The driver sawed on the reins in desperation to keep his nag from trampling her. “Hey! You there, look alive!”
“Help me!” Finny scurried around to the side of the conveyance and leaped onto the bottom step.
“If you want a lift, wench, you’ll have to wait ’til I deposit me fare.”
Finny glanced at the two men hurrying after her. “Oh, please help me, sir. I’m Finny—I mean Lady Josephine Dowell, and those two fellows there mean me harm.”
He peered down at her torn dress. “A lady, eh?”
“My husband, Lord Dowell, will pay handsomely for my return to him.”
He extended his hand and pulled her up with him on the driver’s seat. “All right, ifn’ it’ll be worth me while I suppose you can ride along.” With a snap of his whip the hackney lurched forward, barely missing the two men sprinting to catch her.
Finny stuck out her tongue and waved as they sped away.
“To the Dowell townhouse, my lady?”
A moment of indecision froze her. She couldn’t very well go back to the duke’s townhouse with the dowager there, and there wouldn’t be a mail coach back to the country for a couple days. Where was she to go and how was she to pay the cabbie? She had no coin left and no one to turn to. The lights of Lord Swanson’s townhouse caught her attention. “There, stop there and I will go inside and fetch Lord Swanson.”
The driver pulled up in front of the townhouse. “Be quick about it, I’ve paying customers to deliver.”
Finny scrambled down and hurried to the front door. After banging on the knocker she waited. Finally footsteps approached and the butler opened the door. “I must speak with Lord Swanson right away.”
The butler frowned. “He’s not here, my lady, may I tell him you called on him?”
“Hurry up there!” the hackney driver called.
“Oh fudge.” She grimaced at her choice of words. “I don’t suppose you know where his lordship is?”
“Yes, my lady, he’s at White’s Club.”
Without thanking him she dashed back to the hackney. “Take me to White’s Club.”
The man scowled at her. “Now why would I do the likes of that, eh? White’s is no place for a woman.”
Finny scowled at him. “Do you want paid double for the fare or not?”
Grumbling he clucked to the horse to go on. “I haven’t seen no coin yet. Take me here, take me there … I’ve no time for a goose chase. Surprised if I even get any coin outta’ the deal….”
In no time they arrived at White’s and Finny climbed down from the conveyance. Holding her torn sleeve, she hurried to the door. The attendant stationed out front blocked her path.
He gave her a once over. “Excuse me … miss, ah, you can’t go in there.”
“I’m Lady Dowell and I need to speak with Lord Swanson right away.” She moved to push past him, but he stayed with a hand on her sleeve.
“I’m sorry, my lady, no wives are allowed in the club.”
Finny rolled her eyes, stomped on his foot and darted past him when he howled and hopped up and down holding his trodden toes. She flung open the door and ran inside. Scantily dressed women strolled between card tables carrying trays of drinks. Finny scanned the room, located Lord Swanson and marched over to him amid gasps of shock and disapproval from both male and female occupants alike.
“Lord Swanson.”
The man in question looked up from his hand of whist, his jaw dropping. “Ah … Lady Dowell, fancy seeing you here….”
“I need coin to pay the cabbie.” She stuck out her hand and after a peek over her shoulder at the astonished onlookers added, “Please. I shall have my husband repay you as soon as I get back to the country.”
Lord Swanson motioned for the doorman, who entered the room with a pronounced limp. “George, would you please take this coin to the hired hack out front?” He handed a couple coins to the man and then drew Finny toward the entrance. “What seems to be the trouble?”
“That mean ol’ badger-faced Dowager Dowell tricked me into going to a warehouse and left me there to die!” Finny spat. The crowd of curious onlookers gasped.
With a groan, Lord Swanson summoned his coach to be brought around. “Perhaps we should discuss this in a more private place?”
By the time they reached his townhouse, Finny had explained all that happened. Lord Swanson sighed. “Can I be open and honest with you?”
She nodded and took a seat across the desk in his study.
