d certainly be lost,” Charlotte said, placing a hand on her shoulder and squeezing. A cup of hot tea and a scone had soothed her nerves, and she felt she could face the day with a clear head.
“It’s true.”Cook’s lined face creased into a grin. “I’ll see you at luncheon.”
Charlotte made her way through the narrow halls until she arrived outside the small drawing room door. With a small, tentative nudge, she pushed it open. She peered around the frame, her heart rumbling in her throat. Her experience at Campbell House taught her never to assume a room was empty. Thankfully there was no one about, and she began to prepare the space for her first lesson of the day—deportment. She arranged a table with six chairs under the large beveled window. Retrieving the fine cotton tablecloth from the trunk by the settee, she shook it out, sending great billows of blue material swelling into the air before landing on the table. After she smoothed the wrinkles free, she prepared the table for tea.
Knowing how a proper tea visit was conducted, from the vantage point of a guest, had quickly become a part of her curriculum. Any young woman serving as a maid in a grand house was better able toanticipate a guest’s needs if she viewed the social gathering through a guest’s eyes. Learning proper deportment over hot tea with shortbread made absorbing the lesson that much more engaging.
