A Modest Independence Read online

  “I apologize for the state of it,” Miss Holloway said.

  He glanced up at her from behind his spectacles. The blush in her cheeks had darkened. The sight of it made his chest tighten. Had there been something between Miss Holloway and Lady Helena’s brother? “I’ve seen worse,” he said.

  At that, he bent his head and began to read.

  My Dear Jenny,

  I trust you’re keeping yourself out of trouble. I’ve had a letter from Helena lately, but nothing from you since Michaelmas. You’re not still angry with me, are you? There’s only so many times a fellow can apologize.

  If you were anyone else, I suppose you would have written by now, pleading with me to come home and propose or some such rot. But you’ve always been more sensible than that. You know I have no desire to marry and set up my nursery. I never have. Besides, it didn’t mean anything. You and I are friends, that’s all.

  It’s beastly hot here at the moment. The lads and I have taken to swimming in the river in the evenings. Afterward, we lie out on the bank and look up at the stars. You never saw so many. They make one feel quite small and unimportant. A man could lose himself amongst so much nature and humanity.

  There was a fellow at the bazaar last week selling Kashmiri shawls. I bought one for you. It’s the exact colors of the spices they use to season our food. Orange and yellow and brown. They look quite dull until you taste them, and then they fair burn the roof of your mouth off.

  I shan’t be able to replicate any of this at home. Only a fool would try. And despite my past behavior (for which I again most humbly beg your pardon), you know I’m no fool.

  Quelling this rebellion is brutal and bloody, yet there are days I pray my duties will never end. I don’t miss the rain and fog one jot. A man can breathe here. Can really feel alive. It’s all colors and flavors and heat. The natives are quite good chaps, as well. One can’t help but sympathize.

  I must sign off now. Please take care of my sister. And take care of yourself. You deserve better than a fellow like me.

  Fond regards,

  Giles

  Tom lifted his gaze back to Miss Holloway’s face. He felt slightly queasy. “What is it that he was apologizing for?”

  Miss Holloway’s chin lifted a notch, even as her blush deepened to scarlet. “He kissed me.”

  “When?”

  “When he was last home on leave.”

  “I see.” He slowly folded the letter. “Did he make you any promises?”

  “None at all. It was simply a kiss. I daresay Giles kissed a great many girls. It meant absolutely nothing to him.”

  Tom’s jaw hardened. The late earl was beginning to sound like a scoundrel of the first order. He searched Miss Holloway’s face. It was no less arresting than her hair. Dark brows and equally dark lashes framed eyes that were neither blue nor green. They were the exact color of the sea that raged beneath the cliffs of Abbot’s Holcombe. A shade which provoked a bitter longing in his chest. “What about you?” he asked.

  “What about me?”

  “Did it mean anything to you?”

  She plucked the letter from his desk and returned it to her reticule. “Such events loom large in the life of a young woman.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “When his letter arrived, I crumpled it up and pitched it into the coal scuttle. It took me a good half day to regain my composure.”

  “At which point you retrieved it.”

  “And thank goodness I did. We received news of his disappearance a month later. Had I destroyed his final letter, I’d never have been able to forgive myself.” She shut the silk-corded drawstrings of her reticule with a snap. “But all that’s beside the point.”

  “Which is?”

  She gave a huff of impatience. “Didn’t you notice all the times he mentioned how happy he was in India?”

  “I don’t believe he used those exact words.”

  “No, but…he spoke highly of the weather and the stars and the spiced foods. He said a man could get lost there. He even said he sympathized with the natives and their cause.”

  “That’s not unheard of. Thornhill is a great sympathizer of the natives’ cause as well. He believes we have no right to be there.”

  “Giles never went that far. Not that I can remember. But you must see that he had an affinity for the place. Taken as a whole, it’s only logical to conclude—”

  “That he preferred India to England? It’s certainly possible. However, a gentleman of his class would prize duty above all else. He could hardly have remained there in good conscience. He would have known—would have accepted—that he was needed at home. Not only to take up his position as head of the family, but to take his seat in the House of Lords.”

  “What if he didn’t wish to come home? Not only because of his mother and all the bad associations he had, but because of me? Perhaps he thought I would make a clamor about his having kissed me. Appeal to Helena or something of that nature. He feared being forced into marriage above all things.”

  “Miss Holloway…I appreciate what you’re proposing, but it’s still only conjecture.”

  Her face fell. “I know it isn’t enough to justify much hope.”

  “There’s always reason to hope,” he said. “But…”

  “But?”

  “It isn’t enough to justify a journey to India.”

  “It needn’t. I’ll already be there. What would it hurt if, during my visit, I did a little investigating of my own?”

  “Aside from the fact that you’re not a professional inquiry agent?”

  “One doesn’t have to be a professional to ask basic questions. All one need do is employ a bit of logic. A bit of common sense. And I’m more than equipped to do that, whatever you might think.”

  “What I think is that you would be a vulnerable female in a foreign land. Lest you forget, India hasn’t shown itself to be very kind to vulnerable British females of late.”

