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For several months after his arrival in Yorkshire, John was too much lost in grief to comprehend his situation. He had thought himself numb after Jessica died in a carriage crash, but when his grandfather was taken by scarlet fever less than two months later and his last living family was lost to him, he felt it like a blow.
His cousins the Carters had been very kind to take John in while he recovered from his own bout with the illness that had killed his grandfather – perhaps too kind, as it turned out. Mrs. Carter was a widow, and the eldest son Lionel was recently wed. Jocelyn, the younger sister, was yet unmarried, though she was much admired in their society. John had supposed she was merely weighing her choices.
It was through her that he became aware of the true problem, when the arrival to the neighborhood of Mr. Harold Finch and his friend Lord Ingram sent the orderly Carter household into a frenzy. Mr. Finch's income was rumored to exceed £11,000 a year and Jocelyn, who had been endlessly patient even with John's long illness and his moods, became anxious at the news and spoke more frankly to John than she ought.
“Mama will expect me to make a match, no matter what condition the man is in,” she confided. When John expressed his surprise, she explained that Lionel's bride's business had suffered horrible losses when a storm sank the prize of their fleet, and the connection had soured. However, in expectation of Lionel's good fortune, Mrs. Carter had spent beyond their means and invested unwisely. As a result, the family finances were in a dire state.
Jocelyn had been very kind to John since his arrival, so John was unhappy at the news that she was expected to set her cap at a total stranger, disregarding her own desires. John knew of Lord Ingram, at least. Reputed to be popular at court, he was married and his wife lived in Kent with their son; he was not of much concern to John. But John knew nothing of Mr. Finch, and it was unusual for a man of his wealth and status to be unwed.
“I heard from the widow Morgan, who always knows such things, that Mr. Finch and Lord Ingram studied together at Cambridge and they have been fast friends ever since. She knows little else, except that he is a widower, and his business is in machinery of some sort,” Jocelyn told John when he asked. With a forced sort of cheerfulness, she added, “He must be an amiable sort, to travel with Lord Ingram.”
Before Jessica's death, John had hoped to take a commission in the Army, but his grandfather's estate and holdings were entailed to the female line, a distant cousin living in France; there was not enough of his own inheritance to purchase anything. And in this state, sick in body and sick at heart, no thinking woman would choose him as a husband, and no rational man would want him as a Companion. He could not possibly help the Carters by making an advantageous marriage. He understood now that his place in the Carter household was nothing but a drain on their apparently limited funds.
He could at least make sure that this Mr. Finch was worthy of Jocelyn's hand.
His first opportunity came at the monthly dance, where the man in question made his first appearance.
Right away, Mr. Finch defied expectations by walking in with a cane – a necessary one, not a fashionable affectation. Some kind of wound from the war, maybe, though he didn't look like a fighter: his clothes were of the finest make, the sleek satin of his waistcoat and crisp linen cravat gleaming against the dark wool of his jacket. His only unfashionable garb was the pair of spectacles he wore, rather than a quizzing glass. Perhaps he needed the hand free for his cane. Neither his vision nor his wound seemed to slow him down much, though, and his precise, limping gait captured John's eye whenever he lost sight of the man amongst the crowd.
The widow Morgan appeared beside John after the first dance and said, “See anything interesting?” She sounded faintly amused, as she almost always did.
John smiled down at her in answer. She'd asked him the same question the first time they'd met, and John had been so surprised that he'd answered honestly. Ever since, she'd turned it into something of a joke between them, and seemed to find his answers entertaining.
John knew she wanted his thoughts on Mr. Finch, but he merely said, “Dame Enright has been fighting with her Companion.” It was nothing overt, but usually the two women were turned into each other like newlyweds; tonight, they were merely arm in arm.
“Really,” Zoe purred, instantly distracted. “I wonder if that might be in relation to.... You'll excuse me.” She wandered away in their direction without another word, and John let her go – she was curious as a cat, and he wished to keep his own counsel on Mr. Finch.
Mr. Finch and Lord Ingram kept close company, and Ingram was clearly the more talkative of the two. He spoke at length but seemed charming, for his audience laughed genuinely, and listened with more attention than that warranted solely by his title. Finch spoke rarely, but when he did, the group always reacted – with mirth, with appreciation, with interest. John had no natural inclinations toward conversation, but he had stood on the edges of enough gatherings to see that these two men were going to be very popular indeed.
Yet somehow John sensed that Mr. Finch was not enjoying himself. Perhaps it was the way he smiled, but never seemed to laugh.
However, neither that nor his injury stopped him from dancing, to everyone's astonishment. He danced with the widow Morgan first – a slow figure, understandably, but he moved with grace despite his cane. And so it was that Zoe introduced Mr. Finch to Jocelyn next, and he stepped out on the floor with her.
Only someone who knew Jocelyn very well could have seen that she was nervous, but John was nonetheless relieved to see her shoulders relax and her smile brighten over the course of the dance. Finch danced with her once more that evening, his only second request of all the women present. John was satisfied for now: someone who could make Jocelyn – who was too honest for her own good sometimes – smile with sincerity could not be all bad. It only remained to see if Finch pursued the connection.
Mr. Finch proved himself to indeed be a man of taste, for he and Lord Ingram called upon the Carters only a few days later: a suitably polite interval. Their timing was somewhat unfortunate, however, for Jocelyn and John had been just about to set off on a walk. After a brief confusion in the driveway, which John watched with faint amusement, it was decided that the visitors would join them on their excursion. Jocelyn exchanged a look with John over Mr. Finch's cane, and abandoned their plan to go up the hillside in favor of a more sedate path towards the mill.
John soon dropped behind the rest of the group to avoid blighting the conversation with his silences. Jocelyn was more than capable of charming both men, and early summer in Yorkshire was a beautiful season. John was content to soothe his eye with the now-familiar path through the fields.
Soon enough, however, their party was disrupted again by the appearance of a familiar man from one of the side paths.
“Captain Beecher!” Jocelyn cried. “I had not thought to see you so soon! Was your trip to York satisfactory?”
“Yes, but not as pleasant as my return here,” the captain said smoothly, bending over her hand, and John resisted the urge to frown. Calvin Beecher and Jocelyn were old childhood friends, and Jocelyn had been quite firm that there was nothing more between them. Still, their indecorous conversation – and Captain Beecher's somewhat rakish reputation – was inclined to give people the wrong impression when they did not know the history between them.
John should not have disregarded Jocelyn's skill with words, though, for she gracefully introduced the party in such a way as to put any doubts to rest, and gathered the three men into conversation about the latest news from India. Between Beecher's financial interests there and Lord Ingram's personal knowledge of the country, it was a lively discussion. So lively, in fact, that they unconsciously began to outpace Mr. Finch, until they went quite out of sight beyond a curve in the path.