“Finny, may I call you that?”
Again she nodded this time with the distinct impression she wasn’t going to like what he had to say by the looks of the grim set of his lips.
“I think this little barb of Devon’s has gone on long enough. Innocent people are going to get hurt, and it certainly won’t help Devon’s reputation or that of his stepmother.”
“What do you mean?” She crossed her arms.
“You must agree that no matter how many lessons you take you will never be the lady Devon needs. You will always struggle to fit in and Devon will always have to defend your title.”
He was right, she knew deep down inside. Finny Donelly dressed in silk and eating off gold-rimmed plates was still Finny. Underneath it all she was just Whitechapel trash. Still, the dreamer in her wanted to fight it. “When I tell my husband what his stepmother did, he will take her to task.”
“Maybe,” Lord Swanson sat across from her and leaned back in the chair. “But maybe it will destroy them both. Could you live with yourself if you tear the family apart? The dowager thought a title would buy her happiness. It brought her misery and left her constantly battling to be accepted. Is being a duchess worth it? Do you really love him, Finny, or just the idea of being a great lady?”
Finny pondered his words. Of course she wanted to be a great lady. Did she love Devon? She thought she did. Her mind wandered back to the afternoon when he said she couldn’t possibly love someone she didn’t know. Was he right? She didn’t really know him after all. He was her knight in shining amour, but was he more than that?
Heart sore she looked up into Lord Swanson’s concerned gaze. “I have no money and nowhere to go. Devon was going to set me up in my own painting shop….”
He nodded and reached for a quill and parchment. “I will gladly lend you the coin to see you secure.”
“But … I don’t know how I’ll pay you back.”
With a small smile he handed her a letter to his solicitor authorizing a good sum of money be released to her. “Never mind. Consider it a gift for keeping my Kat company while I attended business all those times.”
“What will I tell her?”
He patted her hand. “Don’t worry about that. I will break the news to her myself. After all, she is in a very fragile condition right now and I’d not want to upset her over much.”
Finny stood. “Thank you, Lord Swanson.”
“You are most welcome, Finny.” He smiled. “I wish you all the best in your new life.”
Shoulders squared, Finny stood and walked out of the life she thought she always wanted.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Yoo-hoo, Miss Donelly?”
Finny wiped her hands on the painter’s towel in her lap and stood as the elder Mrs. Pickard entered her little art shop. “Hello, Mrs. Pickard, what brings you by today?”
“Why the painting of my dog you did for me last month.”
“Is there something wrong with it?” Finny frowned at the man who entered behind the woman.
Mrs. Pickard’s eyes widened. “Oh my no, the painting is adorable, I assure you. I simply thought to bring Mr. Sebastian to see your marvelous work.”
The man in question nodded to Finny and then wandered about the room examining the various paintings she had on display.
The name registered with Finny and she leaned toward Mrs. Pickard and whispered, “The art collector?”
The woman tittered. “Why yes, surely you’ve heard of him.”
Fro
zen in awe, Finny nodded.
The man paused before a painting of the deer in the Candlewick meadow. “Impressive, such color, such fine brush strokes.” He glanced at Mrs. Pickard. “And you say she has no formal training?”
She answered as if Finny weren’t in attendance. “Indeed not, why she is just a common lass from the hells of Whitechapel.”
Both his brows raised and Finny’s face burned. Surely the much respected art critic would be turned off her work now.
“Extraordinary! I must have her work displayed for an evening soirée later this week.”
Finny gasped. “My work? Displayed in your gallery? I’m … well, I’m just as speechless as a simpleminded mute, sir.” Too late she clapped a hand over her mouth at her uncouth slip of tongue.
Mr. Sebastian’s eyebrows went higher. “I see … well regardless of your….” he looked her up and down, “…lack of refinement, I shall be honored to display your work five nights from now. I will send my men over to pick up the paintings I prefer later this week.”
