Without warning, Finlay grabbed the lord by his embroidered waistcoat and pulled him to his feet. He turned to Sophia. “Check the corridor. Everyone should be in their boxes.”
Adair tried to struggle free. “Release me. This is insane.”
Sophia hurried to the door, eased it open and peered outside. “There’s no one out here but Mr Harrington and Mr Jameson.”
“Harrington! Help!” Another burst of music smothered Lord Adair’s mewling cry.
“Good,” Finlay said, ignoring the fop’s plea. “If recollection serves, there’s a storeroom opposite. See if it’s open.”
Sophia went to check.
Lord Adair whined like the pipes of an old church organ. “How many times must I say it? I’ve not left town.” He grabbed Finlay’s hand but lacked the strength to loosen his grip. “You’ll ruin my damn waistcoat. This is an original Barbier I had made in Paris.”
“Yes, the door is open,” Sophia called.
Finlay dragged the lord from the box. He glared at Harrington. “Wait in my box until I return your friend to your capable care. Providing he tells me what I want to know, of course. Which one of you will act as second if he calls me out?”
Harrington and Jameson exchanged wide-eyed glances and shook their heads. Then the rats scurried into the box as if a cat clawed at their tails.
The storeroom was akin to a scullery maid’s broom cupboard only three times the size. It was home to dustpans and brushes, an assortment of glasses, pewter mugs and platters and an old wooden cellarette.
“Close the door, Sophia.”
She did as he asked, plunging them into darkness.
Lord Adair whimpered.
“Two nights ago, I saw you on the road near Windlesham,” Finlay said in a tone sharp enough to cut a man in two. “Do not take me for a fool. I watched you climb down from your conveyance.”
As Finlay’s eyes slowly adjusted to the lack of light, doubts surfaced. Adair and Archer had the same weak chin, the same look of cherubic innocence. Was he mistaken? Was it Archer he had seen at Blackborne?
Frustration made him grab Adair by the throat and push him back against a shelf of creamware bourdaloues. “I watched you approach the house and rattle the damn gates.”
Adair thumped Finlay’s hand and gasped for breath.
“You were there.” Finlay eased his grip. “Confess.”
“Yes!” came the lord’s croaky reply. “Yes, I stopped at the gates … though … though I didn’t know you owned the house. They said Sophia lived there.”
They said!
Sophia’s shocked gasp conveyed Finlay’s rising panic. Panic eased by a rush of relief upon hearing the admission. Still, one word chilled him to the bone.
“They? Someone told you Sophia owned Blackborne?”
“Who?” Sophia’s voice quavered. “Who told you? Who?” Tension radiated from every fibre of her being, the fraught energy sucking the breathable air. “Who said I live—”
“I own the house,” Finlay interjected. Adair would think twice before returning if he thought Finlay was the master of Blackborne. “Who told you she lives there? Who implied we are lovers?”
His last comment conjured a mental image. The eerie bedchamber in Blackborne now a dark, sensual place where a couple might satisfy every base desire.
“I—I don’t know. I’ve never seen them before.”
Finlay shrugged. “Then I’ll choke the answer from your lying lips.” He applied a little pressure to the lord’s Adam’s apple.
“Ow! Wait! I’ll tell you,” he cried amid the din of raucous laughter coming from the auditorium. “I—” He paused.
Finlay released the fellow and stepped back. “Well, we’re waiting.”