Page 10 of A Modest Independence

His brows snapped together. “What?”

“I’ve taken a room at a ladies’ hotel near Hyde Park.”

“Why? The house is in perfect order. Surely Thornhill and Lady Helena—”

“They offered for me to stay there. Of course they did. It was my own decision to stay elsewhere. I’ll only be in town for a short time.”

“What has that to do with it?”

“It needn’t have anything to do with anything. Where I stay is my own choice, and I choose to stay at a hotel.”

“Don’t be stubborn merely for the sake of it. The house in Half Moon Street is far more comfortable than any hotel. It’s safer for you as well. Not to mention more convenient for me.”

“As if that would be any concern of mine,” she retorted.

“No, I don’t suppose it would be. However, as your solicitor, it would be easier—and far more discreet—to meet with you this evening if you were at the house.” He hesitated, feeling more than a little out of his element. “We could…we could have dinner together.”

Her brows lifted almost to her hairline. “You wish to dine with me?”

Tom inwardly winced. Good lord, did she have to make the prospect sound so appalling? “It would be a business dinner. A chance for us to speak candidly with one another.”

“If all you want to do is make excuses for why you’re not giving me my money—”

“Give me some credit. I solve things. That’s what I do. When I see you tonight, I’ll bring a solution to this dilemma. All I require is a few hours to settle affairs with my other client. Will you grant me that much?”

Miss Holloway looked thoroughly put out. For several seconds, he was convinced she would say no. That she would storm from his office just as Mrs. Culpepper had before her—and to much more devastating effect. His breath stopped in his chest.

“Will you?” he asked again.

She frowned, her gaze fixed on the edge of his desk. As if she were weighing the assets and liabilities on either side of a business proposal. And then her eyes met his. “Very well.”

Some of the tension seeped from Tom’s muscles. “Thank you.”

Within minutes, she was gone. Bundled into a hansom cab bound for her hotel. She promised to gather her things and remove to Half Moon Street. Tom would join her there at eight.

Or so he hoped.

He glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf as he shoved a sheaf of papers into his leather attaché case. It was already half three. He’d have to walk fast.

It was snowing as Tom exited Viscount Atwater’s mausoleum-like mansion in Grosvenor Square. His hat, coat, and gloves provided little protection against the chill. This wasn’t the sort of weather for striding through Mayfair. This was the sort of weather in which a fellow should be at home in front of the fire, surrounded by his family.

But Tom had neither home, nor family.

By choice, he reminded himself.

Had he wished to settle down, plenty of women would have been happy to oblige him. He was fit and intelligent and possessed of a comfortable income. So what if he was a little plain? He had all of his hair and teeth, didn’t he? That was more than most men of his age could boast.

Would it be so bad to marry?

The situation had seemed to work out well enough for Justin. He and Lady Helena were happy together. Ridiculously so. But theirs was a love match. They relied on each other. Trusted each other. While Tom… Well. He relied on no one. Trusted no one.

Even Justin, his best friend and the closest thing he had to a brother, was not privy to all of his secrets. Tom didn’t wish to burden him—or disappoint him.

How would Justin Thornhill react if he learned some of the secrets Tom had been keeping? Dark secrets uncovered during their time together in the orphanage. Dangerous secrets gleaned during the course of his employment as Mr. Fothergill’s clerk. Secrets built upon secrets, each one mounting upon the other until Tom felt as if he bore the weight of the world on his shoulders.

The day that Josiah Fothergill had first visited the orphanage in Abbot’s Holcombe, Tom had thought him an odd-looking fellow. Though not much above forty, the gimlet-eyed solicitor had already had the look of an old man. His head had been bent, his back slightly slumped. Had it been the weight of all those secrets? The unrelenting burden of so many confidences—so many crimes?

Fothergill had been looking for a boy to take on as his clerk. Someone he could raise in his likeness. Someone to help him to bear the burden.