***
Fin stepped through the front door of the Barclays’ townhouse, determined to find out why the devil Victoria had been running like a banshee through Southwark that morning. It was his highest hope that she was there for good reason—and with a proper chaperone—but he had a feeling that was not the case. She’d been running, and she’d been alone. The signs did not point to a proper social visit on Victoria’s part.
“Finny, what are you doing here?” Victoria stood in the doorway of the drawing room, the sun from the fanlight in the foyer casting a halo about her entire person.
It wasn’t intentional when Fin’s breath caught, but somehow it couldn’t be helped. “I—ah—wished to take a drive with you,” he sputtered out.
Victoria’s brows rose in speculation. “Is that so?”
He rolled his eyes. “Dammit, Vickie, I’m bored. Won’t you come and entertain me?”
A smile spread her soft, pink lips. “Well, then who will entertain me?”
“I promise to do my best.”
Of course, she acquiesced and within a few minutes, they were in his curricle, headed for Hyde Park. The day was quite exquisite. Not a single cloud marred the turquoise sky, and a slight wind kept them from being too warm.
Fin said nothing as they drove along. He thought to wait and see if she offered any information about her morning romp on her own.
She didn’t.
By the time they reached Rotten Row, neither of them had said a word, and the silence was finally too much for Fin. “I thought you were going to entertain me.”
“No, that was your idea. I never actually agreed to it—only to the drive.”
Fin wasn’t sure whether to laugh or strangle her. “Will you tell me about your morning?” He glanced sideways to look at her, hoping for any signs of discomfort at the topic.
She shrugged. “Not much to tell, really. I visited Lady Hartswell. She’s been feeling ill.”
The little liar. “Ah, so you stayed close to home, then?”
“Well, yes, of course.” She gazed out over the Serpentine as they passed, and Fin dared a glance or two, himself. Its beauty never ceased to amaze him. He had many a canvas stashed away at home that featured this particular landscape. “Tom took breakfast at his club, so I didn’t have much choice. It was either spend the morning with Mama or with Lady Hartswell. The latter seemed the lesser of two evils.”
“How can you say such things about your mother?”
“How can you not?”
He supposed she had a point. Her mother wasn’t the kindest or warmest of people. Though he’d had good luck at charming her, at the end of the day, she was still a cobra. “Well, I’m sorry I wasn’t about to escort you to someplace more interesting.”
“And what about you?” she asked. “What did you do this morning?”
He paused. Should he tell the truth? “I had a meeting,” he said, and then he turned so he could see her face when he added, “In Southwark.”
Silence. Her throat moved as she swallowed hard, but then she took a breath and smiled. “I do hope it went well.”
This was getting him nowhere. “It did. I’m to paint a portrait of Lady Bishop. It’s for her birthday in July.”
“What do you do with the money?”
Fin started at her abrupt and rather inappropriate question. “The money?”
“From your paintings,” she clarified. “It’s not as if you need the money, so what do you do with it?”
“I’m not sure that’s any of your business, Vickie.” He hated to take that particular tone with her. He felt as if he were scolding her.
“I never said it was,” she retorted. “You don’t have to answer, I was just curious whether you pocket the money or if you perhaps use it for good causes.”
“Causes?” What the devil was she talking about?
“Yes, causes. You know, poor people? They do exist. You may have even seen some this morning when you were in Southwark.”
“Must you always bring sarcasm into every conversation?”
“If you don’t enjoy my conversation, then why do you even bother keeping my company?”
Damn. When had things started to go downhill? He hadn’t meant for them to argue—he never intended for that to happen. But now his mood had turned black, and he had no desire to make nice with the lying little shrew beside him.
“Perhaps we should just turn back,” he suggested.
“Yes, perhaps that would be best.”
The ride back to Marylebone seemed to last hours as the silence stretched between them. For the first time in the history of their relationship, that silence was horribly uncomfortable. More uncomfortable than any silence he had to endure with vapid debutantes. This was much worse. His palms actually sweated with the anxiety of truly being at odds with Victoria. She was one of his best friends, after all. So then why were they finding it so difficult to get along?
