“I did.”
They had spent the day apart. She had returned to the house in Portman Street, packed clothes enough for her and Jessica. He had called at the Order’s premises on Hart Street, though had seemed secretive about his other business in town.
“Did you receive a reply?”
“No. I left the house fearing Fitzroy might call.”
Finlay cast her a sidelong glance and frowned. “Has Fitzroy Adair ever harmed you?”
“Not physically. But he flies into a rage for the silliest things.” Just like his father. “Words are his weapon of choice. He can be quite calculating, quite cruel.”
“Then, I look forward to the introduction.”
The journey from the foyer to the stairs took longer than expected. The man who saved the life of Viscount Morley’s son attracted respect and admiration from the honourable gentlemen of the ton. With Finlay being a widower—one who must surely be searching for a wife—some casually made mention of their daughters’ skills and attributes.
“You draw quite the crowd,” Sophia teased as they mounted the stairs to the upper boxes.
“Hence the reason I rarely attend functions.”
“I suppose people must be curious.”
“Curious?”
“You’re never seen in public with a woman.” A fact for which she had been entirely grateful over the years. A face twisted in envy was an unattractive look.
“I spent time with you at Lord Newberry’s ball but a month ago.” Finlay paused to exchange pleasantries with an older couple waiting on the first-floor landing. “Many people saw us together.”
“Only because your colleague insisted I play chaperone to his client.”
Finlay had left the ball promptly when she mentioned dancing. Abandoned her to the sycophants who lined up to lead her around the floor.
Perhaps it was time to dig deeper, to uncover those feelings he’d buried.
“You’ve spent years avoiding me, Finlay.”
His pause carried the weight of guilt. “Consider it a means of self-preservation.”
That wasn’t the whole truth. “It amounts to more than that.”
With reluctance, he said, “I’ve unintentionally hurt two women and wish to avoid hurting anyone again.”
Obviously, he referred to her and Hannah, but the sight of Fitzroy standing in the corridor with two of his foppish friends robbed her of the chance to probe Finlay further.
Mr Harrington, grandson to the Earl of Harley, gave her stepson a nudge. All three dandies turned to stare at her. Fitzroy’s jaw firmed, but he pasted a weak smile.
“Sophia,” Fitzroy said, for he always used her given name. Usually, it carried a hint of contempt. Tonight, he was slightly more cautious in tone. “I’ve called at Portman Street numerous times this week to find you away from home. What a relief it is to see you alive and well.”
Sly toad.
“I am perfectly well,” she lied. She was lovesick, obsessed with the gentleman whose muscular arm she gripped. And fear for Jessica left her anxious. “Considering you’ve made an excessive number of calls, I must enquire if you are unwell.”
Fitzroy puffed his chest as if ready to display his pretty plumes and prance about in all his splendour. “As you can see, I am in the prime of health. The salty sea air does wonders for the constitution.”
Finlay said nothing, though he held a panther-like stare—sharp, deadly.
By rights, she should make the introduction, but she would rather appear rude than draw attention to the fact the lord was of superior social standing.
Consumed with his own self-importance, Fitzroy refused to acknowledge Finlay.