“I’ve been occupied with establishing myself in a profession,” said Finch, not bothering to add that his father had seen little of him since he’d left home at twelve, so the gentleman hardly knew a thing about his son’s inclinations. “This course of action would leave me without sufficient funds to marry and no means of securing a greater income.”
Father waved that concern away. “Your brother Julian has done well for himself in the navy, yet he cannot afford to marry. Your present course in the army is no more likely to provide that opportunity.”
“And that is why I wish to pursue this business venture with Bentley—”
“This is not a negotiation, son.” Though neither unfriendly nor biting, Father’s tone was hard, his expression unyielding as he held Finch’s gaze. “A father’s duty is to guide his son, and a son’s duty is to abide by his father’s decision. You are long past the age where you ought to be independent of the family finances, yet still, you require assistance. I have been patient, my boy, but I cannot allow this to go on any longer.”
With a sad shake of his head, Father's gaze drifted away once more while he considered things. When he met Finch’s eyes again, his smile warmed. “This new course of action will be mutually beneficial to us both. You would gain a modest lifestyle in London society, and the family would no longer have such a drain on our resources. Your time in the light dragoons has been expensive—”
“I try to economize.”
But Father held up a hand to forestall any further excuses. “I understand, my boy. Your regiment has certain standards of living, which you’ve had to follow, and I do not begrudge you a single penny of it. But the fact is that one year’s worth of expenses in the army could pay the rent for your London rooms ten times over. As you are unlikely to rise any higher than your present position, it makes better financial sense for us to pay your rent in perpetuity than continue on as we have.”
Finch opened his mouth to reply, but Father spoke over him.
“And being a gentleman of leisure is admirable. It would bring far more prestige to the family than your current course of action or any of your unsavory propositions.”
Mouth agape, Finch sorted through his thoughts and arguments, hoping to land on something that might convince his father otherwise, but there was little point. Finch had proven himself useless in all the other professions his father had proposed, and if he viewed Finch’s proposals as “unsavory,” then there was little hope of changing his mind.
“And if I refuse?” Finch didn’t know why he bothered asking that question, for he knew full well the answer would not swing in his favor. But asking such ridiculous questions was one of the many reasons why he had failed at the law as well as the navy and army.
Father’s fingers drummed against the desk, the sound harder and more unyielding than the gaze he leveled on his son. And when he launched into a lecture about family honor and a son’s duty, Finch merely nodded at various intervals, knowing there was no point in going to battle.
For better or worse, Father had chosen Finch’s life path, and there was no deviating now.
Chapter 1
Devon
Winter 1812
Propped up on her elbow, Felicity leaned across her desk, her eyes tracing the lacy patterns of frost across her study window. The clouds had cleared enough to allow slivers of sunlight through, which caught the crystals clinging to the masonry. The city sparkled, begging her to abandon her work and explore the world outside.
Felicity longed for proper trees. In this portion of Plymouth, there were few to be found among the buildings, and one of the most beautiful sights was a copse coated in a thick layer of ice crystals, twinkling in the sunlight. She yearned to bundle herself in her cloak and gloves, explore the frigid out of doors until her fingers and toes were numb, and return to a crackling fire and drinking chocolate.
Sighing, she turned away from the window’s enticements and stared at the ledgers on the desk. Her free hand fiddled with her quill, ignoring the mess the remnant droplets of ink made on the wood. Felicity stared at the numbers until her eyes blurred, and she leaned back, rubbing her temples as though that might ease the mounting pain.
Felicity wriggled her shoulders, massaging the knots that had formed as she hunched over her work, and leaned back to survey that which was yet to be completed. The stacks of letters were organized according to their urgency, but the truth was that few would be answered to either her or the sender’s satisfaction.
Invitations for balls, parties, and entertainments she had not time to consider. Missives from friends remained unanswered. Petitions begging her to join various societies and charitable functions would only receive funds in her stead; it eased her conscience minutely but did not salve the longing she felt to participate in more meaningful matters.
No, questions from solicitors, clerks, and Uncle’s business partners took precedence. Endless queries about investments and expenses appeared in those piles like the hydra of old; for every answer she gave, three more questions arose.
Again and again, Felicity wondered if Uncle George had known how much of a mess she’d make of his business. Or how great a cost it would exact from her. Of course, Uncle had intended her to have assistance as he’d had.
Felicity stared at the work to be done and pleaded with herself to continue picking away at it. But heaven help her, it was all so inordinately boring. She was no stranger to completing distasteful tasks, but as far as she could see, there was nothing to love about investments and commodities.
The study door opened, and a footman strode in with a salver on hand. He offered it to his mistress, and she retrieved the calling card and sighed, her shoulders slumping.
“Show him in, Thomas,” she said, replacing the card.
Standing, Felicity straightened her skirts and patted her hair, which by some miracle remained perfectly coiffed, though many hours had passed since the pins had been placed in her unruly mass of red curls.
“Miss Barrows,” said Mr. Johnson, striding in and giving her a quick bow.
Felicity curtsied and snatched a handkerchief from the desk to wipe at her ink-stained hands. “Good afternoon, Mr. Johnson.”
“My, that looks frightful,” he said, gesturing towards the letters and ledgers. Mr. Johnson picked up an envelope from a pile and glanced at it with raised brows. He tossed it back with a casual flick of his hand. “Have you been at this tedious work all day?”