  “The uprising ended two years ago. Things have settled down now. It isn’t as if I’ll be walking into a battleground.”

  “There are some injustices people don’t forget. Not in two years. Not ever.”

  She gave him a long look. For a moment, he felt as if she could see straight into his soul. “You and I are never going to see eye to eye on this, are we?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Does that mean you’re refusing to give me the necessary funds?”

  Tom ran a hand over his hair. It would have been easy to play the villain. To bully and condescend to her, or to tie her up with confusing legal jargon. He spent most of his days doing just that. But he hadn’t the heart to thwart Miss Holloway. He understood only too well what it was like to thirst for freedom, to dream of starting one’s life anew.

  No. He didn’t intend to refuse her. What he intended to do was to offer her an alternative.

  If she was dead set on traveling to India—and equally set on refusing to take along any proper English servants—he’d employ Indian servants to accompany her. He could think of two likely candidates off the top of his head, a brawny manservant and his kinswoman, who were presently working in a disreputable establishment in London’s East End. Tom had met them on a case last year and had found them to be both trustworthy and resourceful.

  It would take him a day—possibly two—to arrange it. And then…

  He’d simply present Miss Holloway with a fait accompli.

  “It’s an easy enough question,” she said.

  He exhaled heavily. “Miss Holloway…this requires a longer conversation than I presently have time for.”

  She stiffened. “Are you dismissing me?”

  “No,” he said. And then again, more forcefully, “No. It’s only that, had I known you were calling today, I could have blocked out the afternoon for you. As it is, I’m required
elsewhere.”

  “By Mrs. Culpepper?”

  He scowled. “She has nothing to do with it. Whatever you’re thinking—”

  “I wouldn’t presume—”

  “I have other clients who make demands on my time. One rather specifically at the moment. I can’t ignore an appointment I’ve made with him just because you happen to turn up. You’ll have to call again tomorrow.” He glanced at his diary. “At one o’clock, perhaps?”

  “I’m not calling again tomorrow. I’m here now. And I don’t see what the difficulty is in authorizing a withdrawal at the bank—”

  “Miss Holloway—”

  “I want this settled today.”

  “Impossible. I’m not free again until well past seven.”

  She folded her arms. “I’ll wait.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Well? What do you propose I do?”

  He leaned back in his chair. He knew what he’d like to propose. But it wasn’t a good idea. He was barely hanging on to his professionalism as it was. To be alone with her would be absolute folly. Nevertheless… “I could stop by Half Moon Street this evening.”

  He’d leased an elegant little house there for her last year. She’d lived in it for a short time after the present Earl of Castleton had cast her off without a penny. Tom had visited her on occasion. It had all been completely aboveboard. Indeed, within days, Justin Thornhill had taken over the lease himself.

  “She’s my wife’s relation,” he’d said. “It’s only right that I see to her lodging.”

  Later, when Justin and Helena had come to London, the four of them had spent a great deal of time together in Half Moon Street. They’d dined together. Danced together. Faced down newspaper reporters and society busybodies.

  Tom had many fond memories of those days—most of which prominently featured Miss Holloway.

  “I’m not staying at the house in Half Moon Street,” she said.

  His brows snapped together. “What?”

  “I’ve taken a room at a ladies’ hotel near Hyde Park.”

  “Why? The house is in perfect order. Surely Thornhill and Lady Helena—”

  “They offered for me to stay there. Of course they did. It was my own decision to stay elsewhere. I’ll only be in town for a short time.”

  “What has that to do with it?”

  “It needn’t have anything to do with anything. Where I stay is my own choice, and I choose to stay at a hotel.”

  “Don’t be stubborn merely for the sake of it. The house in Half Moon Street is far more comfortable than any hotel. It’s safer for you as well. Not to mention more convenient for me.”

  “As if that would be any concern of mine,” she retorted.

  “No, I don’t suppose it would be. However, as your solicitor, it would be easier—and far more discreet—to meet with you this evening if you were at the house.” He hesitated, feeling more than a little out of his element. “We could…we could have dinner together.”

  Her brows lifted almost to her hairline. “You wish to dine with me?”

  Tom inwardly winced. Good lord, did she have to make the prospect sound so appalling? “It would be a business dinner. A chance for us to speak candidly with one another.”

  “If all you want to do is make excuses for why you’re not giving me my money—”

  “Give me some credit. I solve things. That’s what I do. When I see you tonight, I’ll bring a solution to this dilemma. All I require is a few hours to settle affairs with my other client. Will you grant me that much?”

  Miss Holloway looked thoroughly put out. For several seconds, he was convinced she would say no. That she would storm from his office just as Mrs. Culpepper had before her—and to much more devastating effect. His breath stopped in his chest.

  “Will you?” he asked again.

  She frowned, her gaze fixed on the edge of his desk. As if she were weighing the assets and liabilities on either side of a business proposal. And then her eyes met his. “Very well.”

  Some of the tension seeped from Tom’s muscles. “Thank you.”

