And now she was here. In his house. Hisestate. Of course he would call her here for their meeting. His domain. It made sense—it was private—but returning to this place was another reminder that she was stuck between worlds. She hadn’t felt that way for a long time, not since she first ran away and had to learn to survive from Ripley and Jane.
The door to the parlor opened behind her and Esme turned to find Finn standing at the entryway, staring at her. He blinked as his gaze moved up and down her frame, then he entered the room and closed the door behind himself.
“You are lovely,” he said softly.
She glanced down at herself. “Thank you. It’s my…it’s my best dress.”
She felt foolish now that she’d said that. The gown was serviceable, yes, but there was nothing fancy or unique about it. The fabric was a cheaper silk and she had sewn the seams back together a few times.
“It doesn’t fit here,” she continued. “But then neither do I and?—”
He crossed the room to her in a few long steps and silenced her by cupping her cheeks in his warm palms and dropping his mouth to hers. The kiss was gentle, yet somehow still powerful and her spinning thoughts settled.
“You arelovely,” he repeated when he pulled away at last. He motioned to the sideboard. “Tea?”
She bent her head and muttered, “Whisky.”
When he laughed, she was surprised. She hadn’t thought she’d said that loud enough to be heard, but it seemed he was paying attention. “I have that, too, though it’s a bit early for me.”
She shook her head. “Tea is fine. Two sugars, no milk.”
He paused and looked at her over his shoulder. “Like your father used to take it.”
“Yes.” She nodded and marveled at the swell of pain that simple statement caused. But it was a good ache, somehow. Finn understood her father’s loss. He knew him. And it helped to talk to him.
As he poured the tea, she worried a loose thread along the back of one of the chairs. “Did you…did you attend his funeral?”
He came to her with a cup, which she took and then sat when he motioned her to do so. He fetched his own tea, then sat in the chair beside her own.
“Yes,” he answered at last. “I did.”
She stared at the teacup for a moment. “I wasn’t allowed. My cousin said I was overwrought.”
His lips pursed and she saw the anger tighten his jaw. Anger on her behalf. Such an odd thing, for she hadn’t expected to find a protector in a man like this. “Even if the man isn’t a murderer, he’s certainly a cruel arse. Who else had more reason to be overwrought? You two were so close.”
“We were,” she said with a faint smile. “He was unlike anyone I ever knew. A man with power, but also principles. A dreamer caught in the body of a marquess.”
“A true gentleman,” Finn added.
Their eyes met and for the first time it wasn’t desire that hung between them, nor tension from the secrets she kept and he now knew. It was understanding. It was shared emotion. It was comfort.
“He was,” she agreed.
He settled back in his chair and sipped his tea. “Chilton was the only man I knew who could discuss politics and the habits of bees, sometimes in the same breath. Always with the same passion.”
She couldn’t help but laugh and it felt so good. Her thoughts of her father were so often about his loss, about the circumstances, that she sometimes forgot the little joys of him. “Oh Lord, the bees! His hives were wonderful, I loved watching him put on all his layers and go out to tend them.” Her smile faltered. “I-I made sure they went to a good home.”
“They aren’t still on the family estate?” Finn asked, his eyebrows lifting in surprise.
She shrugged. “Francis wanted to burn them. It was only the suggestion that they were worth something to sell that made him reconsider. I had to save them. Save something ofhim.”
“Bastard,” Finn said, and his brow lowered with even more anger.
She sighed. This was as good a segue as any to the topic she had truly come to discuss with him. She set her tea aside and leaned forward. “Do you…do you truly think you might be able to unmask Francis if it was what I said I wanted?”
He drew a long breath. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It’s in his best interest to continue to cover it up if he did do something criminal. But that doesn’t mean he won’t slip. He had none of your father’s keen intellect nor his discretion, if I recall him correctly.”
“No. He had none of my father’s good qualities,” she said with bitterness in her tone.
