Page 2 of A Modest Independence

Jenny clasped her hands tight in front of her. She’d hoped that when they met again, she’d be indifferent to him. That she’d feel nothing at the sight of his handsome face and figure.

Not that most people would have described Mr. Finchley as handsome. Bookish, maybe. Or scholarly. A gentleman with a weight of responsibility on his shoulders. Someone to confide in. To solve one’s problems, for a fee. Not a man to make a woman’s heart beat faster.

Jenny’s heart didn’t seem to understand that, the treacherous thing. It was thumping quite madly. As if it were only yesterday he’d laughed with her and danced her around the parlor in Half Moon Street. As if he’d never lied to her. Had never played her for a fool.

It was those eyes of his that caused her such alarming palpitations. So worn and wise—and so much older than all the rest of him. As if they’d seen everything, experienced everything. They weren’t the eyes of an overworked solicitor. Not any that she’d ever seen. No. Thomas Finchley had the eyes of a weary angel.

All he need do was look at her and her pulse lost its rhythm.

But he wasn’t looking at her now. He didn’t seem to notice her at all. His attention was entirely fixed on the dratted tea tray. A typically selfish male, only bestirring himself at the prospect of food and drink. But then he turned his head and those light blue eyes met hers. His gaze was solemn behind the lenses of his silver-framed spectacles and…not at all surprised.

He’d been aware of her the whole time. He’d known she was there, even as Mrs. Culpepper stormed from his office. Possibly even from the moment Jenny had first crossed the threshold.

Was there anything Thomas Finchley didn’t know?

She moistened her lips. Her mouth was dry as the Sahara. She couldn’t summon the barest croak. Not that there was any need for speech. The silence between them spoke volumes. Indeed, the very air seemed to echo with the last words she’d uttered to him. Words to which he’d offered no response.

What sort of man are you?

“Put the tray down in my office, Poole,” Mr. Finchley said. And then: “Miss Holloway? Will you join me?”

“Miss Holloway?” Mr. Keane’s eyes darted from her to Mr. Finchley and back again. “Oh dear, and to think I’ve been addressing you as Miss Finchley.”

“One name’s as good as the other.” Mr. Finchley motioned toward his office door, a hint of impatience in the gesture. “Ma’am?”

Jenny smoothed her skirts. This was business. Strictly business. “Yes, of course.” She walked past him to enter his office, careful that her gown didn’t brush his legs as she went by. She wanted no illusion of intimacy between them. They might have met before—might have dined together and danced together—but they were as good as strangers. The Mr. Finchley she’d known last year had been an illusion. A convenient mask behind which the real Thomas Finchley hid himself to achieve his ends.

Who the real man was, she neither knew nor cared.

He shut the door behind her. “For what it’s worth, I never claimed you were my sister. I simply refrained from correcting Keane’s assumption.”

“Would it have been so scandalous for an unrelated female to call on you as I did last October?” Jenny hadn’t had much choice at the time. There had been no one else to turn to after the Earl of Castleton had dismissed her from her position as lady’s companion to his niece, Lady Helena.

“Not scandalous, no. Only out of the ordinary.”

“And, therefore, worthy of remark.”

“Precisely.”

She cast a cursory look round his office. It was large and fairly well organized. A monstrous barrister’s desk formed the heart of it, its surface covered in neat stacks of papers and rolled documents tied with ribbon. The walls were lined with bookcases filled with row upon row of leather-bound books, their gold-stamped spines unreadable behind closed glass doors.

“You arrived in London only this morning,” he said.

It wasn’t a question. She answered it nonetheless. “I caught the early train from Abbot’s Holcombe.”

She’d spent the past three months living with Mr. Thornhill and Lady Helena at Greyfriar’s Abbey, their isolated estate on the North Devon coast. Neither had expected her to remain on in her role as Helena’s companion. Certainly not after Helena had settled a generous sum of money on her.

Five thousand pounds, to be precise.

Helena called it a modest independence. To Jenny it was an absolute fortune. “I saw no reason to delay,” she said.

“Quite.” Mr. Finchley went to the tea tray. “Will you sit down?”

Jenny took a seat in one of the upholstered chairs opposite his desk. She arranged her skirts about her legs, ignoring the brief twinge of self-consciousness about the age—and relative plainness—of her woolen gown. It didn’t matter one jot whether or not it was as stylish as that worn by his last client. She hadn’t come to London to engage in a fashion contest with a highflyer.

Mr. Finchley poured them each a cup of tea, not bothering to ask how she took hers. There was no need. They’d shared countless cups of tea during their brief acquaintance.

“Thank you,” she said.