  Within minutes, she was gone. Bundled into a hansom cab bound for her hotel. She promised to gather her things and remove to Half Moon Street. Tom would join her there at eight.

  Or so he hoped.

  He glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf as he shoved a sheaf of papers into his leather attaché case. It was already half three. He’d have to walk fast.

  It was snowing as Tom exited Viscount Atwater’s mausoleum-like mansion in Grosvenor Square. His hat, coat, and gloves provided little protection against the chill. This wasn’t the sort of weather for striding through Mayfair. This was the sort of weather in which a fellow should be at home in front of the fire, surrounded by his family.

  But Tom had neither home, nor family.

  By choice, he reminded himself.

  Had he wished to settle down, plenty of women would have been happy to oblige him. He was fit and intelligent and possessed of a comfortable income. So what if he was a little plain? He had all of his hair and teeth, didn’t he? That was more than most men of his age could boast.

  Would it be so bad to marry?

  The situation had seemed to work out well enough for Justin. He and Lady Helena were happy together. Ridiculously so. But theirs was a love match. They relied on each other. Trusted each other. While Tom… Well. He relied on no one. Trusted no one.

  Even Justin, his best friend and the closest thing he had to a brother, was not privy to all of his secrets. Tom didn’t wish to burden him—or disappoint him.

  How would Justin Thornhill react if he learned some of the secrets Tom had been keeping? Dark secrets uncovered during their time together in the orphanage. Dangerous secrets gleaned during the course of his employment as Mr. Fothergill’s clerk. Secrets built upon secrets, each one mounting upon the other until Tom felt as if he bore the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  The day that Josiah Fothergill had first visited the orphanage in Abbot’s Holcombe, Tom had thought him an odd-looking fellow. Though not much above forty, the gimlet-eyed solicitor had already had the look of an old man. His head had been bent, his back slightly slumped. Had it been the weight of all those secrets? The unrelenting burden of so many confidences—so many crimes?

  Fothergill had been looking for a boy to take on as his clerk. Someone he could raise in his likeness. Someone to help him to bear the burden.

  His shrewd gaze had settled on Tom. An underfed wisp of a twelve-year-old with a pair of bent spectacles perched on his still-swollen nose.

  “Who did this to you?” Fothergill had asked him, examining the poorly set break.

  “No one,” Tom had said.

  He’d thought his expression bland. But Fothergill had seen something in his face. Something Tom used to think was hidden from view.

  “It was rage,” Fothergill had told him many years later. “Raw, unmitigated rage.” He’d looked at Tom with an expression of grim approval. “You hide it better now.”

  Fothergill had officially retired from practice two years ago. Or so he claimed. But Tom felt himself just as much under the old solicitor’s power as he’d been as a child. There was no end to his apprenticeship, it seemed. No point at which he’d be free to go his own way.

  He stepped down from the pavement and crossed the busy street. Carriages rattled by, driven by coachmen swathed in greatcoats and mufflers, their heads tipped down against the fresh-falling snow.

  “What-ho, Finchley!” the driver of a hansom cab called out as Tom weaved through the oncoming traffic.

  Tom raised a gloved hand in greeting. If he’d learned anything from Fothergill, it was to remain on good terms with the working and criminal classes. As a consequence, he had friends everywhere. At least, he supposed one might call them friends. He knew about t
heir lives; about their jobs, their wives, and their children. They, in turn, knew nothing about him.

  What was there to know?

  He was a solicitor. It was the sum total of his existence.

  As for the past, he’d long ago learned to compartmentalize it. To lock it away somewhere in his head behind a series of bolted doors. It was there, always, if he wished to revisit it. But it no longer controlled him. It had no influence at all on the man he’d become.

  “Need a lift, do you?” the jarvey asked. “Where to?”

  “Belgrave Square,” Tom said as he climbed into the hansom. “And double quick.”

  Mere minutes later, he was deposited at the front steps of an all-too-familiar townhouse. A stone-faced butler greeted him at the door, granting him entry without a word.

  Tom swiftly disposed of his hat, coat, and gloves. “Is he in his study, Palgrave?”

  “He’s been waiting for you, sir.”

  A frisson of apprehension skated its way down Tom’s spine. Attaché case in hand, he crossed the Italian marble entry hall and made his way to the set of dark wood-paneled doors that led to the study.

  Josiah Fothergill was within, seated in a leather chair near the fire. “You’re late.”

  “I’m well aware.” Tom shut the doors behind him before joining Fothergill at the hearth. The room smelled heavily of pipe smoke, with an underlying fragrance of alcohol and turpentine—chief ingredients in the liniment Fothergill used for his rheumatism.

  “Sit down,” Fothergill said.

  Tom took a seat opposite his aging mentor. He lifted his attaché case onto his lap and withdrew the sheaf of papers he’d brought from his office. Fothergill took them. “Warren signed them this morning,” Tom said. “Under duress.”

  Fothergill snorted. “Am I expected to sympathize with the man?”

  “By no means.”

  “And Atwater?”

  “I’ve just come from seeing him. He claims he’s pleased with the terms. Not that his word has ever carried much weight.”