Mr. Finch did not look upset at the development, but John bit his lip in indecision before falling in beside the other man, so as not to leave him alone. Thankfully, Finch only flickered a polite smile at him, and John was not forced to take up the burden of conversation.
In silence, they came upon a curve in the path of which John was particularly fond, for flowers grew near a very fine yew tree there and an unseen stream burbled quietly through the field that sloped below. Noticing that Mr. Finch's pace was slowing and that he was leaning more heavily on his cane, John suggested, “Shall we rest here for a time?”
Mr Finch hesitated visibly, and John hoped he had not insulted his pride. But all Finch said was, “Will your cousin not be looking for us?”
“Jocelyn almost always turns back at the mill,” John assured him. “And she is sure to do so when she notices we are not with them. I often stop at this tree, so she will not be worried.” It was true that he had done so often during the first weeks after his illness, when he was still weak; they had been taking more challenging paths of late, as his strength returned.
“It is a fine prospect,” Mr. Finch said, following John to seat himself on the flat rock that someone had placed beneath the tree years ago.
“I am fond of the violets,” John admitted. There was something about Mr. Finch's quiet that made him relax a little from his worry about saying the wrong thing. He quite surprised himself by feeling the urge to converse.
Mr. Finch smiled a little, looking wistful. “As am I. They were a favorite of my late wife.”
They had been Jessica's favorite, too. It was how they met, in fact: John had found Jessica in the bookseller's when they reached for the same herbal. John liked practical books like that – maps of constellations, travelogues, histories – and Jessica had loved the art of healing. When the book turned out to be beyond both of their purses, they'd bought it together and promised to share.
John could still remember her smile when he'd returned the book to her after only a day; he often thought he'd fallen in love with her in that moment, for he'd never looked back since.
He blinked back tears at the memory and made himself come back to the sunlit field where he was sitting. He'd let the silence stretch unforgivably long.
“They're useful flowers. For coughs and the like,” John said. He immediately felt like a fool.
But Finch only said, “Yes, Grace liked that about them – and how they looked like little faces.” He paused for a moment, then added, “There's a new fad in London: the language of flowers. Violets mean faithfulness, they say.”
“The language of flowers? Do they have conversations with them?” John asked wryly. It seemed silly – but violets meaning faithfulness, John liked that.
“No, they send secret messages,” Finch replied. “Though as long as everyone uses the same meanings, they're not terribly secret, are they?”
John laughed out loud – and then stopped just as suddenly, struck nearly breathless with surprise, for he had not laughed since Jessica died.
Finch was looking at him oddly, so John forced himself to smile even though he could feel it stretching falsely. They had only been engaged, and he knew it was wrong that he still could not shed himself of this grief after so many months. And he could not explain for fear of reminding Finch of his late wife, when he had clearly moved on to courting again.
He looked away towards the path, and shot to his feet at the welcome sight of Jocelyn returning. The party was still merrily embroiled in discussion, albeit at a slower walking pace, but Jocelyn must have seen something in John's expression that spoke of his unsteady mood, for she tucked her arm through his and diverted conversation around him until they were safely returned.
She really did deserve nothing but the best, John thought, and determined to help her in this endeavor as much as he could.
After all, Finch liked violets. He must be all right.
John's next chance came at the following week-end, when the Thorntons had them over for a dinner party. It was an exclusive affair, as usual: the Thorntons knew very well how desirable their chef was, and delighted in keeping their parties small so the gossips would have plenty to talk jealously about. John was simply glad that the Carters were close enough to the family to merit frequent invitations. Even on the days when John could barely make himself eat, the food at their dinners was enticing.
Apparently, Mr. Finch also qualified for an invitation this month, for John spotted his distinctive profile speaking to the hostess with Lord Ingram when they entered the drawing room. Megan Tillman and her sister were there, and the McGrady brothers, and even Sir Quinn, who was rarely seen in company. John made it through the pleasantries with a few polite murmurs and escaped with an apéritif to the edge of the drawing room, where he could observe the group more comfortably from an armchair.
Jocelyn headed directly for Megan, as John had expected. The two were good friends and Megan was leaving in a few short weeks to attend St. Bart's, so naturally they wished to spend time together. Travis McGrady had his head bent over a book with Lily Thornton, while Lord Ingram was holding court with their younger siblings: telling them a story, if John was interpreting Ingram's expansive gestures and his audience's wide eyes correctly. Meanwhile, Mr. Finch was making steady progress around the room, speaking to each person in turn – although he never quite managed to make it past the barrier of regal silence around Sir Quinn.
Eventually, Finch wound his way around to John, who abandoned his pretended study of a travelogue to issue the usual pleasantries. The conversation soon descended into stilted silence, to John's discomfort.
Somewhat desperately, John said, “If you want to meet Sir Quinn, you should speak to Jocelyn.”
Finch turned to him in surprise. “What makes you suppose I desire an introduction?”
John abruptly remembered that not everyone was as pleased as Zoe when he spoke of things he had observed but not been told. His grandfather had always despaired of it – gentlemen do not indulge in gossip, he'd often said, despite all evidence to the contrary – and since then, John had been told by a number of people that he was rude.
Finch didn't seem offended, but he was a hard man to read. “You have talked to everyone else here,” John said carefully. “I know the man is not very friendly to strangers, so I thought you might be having trouble engaging him in conversation. But he has a fondness for Jocelyn, due to her long friendship with his godson. I'm sure he'd be happy to speak to one of her acquaintances.”
“His godson?”
“Captain Beecher,” John said. On reflection, he supposed it was not as common knowledge as he'd assumed, having the benefit of Jocelyn's friendship with the family.
“Thank you, Mr. Reese, that's very helpful,” Finch said, still sounding somewhat surprised. “I had wished to ask him about his service in Spain.”
“He has some excellent stories of the campaign, I can vouch for that,” John agreed. He had mostly heard them second-hand, by way of Captain Beecher, but they had diminished very little in the re-telling.
“Do you have an interest in the military, Mr. Reese?” Finch asked.
“I had thought to buy a commission, once.”
“But no longer?”
“No,” John said shortly, knowing he was being rude again but unable to help himself. His grandfather had refused him the money on many occasions. Jessica had offered her dowry, but her family would not hear of her marrying someone without occupation or income. They had been waiting for her twenty-first birthday, when she could wed without their consent.
John exerted himself to smile and soften the curtness of his reply, and continued lightly, “Perhaps I will become a surgeon instead, as Miss Tillman aims. She leaves for London soon for her schooling. Have you spoken to her about the city yet? She is quite excited at the prospect of living in the capital.” He set aside his book and rose, his movement angling Finch in the direction of the two women. Finch shot him a knowing look at the unsubtle maneuver, but crossed the room obligingly with John at his heels.
