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Why did she love him? …Because he was Seth; because she was Matilda.
She hugged the book close and knew her heart.
But how did one divulge such an emotion?
Not once had she confessed to a real person that she loved them, and Miss Appleton’s half-baked governess tome failed to instruct on how one could convey more tender sentiments to one’s employer.
Did one blurt it out? Expose it by degree? Or steer a path of conversation to it?
The clock chimed a quarter after nine and she rose, placing her beloved book on the sofa. She’d left the curtains open, savouring the sight of Green Park as night had claimed it, and now she ambled over for a closer inspection.
A London drizzle had commenced again, a warning that summer was in no way ready to lay its warmth upon them and–
The creak of a gate took her attention, followed by the low rumble of voices, and she squished her nose to the window, could make out two figures stalking up the garden path, both with greatcoats and easy lopes.
Seth and Mr Finlay.
She dallied, shifting from foot to foot. Should she descend and greet them? Or stay here? Or just go to bed?
The bold and brave lady that Seth had called her would dash downstairs and find out what was happening… So that’s exactly what she chose to do, extinguishing the lantern and grabbing the candlestick.
From the stairs, she could hear their murmurs and the banging of cupboards from the kitchen – they wouldn’t find any leftover beef pie for supper.
“Whatever is in those vaults is worth a tidy amount,” came a Scottish burr, “if a man is willing to kidnap for it.”
“Any clues at all?” Seth replied, and Matilda paused outside the door.
“None. And Miss Griffin’s birthday won’t solve it as the vault’s contents still go to her husband should she be forced to marry by more sinister means.”
“Damnation!” And a thump, as though a fist struck a table. “But we can’t risk it.”
“Risk what?” asked Matilda wandering in.
Both men leaped to their feet, Mr Finlay with a bow and Seth… His gaze appeared to devour her appearance yet his lips were arrow straight, brow furrowed.
Their damp cloaks lay haphazard upon the chairs – hopeless men – and she ambled over to hang them on the hooks by the warm range.
Mr Finlay cleared his throat. “Well, lass, we’ve been digging around a bit. On yer cousin.”
“Oh, I see. Well, please sit. I’ll make some tea, shall I?” Both men crumpled their noses as they reclaimed their seats and Matilda sniggered, lifting the kettle to the iron surface. “With a tot of whisky, of course.”
“I always said yer were a fine lass, Miss Griffin. And I know Seth agrees. Eh, Seth?”
But Seth remained silent. Merely stared with eyes she could not fathom – not alight with rapture as of last night but gravely dark. With hair damp from the rain and wearing his ‘ale-house’ togs, he looked every inch the malevolent prizefighter and Matilda silently quivered, locked within his gaze.
“Ahem,” said Mr Finlay.
She blinked and twisted. “Sorry, you were saying?”
“I wasna, but… Astwood has turf debts up to his red eyeballs and a cut-throat lender on his tail, did yer realise any o’ this?”
Matilda slung more firewood in the range and stoked it as Betty had shown her. “I had my suspicions as I came across quite a few vowels in his study desk when…reconnoitring. But as heir, he inherited all my parents’ money, and he has access to my dowry – supposedly for my yearly needs.”
“Och, that’s all gone, lass.”
Her head bowed. She’d thought that might be the truth of the matter but was astonished anyone could spend such an amount in so little time.
“It appears, however,” rasped Seth, “that personal effects remain secure in the bank vaults, deeded to yourself and to be passed directly through the Griffin line to your children. Not to be touched until you are…married.”
