Page 19 of Four Promises to Love

“Because of Owen Harrington.”

Given how clever Nell was, Finn knew there was no point in lying. She had already told the Hawks about her failed attempt to win him over last night. Truth be told, she’d been brooding all day. She did not like having the tables turned on her by some swell who had more brains than she gave him credit for and kissed like he was blooming Casanova himself.

Of course, she wasn’t going to tell Nell—or anyone—about the last part. Bad enough that Owen kept thwarting her plans. She would rather take on a pack of Peelers than admit that she had let lust get in the way—again. That she, Finn Kidd, had lost control of a situation because of a bleeding kiss.

Twice.

Argh. What is the matter with me?

“My bait was working,” Finn said tightly. “When I mentioned Rosalinda, a look came into his eyes—for an instant, he believed me. I know he did. He had half a mind to invite me to Bottoms House to talk Bloody Thom into breaking the curse.”

“Do you think he believes that Bloody Thom is real?”

“Bluebloods.” Finn curled her lip. “They’re so bored they’ll believe anything that promises excitement. Which is why my scheme will work. All I have to do is get past blooming Owen Harrington.”

“Is that why you’re studying the letter?”

Finn gave a resolute nod. “I might have missed a detail. Something I could use to convince him of my powers.”

“Two heads are better than one,” Nell offered.

“Three heads are even better!”

Tansy pranced into the kitchen. She’d convinced someone to put curling rags into her hair—Simon, most likely, since the knots were perfectly tied. Her nightgown was one that Nell had outgrown many seasons ago.

Finn sighed. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“I’m hungry,” Tansy said.

“Mrs. Thornton sent leftovers from Pie and Fool night,” Nell said. “I’ll get them.”

For some reason, the prickly cook had taken a liking to the Hawks, and Finn wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Soon the three of them were digging into tart-sweet gooseberry pie and washing it down with glasses of milk. Finn laid the letter between them on the table. Time had yellowed and wrinkled the parchment, and the ink had faded to a light violet. Yet the words, written in a steady hand, remained clear:

Dear Rosalinda,

* * *

We have never formally met, and perhaps Fate has intended that we never will. My frailty has prevented me from searching for you. I had hoped you might someday return—but I also understand why you might never wish to see this cursed place again. Now the end of my time is nearing, and I grow too weary to carry the burden of restitution. It will fall upon destiny to decide how wrongs will be righted and how the scales will be balanced.

I know what happened. What was taken from you—who was taken from you.

Yet duty and cowardice kept me silent. I acted too late; in doing so, I failed to act at all. Complicity has been my gravest sin. My remaining hope is that my attempt at atonement will reach you after I am gone.

To that end, I have held for you a family heirloom: an emerald parure that will bring freedom to you and those of your blood for generations to come. To safeguard the treasure from grasping hands—especially those of my kin—I must be cryptic in my instructions regarding its retrieval. I must speak in words only you understand.

Begin the search where the blood of yours was shed. In this place that can sink no lower than its name, you will find what I have left in a place dedicated to you. May God keep you safe on your journey, and may He forgive my trespasses.

* * *

Your servant,

Felix Pearce

Finn recalled the first time she’d laid eyes on this letter: at the London flash house of Alexander Carver. At the time, the slimy bastard had been “courting” Iris and had oozed charm, dazzling the Hawks with his warm hospitality. A handsome devil with golden hair and blue eyes, Carver was a master of manipulation.

“My dear Iris mentioned you have a head for riddles,” Carver had drawled. “I happen to have one in need of solving. I obtained this perplexing letter from a fellow who belongs to the Corrigans.”

“Corrigans?” Finn had taken her first sip of champagne, wrinkling her nose when the bubbles tickled. “Never heard of them.”