As he'd hoped, Finch engaged Jocelyn in conversation while John distracted Megan with questions about her departure and plans for the journey. He'd timed things well and was just running dry of comments when Mrs. Thornton appeared to announce dinner. John promptly offered his arm to Megan, and watched with satisfaction as Finch was naturally obliged to do the same with Jocelyn. They all went in to dinner together.
It was turning out to be a good day.
Some days were better than others, though, and the next time he saw Mr. Finch was a very bad day indeed.
The morning had started with promise. It was quite warm and John had unpacked one of his summer suits to wear, breakfasted with the family, bid Jocelyn farewell, and gone to read in the sitting room.
There, in the pocket of his coat, he found one of Jessica's old handkerchiefs, still smelling faintly of the perfume she used to wear.
It was some time later that a knock roused him, for the shadows in the room had changed positions. Sally looked around the edge of the door and said, “Mr. Finch is here, Mr. Reese. Shall I show him in now?”
John nodded reflexively and she ducked back out before he could come to his senses. He drew a deep breath and checked that he hadn't been crying again without knowing – but his face was dry.
Mr. Finch limped into the room and greeted John politely. “Good morning, Mr. Reese. I apologize for intruding – I was looking for Miss Carter.”
“She's gone to town this morning,” John said, then cast around for an appropriate courtesy, but the words that came felt slow and wrong. “I shall certainly tell her that you called.”
Finch was looking at him oddly again, and John abruptly realized that he was clutching a handkerchief that was clearly too small and feminine for him. He tucked the fabric into his palm and tried to smile.
“I am sorry to have missed her. Truth be told, Mr. Reese,” Finch said, still watching him closely, “I brought one of Lord Ingram's new horses with me, for I hear Miss Carter is a fine rider. It seems a shame to bring her all this way and not show her off. Would you care to have a look, instead?”
John could barely countenance standing up at the moment, but a refusal would be unforgivably rude, and he had promised himself to help Jocelyn. So he agreed, and somehow found the energy to follow Finch outside.
The mare was indeed a beauty: a glossy, well-formed bay with bright eyes and a friendly disposition. John patted her neck in appreciation; she turned to nudge his shoulder with her nose, and her warm horse smell drowned out the fading scent of violets.
“Would you like to ride her, Mr. Reese?” Finch said unexpectedly.
John's first instinct was to demur, but he stopped himself just in time. Finch looked hopeful, as if he wanted John to agree.
He took another look at the mare. She was on the small side for his height, but most riding horses were. John felt a little more alert standing in the open air, even if most of his thoughts were still caught on the handkerchief in his pocket.
“If you think Lord Ingram won't mind, I would be happy to,” John said, and with Finch's affirmation, swung himself into the saddle. The groom helped Finch onto his own horse, whose saddle looked odd – modified for his injury, perhaps.
They rode quietly for a time as the day grew warmer, but not too hot yet. John tried to keep his mind on the mare's gait, but she was so smooth and obedient to the rein that he could not stop his thoughts from straying.
Finch broke the silence first.
“Forgive my curiosity, but Reese is a fairly unusual name. Are you by chance a relation of Clarence Reese, the philosopher?”
John attempted a smile. “His grandson.”
“I didn't know he had any children, much less a grandson,” Finch said, in tones of mild surprise.
“My mother was not close to him before she died,” John said shortly. That was an understatement. His mother had married for love, she'd told him, and his grandfather had disapproved of the match and cut her off. Still, he had done his duty and taken John after his parents passed, and John was grateful for that.
“Ah,” Finch said, clearly sensing he had ventured onto unwelcome ground. “Well. I know of his work, but I confess, I never had a great mind for philosophy.”
“Neither did I,” John said, the memory still bitter. As a boy, John had been overawed by his grandfather's prodigious library when he came to live with him, but the feeling soon changed when he found that the books were nearly incomprehensible, all philosophy and esoterica. His grandfather tried, giving him Hegel to start him off, then Plato (in translation, grudgingly, once John admitted he did not read Greek), and then others. They had all been like gibberish to John even in English, seeming to have no relation to life as he understood it, and he could not keep their arguments clear in his mind.
His grandfather had eventually despaired of John's low taste in literature and preference for sport, and had given up, saying that not everyone could be a good thinker. He hadn't bothered to send John away for schooling, where John might 'embarrass him'.
“You wisely preferred herbals, I think,” Finch said teasingly, and John was startled back from his thoughts. Finch had remembered the violets.
“Anyone can learn from a picture,” John said, meaning it for a joke, but it came out wrong again.
Finch looked sharply at him and seemed about to speak when John's mare whinnied and reared sideways. He managed to keep his seat, but just barely missed ramming Finch's mount into the ditch. The mare leapt forward once her feet returned to earth, and John was well down the path by the time he regained control. Only when she was level and calm again did John register the sound of barking from the direction he'd left Finch.
Turning the mare, he trotted her back and stopped well clear of Finch to dismount. Finch had not dismounted – maybe couldn't, on his own – or ridden clear, instead staring down at the base of the fence that bordered the riding path. In the long grass there, the dog that had startled John's mare was growling, low and vicious. John pulled out his riding crop and tucked it out of sight against his forearm, just in case.
“That won't be necessary, Mr. Reese,” said Finch, though John wasn't sure how he'd seen the motion since he was still looking at the dog. “I think it's caught.”
John took a long step forward, which won him renewed snarling from the dog, but also a view above the tall grass that grew along the road. He was a big fellow, light brown with a black mask and the look of a shepherd dog, though John didn't recognize the breed. His fur was matted in places, possibly with blood, and Finch had been correct: he was caught by a thin piece of rope that had wrapped around his hind paw and snagged on the rough wood of the fence. Small wonder he was panicking. John tilted his head – the dog also wore a collar with a nameplate that John couldn't read with his hackles up like they were, but this was no pampered pet. A fighting dog, perhaps. If so, he might have been trained.
“Down!” John ordered, but the dog just started barking again in response.
A faint memory struck him, and he said, “Sitz!” The dog cocked his head in confusion and stopped barking, but didn't sit down. Not German, it seemed. John searched his memory again, and tried, “Af liggen!” The dog promptly lay flat on the ground, relaxing his mouth and letting his ears come up off his head. John grinned in triumph.
“What was that language, Mr. Reese?” Finch inquired. “I recognized the German, but not the last.”
“Dutch,” John said, kneeling next to the dog. His eyes and ears swiveled to track John, but he otherwise stayed relaxed, so John slid a finger under his collar to read the inscribed name – Bear. “Sometimes kennel masters use other languages to train dogs, so that they won't be confused. It's especially popular for fighting dogs. I thought it worth a try.”
“I would not have thought your grandfather was a man for dogs. Or dog fighting, for that matter,” Finch said curiously, watching John stroke Bear's ears.
“My grandfather wasn't, but one of the men that I boxed with owned a large breeding kennel.” John smiled wryly. “He liked to get angry about dog fighting, and I liked to listen.”