Because she’s a liar, that’s why. Damn, but she was, wasn’t she? Somehow, Fin would have to get to the bottom of this. Short of having her followed, though, he wasn’t sure how he would do it. She was tight-lipped as a clam.
Hm. Perhaps that was what bothered Fin. If they were such good friends, why couldn’t she confide in him? He understood her lying to her parents, and even her brother, but somehow it hurt that she didn’t trust him enough to say what she was doing alone in Southwark that morning.
“Well, thank you for the drive, Finny,” she said as he pulled up to her door. She acted almost as if nothing was wrong. “Will we see you tonight at Vauxhall?”
Damn. He was supposed to go with them to see a concert and fireworks at the gardens. “Yes, of course,” he said, not sure he really wanted to go, now. “You will see me tonight.
Eight
That evening, Victoria, Tom and both their parents boarded their carriage and headed toward Westminster. There, they would take a boat across the Thames, straight to the dock at Vauxhall Gardens. Victoria was both excited and apprehensive about attending the festivities tonight. Vauxhall always proved to be exceedingly entertaining, and she was sure tonight would not disappoint. There was a concert of new music, and of course, the fireworks. Only one thing would remove her apprehension, though, and that would be if Finny declined the invitation.
She wasn’t sure what he knew—or if he knew anything, really—but Victoria had the sneaking suspicion that he might be on to her. Or that he was at least roused with a bit of curiosity.
What she worried about the most was that he might have seen her that morning. He hadn’t said as much, and it wasn’t like Fin to beat about the bush. They had been friends since birth, after all. They didn’t have that many secrets. Well, except for the ones that Victoria kept. But what good would it do to bring Fin into her plots? Simply knowing about it could land him in a heap of trouble, and Victoria preferred to protect her friends and family.
But now she thought about it, he did have secrets, didn’t he? Hadn’t he said something about buying flowers for someone the other day? Was it for a woman? Was he courting someone that Victoria didn’t know about?
And why did these ideas bother her so damned much?
She refocused her thoughts back to their carriage ride that afternoon. The more she played the conversation over in her head, the more she was convinced he had seen her. If that were the case, he would eventually come out and inquire about it. Knowing him as she did, he was probably waiting to see if she would confess to being in Southwark first. Well, if he knew her equally as well, he would know that she’d take her secrets to the grave. As it was, he didn’t really know her, did he? How could he when Victoria kept the most important aspects of her life hidden from him?
Something about that saddened Victoria, but she didn’t have time to ruminate on it. They had pulled up to the dock, and Fin waited for them on the small boat. Though they had ended their carriage ride on a bit of a brusque note, he was all smiles now. He waved and welcomed them aboard with a kiss to
her mother’s hand and a handshake for both her father and brother. When it was Victoria’s turn for a greeting, his smile disappeared, and he only bowed his hello.
Any other day with any other man, Victoria would have found some smart remark about his lack of enthusiasm for her. However, no remarks came to mind. No witty retort to shame him for his behavior. Nothing. All she could do was stand there and try to hold back the tears that were a surprise even to her. Even worse than the tears was the knowledge that he knew. He had seen her in Southwark—of that she was most certain now. It was likely that his cold indifference would continue until she confessed that she was in Southwark that morning.
Sadness tugged even harder now, for she could never tell him where she had been or what she had been doing. If she did, he would forbid her from going again, at least not without a chaperone. Under ordinary circumstances, she might have allowed him to go with her. But these were no ordinary circumstances. They were dire. If she told him a little, she would have to tell him everything, and she just couldn’t do that. It was one thing to risk her own life. To risk hanging nearly every single night as she robbed the rich to give to the poor. To risk any number of diseases while she assisted at the hospital. To risk mugging or rape in the most undesirable parts of London.
But she couldn’t ask that of someone else. Not someone she cared about. Not someone she loved.