“I assure you my time in the army taught me more than enough. And I will admit that I am quite tempted to follow George Barrows’ example and simply hire a few strong lads to assist me with a more direct means of persuasion. A few weeks in your sickbed might give you time to reassess this foolhardy course of action.”
A frisson of pleasure ran down Finch’s spine as Dunn’s complexion paled. The fellow made a good show of remaining unaltered, but there was no ignoring the flash of panic in his eyes. No doubt, he was thinking about George Barrows’ efforts on his niece’s behalf, and Finch gave Dunn a moment to recall each agonizing detail.
Fiddling with the cup before him, Finch gave Dunn a genuine smile, for there was nothing feigned about the joy he felt about his brilliance.
“But as much as I admire that fellow’sthoroughness,” said Finch, lingering on that word and all the pain it entailed, “I decided on a different approach.”
Finch shifted forward, leaning his elbow on the table as he held Dunn’s gaze. “You see, I possess knowledge and experience George Barrows did not. I am like you in that I am a younger son who is struggling to make his way in a costly world with little income. Though I never borrow a farthing, I know many of our kind do, and I am familiar with the moneylenders they frequent.”
Straightening, Finch gave Dunn a false look of confusion. “Imagine my surprise when I wrote to some of my colleagues in London and discovered just how many debts you’ve amassed during your hunt for a well-dowered wife.”
With a shake of his head, he leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “Mr. Bartlet seemed especially keen to speak with you. I must say it’s quite bold of you to seduce the daughter of your moneylender.”
Dunn stilled, his eyes widening. “So you mean to tell them where I am if I do not leave Miss Barrows alone?”
Finch’s smile widened, his laugh echoing Dunn’s earlier one. “I did not come here to threaten you. I came to warn you. By my calculations, the earliest they could’ve arrived was this morning, and as you are still intact, you have an important decision to make: cut all ties with Miss Barrows and run or suffer at their hands. And you can be certain I told them of your fondness for Plymouth, so do not think to follow her home.”
Dunn sat in stunned silence for only a moment before he leapt from his seat and ran to his room, calling to the innkeeper for a horse.
With a wide smile, Finch leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. A shadow of disappointment flitted across his contentment at the realization that his plan had worked without any need for fists. For Miss Barrows’ sake, it was better this way, and the abject panic in Dunn’s eyes filled Finch with warm satisfaction, but he had to admit that George Barrows’ more violent approach to punishing cads had its appeal. Miss Barrows deserved retribution.
His friend.
That was such an interesting word. Friend. A truth and a lie all wrapped in one, for Miss Barrows was one of his truest and dearest friends, though his feelings expanded far past such a small word. It made him long for and loathe London. As much as Miss Barrows seemed to believe they could maintain a friendship even after they parted ways, Finch didn’t think it likely. And he couldn’t help but wish for the distance, for being with her was a beautiful agony that brought him both joy and pain.
A shiver ran down his spine, and Finch leaned away from the window. But it was not a draft or nip in the air that had his heart sinking. Refusing to allow future sorrows to color this moment, he shoved away those dark feelings and raised his glass in a silent toast to Miss Barrows.
Though his efforts were few, Finch hoped they granted her some of that peace she sought. There was little else he could do for her.
Chapter 36
Some snowy days were filled with gusts of wind that kicked up flurries and sent them skittering along, twisting through the air in ribbons of white. But then there were days without the barest breath of breeze, when all was silent and the light reflecting off the snow cast the world in pastel hues, as though a painter had washed the world in purples and rosy blues.
Spring ought to have arrived long before now, but the ice and snow refused to give way, and Felicity didn’t care about the bite to the air, for such beauty begged to be seen.
But even in foul weather, she couldn’t prefer the warmth of the parlor—not when Mr. Finch accompanied her on their favorite route. The paths around Bristow had become old friends, and Felicity knew them as readily as any, which was no great surprise when one considered how many hours she had spent exploring them of late.
It was one thing to pass the time with Mr. Finch indoors, but there were always others about, whether the Kingsleys or Aunt Imogene. Even when they allowed the pair privacy, it was never private enough. Out here in the open air, they could meander about on their own, and even if it wasn’t entirely acceptable, neither was it scandalous for a lady of Felicity’s years.
It was discomforting to know that others assumed nothing untoward would happen because of her age, for they could not imagine any gentleman wanting to court a spinster. And it made no sense that such was acceptable when out of doors but not in them, for couples could get themselves into trouble anywhere. But as these bizarre societal norms allowed her a level of freedom not afforded during her younger years, Felicity wouldn’t complain.
The gentleman at her side was quiet, watching the passing landscape as they meandered along the countryside, and Felicity didn’t know how he remained so calm and stoic. Friendship was a good thing, and she counted him as one of her closest confidants, but Felicity was ready to burst whenever she looked at him.
All had been well when she first proposed this platonic lunacy. Though not renowned for the virtue of patience, neither was she devoid of it altogether. Mr. Finch merely needed time, and she felt certain their future was less a matter of “if” and more about “when.” But after a fortnight of this torture, Felicity felt ready to burst. Far too often, she found herself seized by an impulse to throw herself into his arms and kiss him soundly, which was altogether inappropriate for “friends.”
Mr. Finch slanted a glance in her direction, that corner of his mouth quirking upwards in a lazy grin, and Felicity’s breath froze. As she held his gaze, her heart pressed against her ribs, and every particle of her shouted at him, begging him to break through his walls and embrace her, as though her sheer force of will might compel him to act.
But Mr. Finch’s feelings for Felicity were not the issue, and she struggled to know what to say or do to help him out of the darkness of self-doubt.
“I don’t know if I can ever thank you enough for your assistance with my man of business and steward,” said Felicity.
Mr. Finch’s brows rose. “You have said so many times already. I assure you it was nothing.”
Felicity held back a growl at that all too familiar refrain. “And I assure you it was not. I am waiting to make a final decision until I meet the candidates in person, but I feel confident I have found the pair that will do me and my properties justice.”
“I only gave you a few names, Miss Barrows. That is hardly worthy of praise.”
Heaven save her from stubborn lackwits. Mr. Finch was determined to cast all his accomplishments in a poor light, and each time Felicity longed to shake him and his wretched family.
