Page 69 of To Resist a Scandalous Rogue
“Surely they value you enough to extend a small loan.” Mrs. Townsend’s smile was predatory. “Or perhaps your wealthy viscount would be willing to pay it.”
Ice encased her limbs. “Wealthy viscount? Surely you jest.”
“My dear Mrs. Taylor, we have had our men watching your home.” He paused from shining his watch on his coat to smile indulgently at her. “We know Lord Firthwell arrived here last night and didn’t leave until this morning.”
Charlotte cursed mentally as her cheeks grew warm. Knowing the Townsends were aware Finlay had spent time with her was mortifying…but knowing what that could mean for his political career made her sway on her feet.
Gritting her teeth, she said, “Lord Firthwell is an honorable man who will advocate for the voters of Weobley. To use him to punish me is despicable and beneath even you.”
“You should not have brought such an honorable man into your mess.”
She spun away, certain she’d strangle the man if she didn’t create some distance between them.
“It appears you have three choices before you.” His voice grew louder as she assumed he approached her. “You can ask your employers for a loan. You can ask Viscount Firthwell for assistance. Or you can turn yourself in to the authorities at Fleet Street.”
It was an effort to turn and meet their gazes. Mrs. Townsend had crossed her hands in front of her waist, seeming to be not at all concerned she’d just dropped a figurative anvil on Charlotte. Mr. Townsend considered her with his head cocked to the side.
They were finally to have their revenge because she dared to marry their darling son in spite of their objections. The pure hate of the gesture left her gasping.
“Friday.” Mr. Townsend looped his wife’s arm around his own and opened the front door. “You have until Friday to return the two hundred pounds, or sadly, we’ll be forced to take the matter to the constable ourselves.”
With those parting words, they swept from the room. Charlotte watched them go, panic threatening to swamp her like a crushing wave.
She latched the door shut and slowly made her way to the bed, sinking onto it like an iron anchor. They knew about Finlay. His political future lay in their corrupt hands.
The thought made her bury her face in her hands.
There was also no way she could repay the debt. Her brain could barely comprehend such an amount.
What was she to do?
If she approached Lady Flora for help, would the woman decide she was not the sort of person she and Lord Inverray wanted running Little Windmill House? Lady Flora was keen on forming a group of patronesses to fundraise for the home, and one ill-placed word from the Townsends would ruin her well-laid plans.
And Finlay? If he consented to help her—but why would he expose himself to such a dreadful situation?—it would serve as a signal to the Townsends that she was important to him. They would forever hold the knowledge of their relationship over him, in ways big and small. Finlay’s vote would essentially belong to Mr. Townsend, and quite possibly his coin purse.
She stared at the ceiling for what felt like an eternity while she sifted through the various options available to her. Her choices were distressingly small.
When the room began to grow cold, she managed to pull herself from the bed to shut the windows. As she drew the curtains closed, something under the chair caught her attention. Dropping to her knees, she peered underneath and spied a strip of green fabric. She didn’t recognize the tartan pattern, which meant Finlay must have left it behind by mistake. Drawing it out, she felt something hard hidden in the folds. She frowned as she opened it to reveal a gold locket. The weathered, dull hue of the metal was a testament to its age, and she wondered who had been its original owner.
Freeing the clasp, her eyes landed on the likeness of a blond gentleman. He was handsome. Young. His green eyes were very much like Finlay’s, except they lacked the humor and warmth she had come to know and love. The man’s clothing was outdated and made it clear the miniature had been painted years before. It was easy to guess the man was the Earl of Rockhaven, his father.
The other side of the locket was empty…until Charlotte peered closer and realized a piece of parchment had been placed where another miniature would go. She brought it closer to the light spilling from the candle she had lit and looked closer.
Dearest Cait,
I hope you wear this close to your heart, as I keep you close to mine.
Yours, desperately,
Alistair
Charlotte stared at the script, pondering its meaning, when suddenly it occurred to her.
Finlay’s father had given the locket to his mother—hisrealmother—at some point before or after his marriage to the late Countess of Rockhaven. Turning it over in her hand, she noticed an engraving on the back.
C + A.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Finlay must have been devastated when he found it. But why had he had it on his person when he visited her?