“Zoe Morgan says you have a skill for it,” Finch said, and John looked at him in surprise. Misunderstanding his look, Finch added, “Mrs. Morgan declined to share any more of your secrets, Mr. Reese, have no fear. She was unusually reticent on the point, in fact.”
Unsure how to react to that news, John looked away. Why had Finch been asking about him at all? For that matter, why had Zoe told Finch nothing? She thrived on gossip, and John knew she was curious about Mr. Finch.
“I suppose there's just not much to tell,” John said at last. He ran a hand gently down Bear's side. Judging by his flinch, someone had kicked him there, and there were half-healed wounds hidden in his thick fur. Despite that, he didn't growl or try to bite; he had a sweet temper, in spite of the misuse and the name.
Carefully, he reached down and unwound the rope from Bear's hind paw. The act drew a yelp from the dog, for the strand was deeply embedded in Bear's fur – down to the skin, John realized, as the last coil came away covered in red. Underneath, blood seeped steadily from the ugly wound.
“I have a handkerchief – oh. No, I dropped it, when the horses startled,” Finch said, sounding dismayed. John followed his gaze to the square of fine white linen, now trampled into the mud, and grimaced. That would never do. He patted at his own pockets, but they were empty, except for–
He drew Jessica's handkerchief from his coat and laid it across his knee. The scent of violets had gone from the cloth and he only knew it was hers by the size, for it was unembellished. She'd liked simple things.
“Wait, Mr. Reese. Surely we can find something else. My cravat, perhaps.”
John eyed Finch's neck, where a stiffly-starched, snowy-white piece of linen graced the collar of his shirt. It looked as though it would require a crowbar to move, much less wrap around Bear's leg. John raised a dubious eyebrow and Finch returned him a rueful look, but insisted, “We can use something else.”
John twined a corner of the cloth around his finger and remembered how he'd met her, over a book about healing. “It's all right, Mr. Finch.” She would want him to use it, if she were here. Jessica certainly would not have approved of John keeping it in his pocket for ever, nor him crying over it. His happiness had always mattered to her.
Folding the handkerchief neatly into a strip, John looped it around Bear's leg and tied it firmly around the bloody cut. The loss hurt less than he thought it would. The sting faded quickly as John petted Bear until he stopped whimpering. He bent and picked up the dog, careful to avoid his other wounds, and turned back to his horse. She had no objections to Bear now that he was no longer barking, and it was a matter of moments before John was swinging into the saddle, with Bear draped across her withers.
“Excellent work, Mr. Reese,” Finch said quietly as he wheeled his horse to follow, and John was startled by the warm flush that rose in his cheeks, a quite separate pleasure from his satisfaction over helping Bear. Kneeing his mare into motion, he shook his head at himself. He was being sentimental, the memory of Jessica too close for composure. It was nothing.
Mr. Finch came to visit the following day, and after he made his courtesies to Jocelyn, he turned to John and asked, “And how is Bear?”
“Much better,” John said, taken aback at his interest.
“I should like to see him before I leave, if that's all right.”
“Of course,” John agreed.
Mr. Finch was very mannered at first, but after Bear greeted him by planting his muddy paws squarely on Finch's exquisite coat and John barely suppressed a laugh at the look on his face, he relaxed somewhat.
They fell into a pattern after that: Mr. Finch came to visit Jocelyn, then went out with John to see Bear afterward. With Jocelyn, Finch told many stories about the places he'd traveled in Britain, for she was eager for that sort of news and he always had something interesting to relay, but with John, the conversation ranged somewhat wider. Finch had read more than any of John's acquaintance, far more than John himself, but he somehow never made John feel less for it, only eager to share what little he knew.
John found it helped, both needing to look after Bear, and looking forward to Finch's visits. John had begun to hope – rather selfishly, for Jocelyn did so want to travel – that Finch would marry Jocelyn and remain in the neighborhood, so that John might visit them often. He supposed that even if they removed to London, he could still see them at the holidays, perhaps twice a year. It was an odd sensation, having something to look forward to.
Finch also seemed to have a bottomless well of dry humor that John only glimpsed in those moments alone, and like Zoe, he was curious about the things that John observed. John started saving up details for him, especially the sort that made Finch say scathing, outrageous things about the people in town.
One day, a letter came in the mail, inviting them to Sir Quinn's birthday party, the one time each year that he entertained more than intimate groups at his estate. Reading the invitation, Jocelyn said, "He bids me to bring Mr. Finch, if I like. Has everyone in Yorkshire heard that he is courting me, then?"
"Certainly," John said dryly. "Except perhaps one or two deaf citizens, who could not have heard one way or the other," to which Jocelyn gave him an extremely quelling look. John asked hastily, by way of distraction, "Am I invited as well?" Sir Quinn had never particularly warmed to John, but he was loathe to refuse any event where he might enjoy Mr. Finch's company these days, despite the frequency of his visits. The man had begun to seek John out at gatherings when they were attending together and his sense of humor, now revealed, had continued to be quite wicked and not at all polite. John valued those exchanges more than he could say, and quite selfishly sought to keep Finch at his side, even when he really ought to be encouraging him into more conversation with Jocelyn.
"You are invited," Jocelyn said firmly. "Sir Quinn is quite aware of the proprieties, even if he does not enjoy them overmuch."
John smiled at her, for Sir Quinn was not the only one of whom that was true. Jocelyn preferred plain speech and direct action; she would have made a fine general if they were still at war.
“In any case, I shall certainly pass the offer along to Mr. Finch. Between the two of you and Calvin, I think I will have enough company to sustain me amongst all those old cronies of Sir Quinn. Mr. Finch is many things, but never boring.”
Curious, John asked, "What do you think of Mr. Finch, truly?"
Jocelyn hesitated, pressing her lips together. “He is a kind man,” she sighed at last, “But I fear he'll keep me kindly in his library, and that is not what I wish.”
John thought that sounded quite amenable to him, but did not say so. The next moment, John felt quite guilty for the thought: he was not the one being asked to give up his dreams of traveling the world for the sake of his family's debt.
Jocelyn, perceptive as she was, said, "Oh, John, do not worry so much about me. I am quite content." She smiled at him but turned to her sewing soon after, and the conversation fell away.
The night of Sir Quinn's party was clear and graced by a gibbous moon, not quite full but silvery and bright nonetheless. John was glad for its light when he made his escape to the gardens, unable to tolerate the company any longer. This time, the urge was not from his own discomfort, but from sheer boredom. Truly, Sir Quinn was friends with the greatest bunch of politicians and bores in the county, and most of them hard of hearing.