When the two left the shop Finny dropped into the nearest chair with a squeal. “Mr. Sebastian likes my work, me, Finny Donelly!” Her gaze travelled to the painting of Devon surrounded by his hounds on the gazebo step she painted that summer. Wouldn’t Devon be impressed? She sobered, wondering what he was doing right then. Did he stay in the city for the winter or remain in the country at Candlewick? It had been six long months since she last saw him. Did he miss her? Had he searched for her? With a shake of her head she stood. Of course not. He probably never gave her a second thought when he discovered her gone. Most likely he was relieved she went on her way and spared him plying her with money to leave. At least his mother would have been thrilled to see her gone.
Shaking the thought from her head Finny locked up the shop and went in search of a dress befitting an event of Mr. Sebastian’s stature.
* * *
“I really should be getting back to my estate,” Devon protested.
Lord Swanson groaned. “Honestly, Devon, it is time you quit sulking away in that monstrosity you call a home.”
Devon scowled at his friend as they exited the carriage at White’s Club. “I’m not sulking, and do you really think Candlewick is a monstrosity?”
“No, no.” Lord Swanson waved a hand. “It is just the place seems to have sapped your whole life. Why this is the first time you have been to London in months.”
“I’ve no reason to haunt the city.”
“Well, you are not getting any younger and I’ve seen what a doting uncle you are to little Sabrina. Isn’t it time you had that farce of a marriage of yours annulled and found a nice girl to settle down with?”
With a snort Devon paused outside the club and pulled the collar of his great coat up to block the chill of the December wind. “I love my niece, really I do, but children of my own? Please, I can’t even handle my own stepmother’s irrational episodes.”
Lord Swanson snickered. “All right, I’ll give you that one, but surely you can’t be all that happy rattling around in that museum of yours all alone.” He glanced down the street at a row of carriages waiting to dispatch their occupants. “What is going on there I wonder?”
Devon turned his attention to the crowd, grateful the subject seemed to have changed. “I believe I heard something about some newly discovered artist being showcased tonight. You know how eccentric and odd that whole crowd is.”
“Huh.” Lord Swanson altered his direction and strolled down the street toward the commotion. “Let’s go have a gander for a lark, shall we? Perhaps I can find a Yuletide present for Kat while we’re at it.”
Groaning, Devon followed. What his friend didn’t know about art could fill a very large leather-bound volume. The least he could do is help the man pick out something tasteful for his sister. They waited their turn in line until the doorman allowed them access and then entered the gallery. A harried looking footman took their great coats, ushered them into the greeting room, where glasses of champagne were placed in their hands. They crossed into the showcase gallery and studied the paintings on the walls.
A familiar-looking meadow scene featuring a doe and her fawn sparked recognition. “That looks remarkably like a painting Finny was working on.”
Lord Swanson stopped to study it. “A lovely depiction, wouldn’t you say?”
Devon nodded.
A short man dressed in high style approached them. “Ah, my lords, do you fancy this work of art?”
“I think it would be perfect for the nursery, don’t you think, Devon?” Lord Swanson looked to his friend.
“For once I must applaud your choice in artwork, my friend.” Devon grinned.
“Well then, it’s settled, I’ll take the piece. Pray tell, who is the artist?”
The little man smiled. “Ah, I shall introduce you right away.” Turning he called to a dark-haired woman in a royal blue dress who stood with her back to them across the room talking to a couple of elderly ladies. “Miss Donelly, a moment of your time, please.”
The breath fled Devon’s lungs when the woman in question turned around. Her eyes grew wide at the sight of him and the sweet smile slipped from her lips. “Finny?” Each step she took toward him was like a knife piercing his heart.
She came to a halt beside the gallery owner, her eyes shielded beneath thick mahogany lashes. “Yes, Mr. Sebastian?”
“You have just sold your first painting, my dear.”
Her gaze flickered from the gallery owner to Devon’s. “Oh, thank you … my lord.”
“No, no, not him,” Mr. Sebastian corrected with a nod at Lord Swanson, “Him.”
