Page 15 of A Modest Independence

“Do you often drink and smoke with him of an evening?”

He grimaced. “Hardly ever. Had I known he’d keep me so long, I wouldn’t have promised to meet you for dinner. I apologize for that, by the way. You appear to have gone to a great deal of trouble.”

“No trouble at all.” She raised a self-conscious hand to adjust one of the pins in her hair. She was going to have a throbbing megrim in the morning and she’d have no one to blame but herself. What had she been thinking to try such an elaborate coiffure? Her hair was far too heavy to arrange in rolls at the sides and back. It needed plaits or twisted coils to hold the weight of it.

She’d been much more sensible when it came to her dinner dress. The plain brown silk had nary a flounce or a frill. Its only attributes were a bodice that fit snug to her figure and a scooped neckline that showed off the barest hint of her modest décolletage. It made her feel daringly feminine.

Mr. Finchley’s gaze drifted over her. “You look very well.”

Her heart thumped hard. “Thank you.”

She didn’t receive many compliments from gentlemen. She was too opinionated. Too sharp and self-reliant. Helena said it intimidated some men. Which was stupid, really. Jenny appreciated a bit of gallantry just as much as the next female. More so, perhaps, since she’d experienced so little of it in her life.

“I, on the other hand, look somewhat the worse for wear.” Mr. Finchley gave his wrinkled waistcoat a brief, rueful glance. “I’m terribly sorry. I’d thought there would be time to stop by my rooms and change.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“No, but still…I’d like you to understand.” When she said nothing in response, he continued, somewhat haltingly. “You see…there’s a case of mine—of mine and Fothergill’s—that’s of some duration. A dispute over a parcel of land. It’s been going on for more years than I can count. This morning there was a positive development. At least, it’s positive on its face. It may yet prove to be another legal quagmire. I was obliged to visit Fothergill to give him the news.”

“And he wished to celebrate?”

“What he wished to do was read me a lecture. One that lasted through an entire bottle of port—drunk mostly by him—and two cigars. If he hadn’t dozed off, I’d be there still.” Mr. Finchley sighed. “Today has been an unmitigated disaster. Absolutely awful, from start to finish.”

“I visited you. I suppose that was awful, too.”

His mouth hitched in a fleeting half smile. “Nonsense. Your visit was the finest part of my day.”

“Was it?” She was mortified to hear a soft thread of hope in her words. A trace of—oh lord, was it neediness? Desperation? As if she were some dried-up old spinster, heart gone aflutter at the barest praise from a gentleman.

She reached for her glass of wine and downed a hasty swallow. “I expect any visit would seem pleasant when compared to the one you received from Mrs. Culpepper.”

“True.” Mr. Finchley rested his head in his hand. His expression sobered. “I hadn’t seen her in months. Not since the summer.”

Jenny’s pulse ceased fluttering. She lowered her glass back to the table. A sense of the reality of the situation settled low and sour in her stomach. Mr. Finchley had a mistress. A beautiful—if somewhat long in the tooth—mistress.

She shouldn’t permit him to speak on the subject. Oh, but she was so terribly curious. “Have you been acquainted with her long?”

“Since I was one and twenty. It was only after I’d been called to the Bar that I could afford her. Prior to that, she wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

“Do you mean…you’d met her before?”

He nodded. “I first made her acquaintance when I was just a lad. She was performing with a theatrical troupe in a coastal town about five miles south of Abbott’s Holcombe. She was young and pretty—and desperately in need of funds. Her husband was out of work and she’d just given birth to her second child.”

“Her second child!”

“Her third, if we’re being precise.” His mouth quirked again, but there was no trace of humor in his expression. “She’s my mother, Miss Holloway.”

Jenny’s mouth fell open. “Mrs. Culpepper?”

“Her name was Finchley before she married. Myra Finchley.”

She continued to gape at him. “But she looks so young! Why, she must have been just a girl when she—”

“She was thirteen when she bore me.”

“Good gracious. I mean to say…heavens.” Jenny gave a slightly breathless laugh. It was born more of discomfort that amusement. “I thought she was someone else entirely.”

“I know you did.”