Page 22 of A Modest Independence

What she should have done was wake him up, the devious scoundrel, and force him to explain what he meant to do about her money.

She passed the remainder of the morning in writing letters, repacking her trunks, and in trying to read a book. It was impossible to focus. When the gilt-trimmed clock in the parlor chimed the hour, she cast her book aside and got to her feet. It was foolish to continue waiting for him to return. Who knew if he even would? Only one thing was certain. If she wished to corner Tom Finchley, the place to do so was at his office. And if he continued to fob her off with his legal tricks and excuses, why…she’d simply send a telegraph to Helena.

Having reached a decision, Jenny returned to her room and changed into a green striped silk traveling dress. She plaited her hair, securing it into a roll at her nape, and tugged on her gloves. Bonnet in hand, she descended the stairs. “Mr. Jarrow?”

The weathered manservant was heading toward the kitchens. At the sound of her voice, he doubled back. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Summon a hansom for me, if you please. I’m going to Fleet Street.”

Mr. Jarrow acknowledged her request with a bob of his head; however, before he could act on it, the heavy brass door knocker sounded.

Jenny stilled on the stairs, watching as Mr. Jarrow answered the summons. The locks scraped as he unbolted them and drew open the door.

Tom Finchley’s quiet baritone voice filled the hall. “Apologies, Jarrow. I seem to have misplaced my key.” He strolled in, his tall beaver hat in his hand. When he saw her on the stairs, he stopped. A faint smile touched his lips. “Good morning.”

With an effort, Jenny swallowed down her anger—and her relief—and descended the final two steps into the hall.

Mr. Jarrow shut the door. “Will you still be needing that hansom, ma’am?”

“No, thank you, Jarrow. It’s quite unnecessary now.”

Tom gave her a questioning look. “Were you going somewhere?”

“Yes.” She met him halfway across the floor. He wasn’t a great deal taller than her—four or five inches at most—but she still had to tilt her head back in order to look him in the eye. It was maddening, really. She disliked being loomed over. “I was going to call on you in Fleet Street.”

“That would have been a wasted journey.”

“Well, I didn’t know that, did I? We thought you’d gone.”

“Ah. I see. Forgive me. I had some business matters to take care of. I’d hoped to be back sooner.”

“Business?” Jenny’s gaze flickered over his face and his figure. He’d shaved. And he’d changed his clothes as well. Gone was the severe black suit he’d worn yesterday. In its place was a loose-fitting sack coat, vest, and trousers made of light gray cloth. His dark wool overcoat was worn open over it, the shoulders and sleeves dusted with new-fallen snow. “What sort of business?”

“Business I’ve been conducting on your behalf.” Tom stared down at her, his blue eyes searching hers.

Her stomach performed a queer little somersault. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Are you still determined to leave England today?”

“Yes. It’s why I was going to Fleet Street. To make you release my funds so I could book passage—”

“It’s done,” he said.

Her brows knit. “What?”

“I’ve done it. Last night and this morning. Everything is arranged. All that’s left is to fetch your trunk. The train leaves from London Bridge Station at half one.”

“The train? What train?”

“The train to Dover.”

Her heart beat heavily in her chest. She had a sense she was rapidly losing control of the situation. “I don’t see any reason I must go all the way to Dover.”

“No? How did you intend to get to Calais?”

“From London, of course. Bradshaw’s mentions steamer ships departing from St. Katharine’s Wharf.”

“You could do it that way,” he acknowledged. “If you don’t mind spending hours longer on the water.”