Page 28
“I’ve never seen such blue eyes,” Viola said.
Cordelia took firm hold of her sister’s arm and tugged. “Let’s go home.”
*
Gray ended his tour of Delamere Castle, taking Finch up to the south battlement overlooking the sea. Along the way Gray had explained the work his engineer, Higson, would begin on the morrow. Higson’s men would label each facing stone by wall and position, removing them and storing them on pallets, then dismantling the building components that could not be reused until the basic structure appeared. The southeast tower was to be the starting point for the work. Higson would determine how sound the castle was under the various renovations. Finch had taken in the details of Gray’s plans in his quiet, alert way.
The breeze brought gulls’ cries and the rhythmic thump of waves on the shore. Under a cloudless sky, the surface of the sea glinted with a thousand points of light.
Finch turned to Gray. “Easy to forget London here.”
“Not entirely. I heard from my sister this week.”
That brought one of Finch’s faint smiles, a mere twitch of his lips. “Lady Sydling must be pleased to have your face out of the printshop windows. Here you can’t hurt Lionel’s prospects.”
“Alas, there’s no pleasing my sister. She doesn’t know which to fear more—that I’ll marry and cut Lionel off as my heir or that I’ll bankrupt the estate with my building scheme.”
“Ah, she still hopes that you won’t marry and produce a son.”
“Exactly. I’ve no objection to sons. I am one, and I suppose one day I’ll do my duty and produce an heir. But the stuff in between bores me. Women have arranged it to their convenience, haven’t they? To court them, a man must go to endless balls, spend hours swathed in wool, silk, and linen, his toes pinched in evening pumps, smiling and bowing, his ears assaulted by chatter, staring at out-of-reach bosoms, and talking about nothing.”
Finch laughed, a rare thing for him. “You’ve escaped all that here.”
“I have.” Turning Delamere into the house of his father’s design was something real, even if the end result was a long way off. He liked how the stones fitted together and the touches the builders had added at each step of the way.
Now the faint, moving lines of approaching swells caught his gaze, and he imagined Miss Staveley cutting through them, her white arms flashing in the light. Tomorrow he’d see how she liked the latest tactic in their battle.
He led Finch from the battlement down to his quarters, where Mrs. Peachy had sent up a tray of cold meats, bread, and home-brewed. They settled into chairs and reached for the food and ale.
“Will you stay long?” Finch asked.
“I’ve no reason to return to town.”
“You’re missed at Moody’s,” Finch said. “And Knowles is busy blackening your name. Are you thinking of marrying one of Sir Humphrey’s displaced daughters? Is that what’s keeping you here?”
Gray laughed. “You haven’t met them if you think they inspire a man’s matrimonial impulse. They’d like to dislodge me from the castle.”
Finch cocked a brow. “Not a helpless maiden or a biddable wife in the lot?”
“Hardly. The eldest is as immovable as this castle. The youngest is suited to the stage.”
“Just as well, then. Marrying one of them is not likely to bring you the land. I’ve done some digging in the Chancery Court records. While I’m here, I will do more with the archdeaconry at Salisbury. The provision that the land go to a descendant of the maternal line appears ironclad. But if there have been any disputes, or if anyone has broken the provision in the past, you will have legal standing to contest the rule.”
“Thank you. Apparently, Sir Humphrey’s lawyers are looking out for his daughters. Sir Humphrey would sell anything that’s not nailed down. What is Knowles doing?”
“Spreading a rumor that you’ve made a deal with Barry to supply inferior stone from Delamere for the parliamentary rebuilding project.”
Gray shook his head. “Poor Barry. He’s a giant with a grand vision, dealing with petty men who don’t like his design or his budget and can’t agree on anything, except that they want better ventilation in the House of Lords.”
“Why does Knowles hate you so much?” Finch picked up Gray’s sketchbook and turned the pages with what looked like idle interest, but Gray knew better.
“He hated my father. My father exposed that housing scheme of Knowles’s in Islington. Knowles had to back out. I don’t know what it cost him, but he wouldn’t let the matter go, and he hounded my father at every turn. Then I stepped into that game. For some reason Knowles wanted Delamere particularly, I think.”
Finch nodded. He had come to that page of the book where Gray had sketched the ruins of Rayne House, destroyed by fire the night before Gray’s father was to move in. He put the sketch aside and picked up his beer. “I can find out why.”
That was Finch. He was the one who’d dug into documents, archives, and records to find the true parentage of the Duke of Wenlocke’s lost boys. Except himself. If Finch had found his own family, he never spoke of it. He had a mind for detail and a truly exceptional memory. One glance seemed to fix a thing in Finch’s mind. Gray understood that the police were now using Finch to help them set up a system of record-keeping.
*