It was not the first time John had needed to retreat to the gardens here, so he wandered quite easily amongst the beds until his head cleared and his spirits lifted. The strains of music were finally drifting from the ballroom, and he thought he might find Mr. Finch free to converse at last. He had been quite too popular in the room before now, between first Jocelyn introducing him around and then Zoe Morgan drawing him in tow for her own reasons. Once the dancing began, Finch was likely to bow out and John might catch him alone.
He started back towards the ballroom doors, but halted when he spied Jocelyn standing on the terrace with Captain Beecher. They were talking animatedly, clearly as desperate as John for good conversation, and he had no wish to interrupt them. The wings of the house came down on both sides of the garden, and John remembered a side door on the wing opposite the ballroom. He felt sure he could find his way back from there.
The door was indeed unlocked and a few lamps were lit, so he went inside and turned the corner to go past the library and Sir Quinn's study, which were situated at the rear of the main house.
At first, John could not believe his eyes in the dim light when he saw Mr. Finch slip out of the study and shut the door silently behind him. From the elaborate head of his cane, he drew a small metal key that was quite unlike a normal one: it lacked most of its teeth, and was painted to match the color of his cane.
“Mr. Finch,” John said in blank surprise, and Finch jerked, fumbling both his odd key and his cane. They clattered to the ground, shockingly loud in the hushed quiet of the hall.
The noise must have alerted someone, for the sound of footsteps drifted around the corner, and John acted on instinct. In three strides, he crossed the distance to Finch and scooped up the fallen things before Finch could even bend for them, tucking the key into his pocket. He said loudly, “I am so sorry, Mr. Finch. How careless of me! Is your leg quite all right?” Just as the servant rounded the corner, he took Finch by the elbow and Finch instantly sagged into him, ostentatiously favoring his left leg.
“Ah, there you are!” John said, doing his best to sound as if he had just been waiting, and not as if his heart was in his throat. “Is there somewhere to rest near here? I am sorry to say I just knocked over Mr. Finch.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Reese,” Finch said promptly. “I'm quite well, or will be in just a moment. If you could only see me back to the ballroom, I would be happy to rest there.”
The servant stepped forward as if to help, but Finch waved him off and leaned more heavily on John's arm. He looked quite convincingly in pain, and John's heart lurched in instinctive sympathy even though he knew it was a show.
It had all been a show.
John helped Mr. Finch back through the hallways in silence, still painfully aware of the servant trailing behind them. In the absence of conversation, the rest of the pieces fell into place in his mind. By the time he got Finch to a chair and sat beside him, he was quite certain.
As soon as the servant was out of earshot, Finch said, “Mr. Reese, I can explain-” and John cut him short.
“Do not lie to me again, sir,” he said, low and fierce. “Just swear to me that your work is honorable, in service of the crown, and that your actions will not bring harm to my cousins.”
It was obvious now to John that Mr. Finch was a spy. John was well aware of the profession – his grandfather had been sought after by the War Office for his language skills. He had declined, telling John that gentlemen do not read each other's mail. It seemed the practice had continued after the war, for scandals had blossomed wherever Finch and Lord Ingram stayed in the years since the war: the Fosters' treasonous plans in Derbyshire, the white slavery ring in London, the mad poisoner Samantha Groves in Kent. They had spoken of them all over the course of their acquaintance, as Jocelyn was eager to hear about such things and John was always fond of hearing Mr. Finch talk, but Finch had always protested that he had no special knowledge of the events.
Only now here Finch was: sneaking out of the study of Sir Quinn, a man considered to be as virtuous as his godson was rakish. Yet John knew the latter to be false; perhaps Quinn's true nature was as contrary to his reputation as Captain Beecher's. It explained Mr. Finch's courtship of Jocelyn: the interest put him in Sir Quinn's circle, and gave him an excuse to stay in the neighborhood as long as needed. Gossip would naturally focus on the possibilities of the match as long as he gave them a spectacle to discuss. His friendship with John must have been – John forced himself to admit it – merely an aspect of his cover. Finch had needed an amiable chaperone, and John had been pathetically eager to help – even getting Jocelyn to introduce Finch to Sir Quinn in the first place, he realized. He did not flatter himself to imagine he'd been useful to Finch in any other way.
Mr. Finch did not speak for a long time, and another dance started and came to an end before he gave answer to John's demand. “I swear it, John.”
John closed his eyes at the sound of his name. He had yearned to hear that voice speak it for so long, but it was a bitter balm now. That was the last puzzle piece that had locked into place: without quite noticing when or how, John had fallen in love with Mr. Finch.
John was a fool to have been so happy. Perhaps this was the price.
John managed to avoid Mr. Finch for a week after the party, making sure he was out of the house when Finch came to call on Jocelyn. He took Bear on long walks along remote paths, far from the places he had walked with Finch.
It all came to naught the day Mr. Finch came riding up behind them, his horse picking its way carefully along the rocky path. John grimaced, stopping to make Bear sit. He did not wish for the horse to startle, for it was sure to be injured here – and Mr. Finch as well, he supposed.
“Mr. Reese,” Finch began, panting a little from the ride. “Please allow me to speak to you. Miss Carter is becoming quite distressed by your absences.”
John winced – he had been avoiding her company just as assiduously as Finch's, but had not meant to cause her concern.
Finch continued, “I am aware there is a certain...constraint to our friendship now--”
John laughed harshly, cutting him off. “Friendship? Is that what this was?”
Finch pressed his lips together. “I assure you, John, I have been as honest with you as I could be without violating my oaths. You must understand how important my task here is--”
“Yes, I am sure. I am also sure that you gave no thought to the harm you might cause in your pursuit of Sir Quinn, however noble your reasons,” John spat out. “You might at least take Bear with you and make good on one of your injuries. He has missed your company – and I cannot be sure how much longer I can keep him.”
Finch looked alarmed at that. “What on earth do you mean?”
He truly did not know, and for some reason that made John even angrier. The matter had been weighing on his mind over the last week: if Mr. Finch was not truly courting Jocelyn, then the family was living on false hope, and John could not caution them otherwise without exposing Finch. When Finch inevitably returned to London without marrying her, they would not be prepared to find another recourse, possibly until it was too late.
“Are you not a spy? Find out for yourself. I doubt you will have much difficulty, if only you exert yourself to look.” He whistled to Bear and signaled him to stay with Finch, then took off straight up the rocky hill, where Finch could not follow.
“Mr. Reese!” Finch called after him. “Mr. Reese!” But John merely sped his course, scraping his hands on rocks as he went, careless of the pain. He was getting quite used to it.
It was only four days later that Miss Kara Stanton came to town. She had recently inherited a large sum of money and all of her father's banking interests, and was summering in Yorkshire to escape the swelter of London.
John loathed to become one of the mercenary fortune seekers that plied their trade in marriage, but he had to do something. He began to call upon her at home as frequently as he thought tolerable; if his visits also coincided with Finch's calls upon the Carters, that was only plain sense, for John surely could not hide his feelings from Jocelyn when the man himself was present. The matter was difficult enough to manage in Finch's absence, and he feared it only succeeded because she was so well distracted these days.
