Her gaze fell back to the stack of letters strewn across her lap, and clarity took hold of her, allowing Felicity to see the truth. Lined up as they were, there was no mistaking the uniformity of their appearance. They were worn and smudged, spattered with mud and showing clear signs of wear, yet the oldest had fifteen supposed years to its name and looked no more yellowed or aged than that which had been written a few days ago.
The letters did serve as evidence, but not to Mr. Dunn’s credit.
Closing her eyes, Felicity said silent words of gratitude to Uncle George, thanking him for saving her all those years ago, and she hoped Mr. Dunn’s recovery from that night had been as long and painful as he claimed.
Felicity’s lungs heaved, sucking in and out as she glared at the letters. With a sweeping motion, she gathered them up and crushed the wretched things. Her teeth ground together as her mind filled with every vile thing she could think of to describe Alastair Dunn. Stuffing the bits into the basket, Felicity felt like throwing the entire thing out the window, but the only safe place to dispose of them would be a fireplace: the last thing she wanted was for someone to find the evidence of her foolishness.
Her heart shuddered, and Felicity shriveled in on herself, her strength waning as she collapsed against the seatback. The world around her blurred, and her chin trembled as the full understanding of her foolishness struck. With little effort, he’d turned her head once more; it may have been for a short time, but that did not lessen her shame.
Felicity’s throat tightened as tears gathered in her eyes, and she sucked in a breath through her nose, letting it out in a shaking gust. In and out.
How had she allowed this to happen? Felicity’s heart had long ago healed from his first betrayal, but with a few words and a callous lie, Mr. Dunn had exploited that weakness, fracturing it anew.
A weight settled on her, and her mind drifted to the future. Was this to be her life? Forever guarding herself against skilled manipulators? To be viewed as easy prey by fortune hunters? Even going to ground hadn’t deterred them from their quarry.
The thought of returning to Buxby Hall had her stomach churning. As uplifting as Aunt Imogene’s conversation could be, Felicity couldn’t bear the thought of speaking to her aunt. Not yet. Even as her insides rebelled at the thought of admitting what had passed to anyone, there was one person with whom Felicity wanted to speak. One who understood her as readily as she did him. One who gave her peace and sound advice. One who was blunt and forthright, devoid of falsehood and flattery.
Knocking against the roof, Felicity opened the carriage window, calling out the new destination to the coachman when he slowed enough to hear her. Though they were near Buxby Hall, the coachman didn’t question the order, merely guiding the carriage along as they wound their way to Avebury Park.
The carriage rocked and bumped along the frozen road, and Felicity yearned for it to move faster. Though her bedchamber called for her to find solace there, she longed for comforting words. Support and friendship. Someone who would assure her that not all feelings were fickle and false. That she had value beyond her bank account.
Felicity’s gaze was fixed to the window as the minutes passed with agonizing slowness until she was certain she could’ve walked to Avebury Park in less time. The road curved and drew her towards the building, her anticipation growing with each turn of the carriage wheel, and she bounded out before the vehicle was fully stopped.
Smoothing her skirt and straightening her cloak and bonnet, Felicity forced in a calming breath. She wasn’t going to burst into the Kingsleys’ home, demanding to see Mr. Finch like some Bedlamite. Though it felt like an eternity before her knock was answered, Felicity drew her decorum close and met the opening door with a calm facade.
“Is Mr. Finch at home? I have a matter of some urgency I need to discuss with him,” she said, forcing her lips closed as her wayward tongue seemed determined to say far too much to the servants.
The footman ushered her in, and then came more waiting as he went in search of her quarry.
Felicity forced herself not to fidget. She was a grown woman capable of standing still and waiting—even if she felt like a foolish young girl of sixteen once more. Turning her gaze to the foyer, Felicity tried to distract herself by admiring Avebury Park’s entry, but she’d seen it too many times for it to serve as a distraction.
“Miss Barrows?”
Turning her gaze from the staircase, Felicity saw Mrs. Mina Kingsley gliding towards her with a book clutched in her hands.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Kingsley,” said Felicity, giving a curtsy. “I have sent your footman to hunt for Mr. Finch. I had hoped he would join me on a stroll. The weather is too fine to remain indoors.”
Mrs. Kingsley cocked her head to the side, her gaze straying to the windows that framed the front door, which showed a fairly gloomy, overcast day. Felicity held onto her smile, refusing to betray her mistake.
“I see,” murmured Mrs. Kingsley, her brows furrowed, but otherwise accepting the oddity. “Mr. Finch has seemed out of sorts the last few days. I am certain he will welcome the opportunity to do something other than mope about the library, which is how he is currently occupying his time.”
Felicity smiled. “Aunt Imogene was hoping you might visit the two of us tomorrow. We haven’t anything particular planned, but I do think she is looking for an excuse to lure you to Buxby Hall.”
“As if she needs it,” replied Mrs. Kingsley with a grin. “I would be honored to call on you. I have been so busy of late that I haven’t seen dear Imogene as much as I would like. I have much to tell her concerning my battles to organize the charity school.”
With a grimace, Felicity nodded. “She has told me much of it, and I wish you good luck. Nothing is as infuriating as having good intentions thwarted by shrews intent on stopping you for no better reason than to make you look the fool.”
Mrs. Kingsley’s brows shot upwards as she chuckled. “You sound as though you have experience with such things.”
“A little—”
But the sound of footsteps stopped Felicity, her gaze shooting in the direction from which it came. The footman appeared at the end of the hallway, coming towards them with a bow.
“My apologies, Miss Barrows, but Mr. Finch is not at home.”
Though being “not at home” was often a euphemism for turning a guest away, those words were innocuous enough that Felicity couldn’t immediately assume the worst. However, Mrs. Kingsley’s eyes widened a fraction, her brows tensing, and there was no hiding the discomfort in her posture. According to her, Mr. Finch had been in the library. Perhaps he had truly disappeared and was unavailable, but Felicity felt it in her heart—the same one Mr. Dunn had fractured today—that Mr. Finch was avoiding her.
“I will tell Aunt Imogene to expect you tomorrow,” she said, proud that her voice remained steady.