She gave Lord Swanson a weak smile. “Thank you, my lord, I’m glad you liked it.”
“What’s not to like?” Devon murmured before he could stop himself. Her gaze swiveled around to fix with his. The tension was so thick Devon swore it caused the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end.
“I’ll get Rachel to wrap it for ye—you.” She turned away and he stayed her with a gentle hand on her arm.
“Finny? What happened? I searched all of London for you when you disappeared.”
She cleared her throat and darted a glance at their companions. “I was right here all along. I got to—I have to go, I’m being summoned by another patron, sorry. It was good to see you again.”
When she walked away Devon’s heart cried out for him to stop her. “Finny?”
Pausing, she looked back over her shoulder, her eyes glistening with unshed tears, or so he thought but couldn’t be sure due to the light of dozens of gas lamps in the room.
“I should like to talk to you.”
Her look hardened. “There is nothing to talk about, my lord. Have a nice evening.”
He couldn’t take his gaze from her as she walked away.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Finny arose from her bed in the little loft above her painting shop at the insistent pounding on the door below. With a groan she tossed a painting gown over her night dress and padded barefoot down the stairs. “I’m closed on the Sabbath day, ye heathen,” she grumbled, wincing at the icy wooden floor beneath her feet. Without bothering to shovel more coal in the big potbellied stove, she crossed to the door and flung it open. A fine powder snow blew in, coating her bare toes and she shivered. “Wot? I mean what….” she trailed off when no one stood on the threshold. She scanned the street, yet saw no one about in the fresh snow. Her gaze dropped to the dusted cobblestones at her feet. A bundle of red and pink hothouse flowers lay in sharp contrast to the snow. After picking them up she again scanned the street.
Something brushed her foot and she glanced down in time to see Bettie scamper out into the street. “Oh damn! Bettie, you git back ’ere!” After dropping her bundle on the bench inside the door she tiptoed out into the icy street after the critter. Reaching down, she sought to close a hand on the rodent, however it shot forward right into a black top hat conveniently in its path.
She straightened
. “Oh thank you for catching my chilla, sir—” Her thanks fled when her eyes met Devon’s.
He held out the hat. “I believe the rat is referred to as a chinchilla and is native to Peru and parts of Brazil.”
“Oh.” Finny took the hat and fished Bettie out of it. “Well, thank you, again.”
When she handed back the hat and made to go inside he stepped forward. “I believe you owe me an explanation for your disappearance, Finny.”
Teeth chattering she looked down the street and then sighed. “Very well, come inside, afore I freeze.” She stepped inside and shut the door behind him as he followed. “Excuse me while I put Bettie back upstairs.” Without waiting for his consent she hurried upstairs with the naughty rodent tucked under her arm.
By the time she stowed her errant pet, dressed in a conservative rose-colored day dress, and returned downstairs, Devon had a fire blazing in the stove and warmth began to seep through the room. She crossed to fill the kettle sitting on top of the potbellied stove. “Do you want some tea?” Clearing her throat she rephrased, “Would you care for a cup of tea, my lord?”
A smile tweaked his lips. “That would be nice, thank you.”
Turning her back on him she set to work making tea.
“Why did you leave without a word, Finny?”
She set the kettle down with a thump and reached for a packet of tea leaves. “It was best I go. After all, we both know our mistake of a marriage was naught but a way to prick your stepmother’s ire and we certainly succeeded.”
“Is that what you think?”
Biting her lip, she shrugged.
“I thought we settled that idea that night in the sheep herder’s shack?”
Closing her eyes, she smothered a groan and tried to school her voice into proper staidness. “Did we? Ye took advantage of me, is all.”
“Finny, you know that isn’t true. Besides, we were … are … married.”
“So?” She shrugged and poured the heated water through the cheesecloth containing the tea leaves. “It’s not like I’m some fancy lady anyways. Men sleep with Whitechapel scum like me all the time.”
Rags to Romance Page 14