He was not the only soul in the neighborhood who was riveted by Miss Stanton and her inheritance – although the charm of her money was somewhat reduced for most of them by the sharp edge of her tongue. John, however, seemed to have something of a fondness for that quality; she in turn did not seem to hate him, although she certainly enjoyed exercising her wit upon him.
He struggled with the visits for many reasons, most of which he did not like to think on for too long. Then there was the usual part of it, involving his poor ability to maintain unobjectionable conversation, and his utter inexperience with romance. Jessica had preferred herbals to flowers, and Finch.... John did not think on it. Yet Miss Stanton kept inviting John back, so he persevered.
It all came to a head one afternoon when they were alone in her sitting room, serving themselves tea. He had made some compliment – best forgotten, for it had contained more ineloquence than poetry, and an attempt to compare her to the porcelain – and she thumped her cup down on the table with a sharp rattle.
“For God's sake, cease the false flattery! You are dreadful at it, which was amusing enough to begin with, but it grows tiresome. I can see you do not believe in your own praise.”
“There are many things I admire about you, but none of them are romantic,” John admitted, surprised into honesty. He promptly shut his mouth so no further embarrassment would spring from it. It was true, but directness and calculation were not considered virtues by anyone.
Miss Stanton loosed a peal of laughter. “The truth at last! Oh, heavens, no need to look so grim! There's no shame in being business-like over this. I know that you wish to marry me for my money. I myself am not interested in a love match, and so I think perhaps you might suit my purposes after all.”
“Your purposes?” John echoed.
“I have many plans for my new fortune, but society demands that I marry before I can enjoy it as freely as I wish. Unfortunately, I am not of the humor that favors Companions, which is a shame, for women are more rational about this sort of thing in my experience. So I need a man who will leave me to my business, and will be satisfied with an allowance, for I do not intend to let anyone else control my money.” Miss Stanton leaned back in her chair and considered John dispassionately. “You are a terrible liar, but you look as though you could follow orders.”
The prospect of a loveless marriage laid before him so nakedly made John's stomach turn, but he swallowed his selfish desires and said, “I think I will be satisfactory.”
Together, they laid out a plan: several more weeks of courting, and then a proposal. John had kept his mother's wedding ring, so he would not need to buy one. They would wait an appropriate length for the engagement, and then marry quietly – John had little in the way of family or friends, and Miss Stanton had no family at all, so it would be easy.
It would all be very easy.
John did not see Mr. Finch again until after the engagement, and then only by accident.
Kara had heard from a school friend about a hedge maze in a nearby county, which she decided would be a grand challenge, and promptly arranged for John to accompany her on the expedition. Unfortunately, Jocelyn overheard, so Kara politely extended the invitation to include her and, after a moment's thought, 'her Mr. Finch.'
John had little choice but to agree, for he could think of no reason to excuse himself other than the truth, and that was not a possibility. The two women made the arrangements quite efficiently, both being women of practicality and intellect, and John's fate was swiftly upon him.
They rode on horseback – apparently, carriages made Kara ill, and Finch found horses less jolting on his injuries, which John had not known. John was glad to spot Bear trailing after Finch's horse, for he had not seen the dog in some time. Finch looked cool and dignified as ever in a pale linen coat, his waistcoat figured in elegant shapes that complimented the style of his cravat. John endeavored to ride beside Kara as much as possible, where he could not see him.
The party was thereby stilted to begin with, and the friction only grew as Kara and Jocelyn engaged in conversation. They were both strong-minded, but in rather uncomplimentary directions, and their exchange was soon sliced with double-edged compliments and velvet insults. John finally retreated to the back of the party, where Finch at least did him the courtesy of keeping silent, though he glanced over from time to time as if he wished to speak. John kept his gaze between his horse's ears and did not acknowledge him.
By the time they reached the maze, the entire party was overheated in both body and temperament, and its fate was sealed when Kara coldly bet Jocelyn that they could make it through the maze more quickly. The calculating look she sent at Finch's leg made John bristle, and so he was more than a little curt with her as they set out, taking the first branching away from the other couple.
A few turnings later, she made to go left at a fork and John said, “That is the wrong way.” He had always been good with maps and could see where they were in his head; he was quite sure that the right fork would bring them closer to the maze's exit.
"I do not care to take instruction from you," Kara snapped. “If you wish to go that way, do not expect me to wait for you on the other side.”
"Very well," John said stiffly. “I shall hope to meet you shortly.” He turned right, and was soon alone amongst the cool green hedges.
As he'd suspected, a few minutes brought him to the far side of the maze, where he was greeted by a fine prospect over a lake, edged round with willow trees. The surface of the water was laced with water lilies, and a lone swan glided among them. John faced into the gentle breeze off the water and breathed in the quiet for a moment.
But it was not meant to last. From behind him, faintly, John heard familiar barking and turned back towards the hedges. A moment later, Bear came bounding out of the maze and raced to greet John, his tail wagging frantically. John knelt and buried his hands in Bear's fur with a pang, for he knew who would be following. He spared a moment to be impressed with Finch for using Bear to make his way through the maze – or at least to where John was in it – though he rather wished the man had been less clever and spared him the pain.
Soon enough, Mr. Finch limped out of the maze. There was no sign of Jocelyn, and John's last hope of rescue was extinguished. He turned away, and did not look over when Finch stopped beside him, staring out at the lake.
“Mr. Reese,” Finch said, sounding as controlled as ever.
“Mr. Finch,” John returned, striving for the same tone.
Finch hesitated, then audibly drew breath to speak. John did not know what Finch was going to say, but he was certain that he did not wish to hear it.
“Perhaps you would find it interesting,” he said abruptly, before Finch could speak, “that Kara says she recognized Mr. Simmons, that companion of Sir Quinn's. She met him at a party in London, held by one Mr. Edward Griffin.” To hear Kara tell it, everyone at the party had been dreadfully boring.
“I...perhaps,” Finch said. “I'll pass it along to our people in London; Miss Shaw is very capable. But you needn't betray your fiancee's trust in this.”
John snorted. “You needn't worry. She doesn't trust me.”
“What? Whyever not?” Finch said, sounding genuinely startled.
“It's purely a business arrangement,” John said. The irony of being honest with this man who had been so dishonest with him did not escape John's notice – but oh, it was such a relief not to pretend. “She needs a husband, and the Carters need her money.”
“The Carters' debt is not your responsibility,” Finch said sharply.
“And who else will help them? You?” John hissed, driven beyond politeness. “Unless I have misunderstood, and your courtship of Jocelyn is sincere.”
Finch's silence was answer enough, and John smiled bitterly. “I'll keep your secret, but I will not have them suffer because you misled them for so long. They gave me a home when I had lost everything; I cannot stand by and watch them endure the same fate.”
