“You will return home now?” he asked quietly.
Francesca lifted her chin. “If I wish.”
His expression softened. “Please use caution. You are in London now.”
“I have plenty,” she replied.
“Then use it,” he said, and stepped aside, allowing her to pass.
Francesca had not intended to like him, and that alone made her wary when she found herself doing so in small, irritating increments.
CHAPTER 5
Earlier that afternoon, before going to Bloomsbury, Arch had been engaged in work far less philosophical and far more predictable. Renforth had summoned him to review correspondence sent from Manchester—nothing inflammatory, merely revealing a growing restlessness. There had been mention of wages, of bread prices, of men returning from service to find no employment but the mills. They had traced the lines of agitation the way he would trace troop movements, noting where sentiment gathered, where it dispersed. It was not rebellion, at least not yet. It was dissatisfaction seeking resolution. He had closed the folder with mild irritation. Dissatisfaction was rarely dangerous on its own. It was dangerous when given direction, which required a leader. In the margins of two of those letters, Kendall’s name had appeared, merely referenced as a man ‘sympathetic’ to reform.
He had left Renforth’s house with the intention of calling upon Sir Percival to clarify certain details regarding Miss Vale’s estate. That had been the plan. Instead, as he had turned the corner near Grosvenor Street, he had glimpsed a familiar figure descending the steps with only her maid in attendance. She haddressed plainly and walked with the quick, purposeful stride of someone who had no intention of being delayed.
Arch had paused in the shadow of a lamppost, annoyed less by her departure than by the fact that she had not informed him of it. It was not wounded pride that pricked him. It was the realization that she understood precisely how to move when she did not wish to be observed. He had told himself that she was merely taking the air, or calling upon a friend, or indulging in some errand too tedious to report. Her direction, however, had not suggested idle wandering—it had suggested intent.
He had hesitated for perhaps three heartbeats—long enough to construct an argument against following her; long enough to dismiss it. His duty was not to hover at dinners and smile at dowagers. It was to ensure that the heiress entrusted to his supervision did not become entangled in something irretrievable. The previous evening, she had spoken of salons and reform with that bright, challenging look in her eyes. She had meant it. Arch had recognized resolve when he saw it. He had seen it in soldiers before battle, in diplomats before a treaty, and in men about to make decisions that would cost them dearly. Francesca Vale possessed that same steadiness.
He had followed at a measured distance, careful enough not to be obvious, close enough not to lose her in the city’s arteries. As he had trailed her towards Bloomsbury, he had found himself recalling their exchange over dinner. She had not merely criticized soldiers, she had employed disgust with abuse. She had objected to unchecked authority. That distinction had lingered with him. She did not hate the army, she hated corruption. It was a sentiment Arch understood uncomfortably well.
What unsettled him was not that she believed in reform, it was that she believed reform could be achieved easily through rational means. She had spoken of negotiation asthough it were a reliable instrument. Arch had seen negotiation collapse beneath pride. He had seen compromise dismissed until compromise was no longer an option. Legislation was often corrupted by power and money. He did not wish her disillusioned; nor did he wish her entangled among men who mistook her fortune for weight and influence.
He told himself as he followed that he followed because Renforth would expect it; because Sir Percival would assume it and because Lord Upton would sleep better if imagining it. He did not examine too closely the secondary reason, which was that he did not like the thought of her navigating London’s undercurrents alone. She had courage enough for ten people. Courage, however, did not repel opportunists.
When she had entered Tidd’s town house, Arch had felt something like reluctant respect. She had not crept inside in secrecy. She had walked through the door as if she belonged there—and once inside, she had behaved as though she did. That, more than anything, had decided him. He would not have her mistaken for a dilettante by men who believed enthusiasm equalled ignorance.
Arch had not intended to follow her. That had not been part of his duty, only to escort her. He told himself this fact three separate times as he turned into the narrower street where the carriage left her, and where her maid’s cautious steps could still be traced in the damp grit left from the previous evening’s rain. He had not intended to follow her, because following implied mistrust, and mistrust implied that he had already chosen his side in a battle he did not yet fully understand. Unfortunately, intention and instinct were seldom allies.
Afterwards, Arch did not immediately follow the carriage once it turned towards Mayfair. He remained where he was for several measured seconds, beneath the lamplight in Bloomsbury, gloved hands clasped behind his back, and his gazefixed on the dark space where Francesca Vale had disappeared. The evening had been orderly, that was the inconvenient truth. There had been no raised voices beyond what earnest debate required, no maps spread across tables with reckless fingers stabbing at counties as though they were battlefield positions. There had been tea. There had been statistics. There had been indignation expressed in complete sentences. It would have been far simpler had there been something overtly reckless to condemn. Arch could not disagree with their ideals in the least. It was the violence that often ensued with such protests that he objected to.
He began to walk at last, boots striking the pavement with disciplined rhythm. He had been assigned to keep her safe. It had been placed before him as duty, plain and unadorned: An heiress with political leanings; a solicitor with questionable associations; a Season full of opportunists. Arch understood assignments. What he had not expected was that the woman in question would speak as though she understood the ground she stood upon. She had argued wages as a proprietor, not as a protestor. That distinction mattered. It unsettled him precisely because it was reasonable.
By the time he reached the square where Renforth’s town house stood in discreet authority, Arch had assembled his impressions into something reportable: facts first, interpretation second, concern last.
O’Malley admitted him with efficient quiet.
“You are later than anticipated, sir,” O’Malley observed mildly, taking his coat.
“Miss Vale extended the afternoon,” Arch replied.
“In debate or in danger?”
“In neither, really,” Arch said. “In purpose.”
O’Malley’s expression suggested that he stored that information to cogitate upon later. He stepped aside, allowing Arch passage into the drawing room.
Renforth sat nearest the fire, his posture relaxed. Stuart occupied a straight-backed chair with a notebook resting closed on his knee. Baines sprawled in habitual defiance of formality, his long legs extended, and a glass already in hand. Fielding stood near the sideboard, pouring golden liquid from a decanter.
All four looked up when Arch entered.
“Well?” Renforth asked.
Arch accepted the glass Fielding extended towards him but did not drink. He preferred clarity before comfort. “The salon was moderate,” he said. “Structured discussions were held about factory wages and working conditions.”
Baines snorted softly. “Nothing sets London aflame faster than men discussing working conditions over biscuits.”
