Page 13 of A Modest Independence

“I am tired,” Tom said. “Tired of helping evil men to prosper.”

“You call your clients evil?”

“No, I… That is…” He ran a hand over his hair. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Fothergill was quiet for a long moment. And then he said, “Ring the bell for Palgrave.”

Tom rose and went to the tasseled cord by the fireplace. Within seconds of tugging it, the butler materialized at the doors of the study. “You rang, sir?”

“Go down to the cellar, Palgrave,” Fothergill commanded. “Fetch that bottle of port I’ve been saving.”

Tom opened his mouth to protest, but Fothergill forestalled him. “Sit down, Finchley. You and I have much to discuss.”

A sinking feeling in his stomach, Tom lowered back into his chair. He cast a glance at the gilded clock on the mantelshelf.

“Do you have somewhere else to be?” Fothergill asked. “Another client to call on?”

“No. No other clients.”

Fothergill gave him a sharp look. He disapproved of entanglements with women. Females affected a man’s focus. Made him weak in the head. Prone to taking foolish risks and making equally foolish decisions. “The law is a demanding mistress, my boy. She must come first, last, and always. Take care that you don’t forget it.”

As if Tom ever could.

“You’re over an hour late.” Jenny closed and bolted the front door behind Mr. Finchley. The clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the clatter of carriage wheels echoed in the street as the hansom cab that had delivered him to Half Moon Street rolled away into the darkness.

Mr. Finchley looked around the empty hall. It was lit by a low-hanging gasolier, which illuminated a wide circle beneath it, leaving the edges of the hall steeped in shadows. “Why are you opening the door? Where’s Mr. Jarrow?”

“Assisting Mrs. Jarrow in the kitchen.” Jenny helped him off with his coat.

The Jarrows were former clients of his. A stern-faced married couple who, between themselves, represented the entirety of the household staff. Mr. Jarrow acted as a combination butler and footman, and Mrs. Jarrow fulfilled the dual roles of housekeeper and cook. They were fiercely loyal to Mr. Finchley. He’d saved their son from being hanged, or so Mrs. Jarrow claimed.

“He should be opening the door, not you,” Mr. Finchley said. “It’s past nine o’clock.”

“I know very well what time it is.” Jenny draped his coat over her arm, and then, on impulse, leaned close to him—so close that her nose brushed lightly against his collar—and inhaled.

He drew back from her with a start.

“Have you been at your club?” she asked.

“My club? What club?”

“You smell of cigars.” She sniffed him again. “And liquor.”

Mr. Finchley stared at her. His mouth opened, but nothing came out. The dim glow of the gaslight revealed the beginnings of a blush on his neck.

At least, Jenny thought it was a blush. She supposed it could be yet another aftereffect of a night of overindulgence. Her lips compressed. She had no tolerance for men who couldn’t control their vices. “Have you been drinking, sir? Is that why you’re late?”

“Miss Holloway…”

She stepped back and took his measure, her gaze raking him from the top of his head to the toes of his leather boots. He was wearing the same suit he’d worn when she’d called on him in Fleet Street. But the fabric of his clothing was no longer starched and pressed. His black waistcoat and trousers were rumpled. His hair was rumpled, too. Brushed carelessly to the side in soft waves that flopped down over his forehead.

Her fingers itched to smooth it back from his face. To straighten and soothe him. As if he were her husband, returning home after a difficult day.

A ridiculous thought. And one that sent a pang of longing through her vitals.

“Well?” Mr. Finchley’s brows lifted. The red flush on his neck darkened, creeping up to burn in his lean cheeks. “Do I pass muster?”

“You look dreadful,” Jenny said frankly. “Have you eaten?”