The words sapped what little energy she still had. The very thought of dealing with whatever mess Alastair was in exhausted her. Moving away from her father, finally, was half of the appeal of selling her matches.What is he doing in London?
“Your father is here?” asked Edward. “That’s excellent. Perhaps he can set London alight too.”
She whipped her head around to face the duke. “That’s enough.”
“I hear there were only a handful of arrests yesterday and that tomato throwing was among the worst of the charges. Why doesn’t your father make an appearance at the next one and convince all in attendance to take up pitchforks and attack?”
“Sarcasm does not become ye, Your Grace.” But other than delivery, there wasn’t much she could disagree with. Her father, who’d spent his life drifting back and forth across the line of the law, had been completely taken by Tucker and his seductive visions of a world without the aristocracy. He’d been one of the instigators of last year’s riots. If Edward hadn’t stepped in, hadn’t risked his own safety to convince half of the crowd to go home, more people could have been hurt than the one casualty: Jeremy, who’d died when he set off a boiler explosion.
Edward had every right to be furious with her father. Hell, she had yet to forgive Alastair herself.
She stalked to the drawing room. Her father sat there slumped on the settee, mud-covered boots making a mess of Amelia’s damask-covered footstool.
“What are ye doing here?” she asked.
He stood, turning a roguish smile on his daughter. That was unsurprising. It had likely never occurred to him that his only daughter might not be happy to see him. “My wee bairn,” he said, stretching his arms wide. “Give yer da a hug.”
His face fell as he saw Edward enter the room.
“Alastair,” Ed said grimly, taking a spot by Fiona’s side, his arms crossed.
“Bite ma bawsack, ya fucking walloper.”
Edward flinched and Fiona instinctively stepped between the two men. “Why are ye here?” she asked again before Edward could reply with a duel, or however dukes answered such insults.
“Can a faither nae simply wantae see his daughter?”
“Ye saw me last week. Back home.”
“I wanted tae see how yer business interests wur faring. I see ye’r dressed for th’ part. Th’ wig’s a nice touch. Clever, clever.” He settled back onto the settee, stretching his arms out along the top, one ankle crossed over his knee, and a smarmy look on his face as he threw Edward a challenging stare.
Edward, to his credit, didn’t respond but neither did he leave. She was caught between two stubborn, arrogant patriarchs, both of whom she’d rather say good-bye to.
Instead, she answered her father’s question, hoping for a quick end to the conversation. “Establishing the patent is proving more difficult than anticipated. The clerk seems to think a woman couldnae be the true owner.”
She wasn’t sure what reaction she was hoping for from him. Outrage on her behalf would have been nice given he had plenty of outrage to spare. Instead, he shrugged, and with a shake of his head he said, “Och weel. Ye’r a smart lassie. Ye kin come up wi’ some aught else.”
Disappointment flooded through her. She’d never been foolish enough to think he’d be her most vocal supporter, but she’d expected some sort of empathy, not this callous indifference.
“I’m nae coming up with a new idea, Da. I’ve worked hard on this an’ I willnae be dissuaded.”
He frowned slightly and then slapped his thigh. “Weel, that’s mah lassie. Headstrong ’n’ more than capable. I’m sure ye’ll dae a stoatin job o’ it.” He pushed off from the settee and swaggered toward the door. “I’m off tae see a friend.”
Edward shifted to the side to give her father room to pass. Alastair raised two fingers to his brow in an acerbic salute.
“Yer friend,” she called out after him. “It’s nae Charles Tucker, is it?” She didn’t think her father had had anything to do with the rabble-rouser since Tucker scampered last year, but neither was she naïve enough to think Alastair had come to London for her.
He winked, and her anxiety doubled. “Dinnae fret, daughter. I will nae be getting intae any more trouble.”
She’d be more inclined to believe him had he not given Edward a condescending pat on the arm on his way out. Edward made to grab him but her father, always slippery, ducked out of his reach and left the room whistling.
“Tucker?” Edward asked. “He’s in London?”
There was no point keeping it from him. He’d no doubt be making enquiries the moment he got home. “Tucker was the actual target of that poorly thrown tomato.”
Edward closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. When he opened them again it was with an air of resignation, but there was a slight curve to his lips. “They shouldn’t have arrested you. They should have given you a damn medal.”
And, just for a second, she thought she saw Ed.