Finch stood for a long moment looking out at the water. His hand was white-knuckled on his cane, John observed, and found that he could still hurt at seeing Finch in pain, despite all that had passed. He drew a sharp breath and looked away, willing himself to be numb again.
“Your loyalty is admirable, John,” Finch said finally, sounding distant. “I am sorry to hear that you do not love Miss Stanton, but I wish you all the happiness you can claim. You must excuse me.” And with that, he turned and limped down the shore towards the maze entrance. Bear stood, whimpering, at John's feet as Finch disappeared between the hedges, looking up at John and then back in obvious distress.
“Vooruit, Bear,” John commanded sharply, unable to endure the sound of the dog's distress with his own thoughts so unsettled. Bear drooped a little at his tone, but trotted reluctantly after Finch.
Kara emerged from the maze a few minutes later, before John could even begin to sort out his feelings. He drew a smile onto his face to greet her, hoping it did not seem as false as it felt. He felt he was getting better with practice.
In any case, she would not care to ask.
John slept badly most nights, and only lightly when he managed it at all, so when he heard a thump from the hallway at an hour when the rest of the household never stirred, he went to investigate.
At the end of the corridor, there was a large casement window that opened onto the garden, bringing in the smell of fresh flowers when the wind was right. Now it was standing open, and a familiar figure was silhouetted in the frame, carrying a large valise.
“Where are you going, Jocelyn?” he said softly, and she froze halfway through the window.
“Please, you cannot tell,” she begged, turning back. She looked guilty, but underneath there was a flush to her cheeks, and an eager energy that John had not seen in some weeks – not since Calvin Beecher had departed on business to London.
“You are going to Gretna Green with Captain Beecher,” he said, and was startled by his own lack of surprise.
Jocelyn bit her lip. “Yes. I am so sorry, John, I do not wish to cause a scandal, for your sake, but Calvin sails for India next week. It must be now. I've a letter to send to Mr. Finch with my apologies, though I do not think he will be heartbroken.”
She was more right than she knew, and so he could not argue against her happiness. John forced a smile. “Do not worry about Lady Kara; she does not care in the least for society, only her own freedom to move in it.” John even thought it might be true, now that he'd said it. He hesitated, then added, “It will be dawn soon. You should go. I'll cover for you in the morning, as long as I can.”
She beamed at him, brilliant and joyful, and for a moment John regretted nothing. He leaned down to kiss her on the cheek, as a brother would, and squeezed her hand. “Be happy,” he said. “And don't forget to write.”
“I won't forget,” she said fervently. “Neither of us will forget this. Thank you, John.” She pushed her bag out the window, slid over the sill, and was gone. John shut the window as silently as possible, locked it – one more obstacle to the inevitable discovery – and watched her run across the far field, her hair catching the moonlight, free.
The next morning, John told the maids that Jocelyn had gone to bed with a headache, and not to disturb her until later. The ruse didn't last as long as he'd hoped, but it left him playing the innocent in the ensuing storm. It helped that Jocelyn had posted a letter on their journey, explaining why she had gone, so her mother was not raving about kidnappers for too long. John had resisted the urge to point out that if anyone was unlikely to go quietly, it was Jocelyn, as he sensed it would not help.
In her letter, Jocelyn had also insisted that Mrs. Carter use her dowry for whatever they needed, for she and Captain Beecher had no need of it with his business. She promised to send money when his new trade was established in India, though it would be some months before they saw profits. Mrs. Carter looked worried nonetheless, and John began to wonder if the debt was worse than he knew.
They both went to a card party the following night, for they had already accepted the invitation, though the scandal had surely traveled through the neighborhood already. Appearances must be kept up, no matter the cost.
He was relieved to see Kara come towards him as if nothing had happened, and reached for her neatly-gloved hand as he often did – but she drew back before he could touch her fingers, and dropped something in his hand.
“Sorry, John,” she said, smiling wryly at him, “But you're not exactly going be an easy connection anymore.”
Dread pooled in his stomach, and he looked down into his palm. His mother's ring rested there.
He really had thought she wouldn't care. He certainly hadn't expected her to do it like this, with everyone watching. People were already starting to whisper nearby, and John closed his fingers around the ring to hide it.
Swallowing hard, he bowed to Kara and said, “I understand. You'll pardon me, I must-” And then words deserted him, because his eyes had caught on Mr. Finch sitting at a card table in the far corner. The whole room was buzzing now, but Finch did not even look up from his game with Sir Quinn and Mr. Simmons.
John really should have expected that as well, but he was a fool, and feared he always would be in this matter. He turned on his heel and fled without another word, and behind him the room erupted into conversation.
John was truly on the shelf now: orphaned, impoverished, twice betrothed but never wed, with no accomplishments, and cousin to a shameless scandal. He could not find it in himself to care. There were gatherings and dances and party invitations – less than before, and mostly from those who wished to be cruel – and he ghosted through the ones that Mrs. Carter insisted upon, speaking only when necessary. He took long walks every day that he could, and missed his old companions more than he could say. Jocelyn wrote him a letter as she'd promised, on the day of their ship's departure from London. John comforted himself with how obvious her joy was, even in such a short missive, but on some days he simply wished for her back.
Only Zoe Morgan called on him during that time, being immune to scandal and apparently more fond of him than he'd thought. He'd been desperately grateful for her company, but did not think he could have convinced her of it, for he did not speak more than a handful of words to her the entire visit. Still, she returned the following week, and the next, and then drove him to the Ingram ball with her. If she had not proclaimed her intention never to marry again so forcefully, John might have been inclined to gossip about them himself.
John had been reluctant to attend the ball in any case, for Mr. Finch was sure to be there, but Zoe – as she insisted he call her now – had told him, “I think you'll enjoy it,” with a sideways smile that hinted at one of her many secrets. It had sparked John's curiosity, and he agreed, albeit without any real hope of enjoying himself.
Ingram's house was glowing with light as they drove up and the front way was busy with carriages, though Zoe was a neat hand at driving her team and had no difficulty with the crowd. After alighting, they happened across Mrs. Harrington in the entryway, and she seized upon Zoe with a fervent gleam in her eye.
“My dear, have you heard the news?”
“I have heard nothing of interest today. What news is this?” Zoe asked. John glanced over, furrowing his brow – perhaps he was imagining it, but he thought there was some note of falseness in her voice, though she appeared quite in earnest.
“Sir Quinn has been arrested!” she cried, and John's heart almost stopped.
With great enthusiasm, Mrs. Harrington laid out a tale of bribery, blackmail, and corruption that spanned from Bow Street to Whitehall, and painted Sir Quinn as the spider in the center of the web. Her sensibility quite overwhelmed her coherence, and John was somewhat lost in the details when she finally sighed, “And just imagine, it was our Captain Beecher and Miss Carter who discovered the whole conspiracy!”
“What do you mean?” John said sharply.
“Oh! They did not even tell their own families, then? How noble!” Mrs. Harrington fluttered her hand upon her chest in apparent ecstasy. “Captain Beecher was the one who discovered Sir Quinn's treachery, and he was forced to flee in the night with his bride to escape his godfather's wrath! I had it from Lord Ingram just now!”
“Then perhaps we should apply to Lord Ingram for the full story,” Zoe offered, more obviously hiding her amusement now, although Mrs. Harrington did not seem to notice.
Since the story bore no resemblance to John's own experience with the same events, and made no mention of Mr. Finch's part in them, he quite agreed. Mrs. Harrington was disappointed to lose her audience, but she could not in all conscience protest them going to greet the host, so they escaped with little further delay.
Lord Ingram greeted them in the main room with a warm, "Mrs. Morgan, always a pleasure. And Mr. Reese." He bowed over Zoe's hand gracefully, then looked up with a twinkle in his eye. "I imagine you've come to hear the news."
"Mrs. Harrington regaled us in the hall just now," Zoe drawled. "But you can't believe everything you hear."
"Is any of it true? About Captain Beecher being involved?" John asked. He knew very well that Jocelyn was not.
“Hardly,” Ingram snorted. “The fool boy nearly wrecked the whole plan by leaving like that. But 'loyal officer flees traitorous relative with daring bride' is a much more appealing story for the gossips than 'king's agents discover suspicious accounting, eventually find the paperwork to prove it.' Not to mention, better for our future business." He raised his glass to them both. "You know, normally, no one catches us in the act; my friend plays it close to the vest. I imagine his pride must be hurt that not one but two people caught on this time."
Zoe smiled enigmatically. "I had the advantage of knowing you in London, at least. Mr. Finch had no excuse for Mr. Reese here."
"Well, it's good to take him down a peg every once in a while," Ingram said. "Thank you both for that, and for your help. We've been tracking this group for years, and never thought to get as close to Quinn as quickly as we did. And if we'd been any slower, we'd have lost him."
“I'd wondered about that. I thought you were waiting until next week to arrest him, when he left for London.”
Ingram looked a bit grim. "He caught wind of us somehow. The arrest was less easy than rumor has it."
"Is Mr. Finch all right?" John asked quickly.
"Oh, he's fine," Ingram said. "He prefers to leave the wrap-up to other people. Too messy for his tastes."
"Excellent job with cover story, by the way. Speaking as a connoisseur," Zoe offered.
"I do enjoy spreading the gossip around," Ingram said, "but this one was Harold's suggestion, for once." He and Zoe exchanged a knowing look.
John tried to keep his countenance, but inside he was reeling.
“John, you look pale,” Zoe said, suddenly all concern. “Perhaps you should get some air.” She released his arm and nudged him none-too-gently towards the far side of the ballroom, where several sets of French doors let out onto the balcony. They were still curtained at this stage of the evening, but would be opened later to cool the room when dancing began in earnest.
Almost immediately after leaving Zoe, John ran into Mrs. Carter, who greeted him joyfully.
"Isn't this news grand?" she cried. "I can't imagine why Jocelyn should not have told me; I am perfectly capable of keeping a secret. Why, only this morning I got word that one of my investments has paid off after all, and I kept that a secret this long." She winked at John over this tidbit. "So you see, everything has turned out right after all."
John agreed distractedly, and fled for the balcony once again, but as he crossed the room, a number of people – most of whom had snubbed John only a week ago – stopped to assure him of their partisanship and share their opinions about Sir Quinn. It was some time before John could slip behind a set of drapes and out onto the balcony.
The evening air was crisp and cool, silvered by a waning moon. It had been two months and more since the night of Sir Quinn's party. Fall was nearly upon them – Finch and Ingram would have no more reason to stay in Yorkshire, with the season and their purpose both run out.
Yet Finch had come up with that story, so clearly designed to salvage Jocelyn's reputation, and by extension John's own. It made no sense. John had supposed that Finch wanted nothing further from him but his silence; perhaps what John had said by the lake had made more of an impact than he'd thought.
And then there was the matter of the investment suddenly paying off. Such things certainly happened, to be sure, but on today of all days....
The French doors creaked behind him, and there was a quiet, startled breath from the person standing there. John turned.
Finch said, in an attempt at his usual dry manner, “I see you were also persuaded to get some air, Mr. Reese.” John could not see his expression in the shadows.
“Mrs. Morgan is a persuasive woman,” he said. After a hesitation, Finch came forward to stand at the balustrade with John, his cane tapping on the stones. “I should offer my congratulations, I think.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“For your success with Quinn. And,” John added, suddenly sure, “your recent investment on behalf of my aunt.”
Finch was silent for a long moment. “Your ability to do that is quite uncanny, Mr. Reese.”
So it had been Finch. John said, “I might not have guessed, had not the timing been so close. It is certainly an inventive way to keep your promise not to bring harm to my cousins.”
Without looking up, Finch said quietly, “Can you think of no other reason for me to have done it, John?”
John turned away to look out at the gardens, swallowing hard at the sound of his name on Mr. Finch's lips. He said, “Is there any better reason than keeping a promise?”
Finch quirked his lips, rueful. “I fear I was not so altruistic in my motives, though my promise to you was the start of it.” He stared out at the grounds blindly, seeming to gather his thoughts – or his courage. “You were right, you know: I thought nothing of using your cousin to get to Quinn. Grace – my late wife – used to keep me from doing such things, but since her death I have become too used to keeping secrets, and leaving matters of the heart to Nathan.
“And then there was you. I have watched you place everyone and everything in front of your own happiness, and could hardly bear to keep to my duty in the face of it. You do not see how extraordinary you are. I have thought for some time now that you deserved someone who would put you first.” He looked down at his hands where they were folded and still atop the balustrade. “I know I have no right, but I...I wanted it to be me.”
John's heart was almost painful in his chest, but this time he did not mind. He reached out and laid a careful hand over Finch's. “Harold,” he said, daringly.
Harold wrenched his eyes away from their linked hands to meet John's gaze, looking stunned. His hand turned to clutch at John's, desperately. “John, do you mean--?”
John smiled at him, helplessly. “I want it to be you, as well.”
Harold's face grew brilliant with his own smile; John loved the way it softened and made new the familiar lines of his features. He glanced back and saw that the curtains were still drawn over the doors, and could not resist leaning in to steal a kiss. Harold's lips were warm and deliberate; when they opened a little under John's mouth, he felt it through his whole body.
John broke away, feeling heat rise in his cheeks. “We should have a very short engagement,” he said breathlessly.
“Just short of scandalous,” Harold agreed, looking flushed himself.
And John could not help but to grin and kiss him again.