second-class section, for that matter. They took this opulence for granted.
She didn’t know whether she envied them or pitied them. What must it be like to have all these fine things and not truly appreciate just how fine they were?
The rhythmic chugging of the carriage’s engine lulled her into a false sense of relaxation despite the questions gnawing at her mind. The rain had stopped but the day was still overcast and gray, making her long for a fire and warm bed to hide in. She would pull the covers up over her head and sleep until this nightmare was all over.
She was almost asleep, just drifting in that weightless, careless world between waking and dreaming, when she felt a push inside her head. It was ever so faint, like the brush of a butterfly’s wing, but she felt it.
Lady Marsden was trying to get inside her head again.
This time Finley didn’t immediately terminate the telepath’s rude intrusion. Instead, it was as though some part of her mind got up off a sofa, walked calmly across the room and slowly, but firmly, closed a door to shut her out.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Griffin’s aunt turn her head toward her, so Finley angled her own head, still resting near the window, to meet the older woman’s gaze.
“What
“I have no idea,” Finley replied honestly. She started to turn back to the window but Griff was staring at her with a glint in his eye she found hard to ignore. He watched her as though she was some kind of exotic animal— one he thought might bite him, even as he was sticking his hand into the cage.
Why had he been able to soothe her so easily before? Why hadn’t she felt him in her head as she felt his aunt? Or was his “magic” something different?
What did he think of her now? More importantly how could her parents possibly have known his? They were from two different worlds. He was rich and Finley and her mother had been anything but before her mother’s remarriage. Even still, Finley had decided to go out on her own and support herself rather than be a burden.
Silas Burke’s bookstore was located in Russell Square. He and Finley’s mother lived in a set of comfortable rooms above the shop. Finley had lived there, as well, until eight months ago when she moved out to go work as a nanny. That post had lasted a little longer than the others, but once her mercurial moods began to frighten the children, she was let go. At least they gave her a good reference.
There were a few curious stares as they stepped out of the carriage, first Griffin who then stood to assist both his aunt and Finley. Silas Burke, Bookseller, did a good business and books were something only people with money could afford to purchase, but dukes were rare in the peerage and seeing one was always something of an event. Seeing someone they recognized as one of their own—in this case, Finley—in the company of a duke was even more exciting. More gossip worthy.
But as soon as Finley stepped inside the shop, her ire and anxiety eased as negative feelings always did when she caught the smell of paper, ink and leather mixed with her stepfather’s sweet pipe tobacco.
Fanny, the spindly automaton that assisted around the store, was at the shelves, placing a volume on the top of one of the many ceiling-high cases, her long arm extending even farther with a series of clicks and pops until it had the desired reach. The book slid easily onto the shelf and then Fanny’s arm retracted. The automaton needed a good oiling judging by the grinding sound that accompanied the movement.
“Hullo, Fanny,” Finley greeted with a smile, not expecting to hear a reply—Fanny didn’t have a voice box as some new metal did, nor was she programmed to respond. Still, Finley had always talked to the ancient android, and it seemed wrong not to do the same now.
She didn’t see either Silas or her mother, but it was luncheon time for working folk. Griffin and his aunt wouldn’t take their repast for another two hours, and they would still be enjoying their supper when Finley’s mother readied for bed. She didn’t feel any resentment for these differences, but they did make her wonder just what the devil she was doing in their company when it was so obvious she didn’t belong.
The bell over the door had chimed when they entered. By now, her stepfather would be on his way back down here. Finley blocked out all other sounds and listened. She heard Silas’s voice, and the opening of a door.
“My stepfather is on his way,” she told her companions, a bit of her nervousness returning.
Lady Marsden regarded her closely. “You can hear him.” It was a statement, not a question, so Finley didn’t bother to respond. It was almost as though the marchioness was accusing her of something nasty. She felt guilty just standing there in what was essentially her own home.
When the door that led upstairs opened at the back of the shop, Finley ran to greet her stepfather and was met with a pair of open arms.
Silas Burke was of moderate height and build. In fact, everything about him was moderate—his temperament, his income, his appearance. He was nothing extraordinary except to his wife and stepdaughter.
“Oh, ho!” he cried, practically sweeping off her feet. “Look who we have here! Mary, see who’s come for a visit!”
Smiling, Finley looked up into his warm brown eyes, framed by deep grooves that proved his good nature. When she heard her mother’s footsteps on the stairs, she stepped out from around Silas to greet her, as well. More hugging and laughing followed. It wasn’t until her mother stepped into the store for introductions that Finley remembered she wasn’t there for a pleasant visit. Her mother’s pale face as she stared at Lady Marsden made Finley’s stomach drop.
“What are you doing here?” her mother demanded of Lady Marsden, drawing a shocked glance from her husband.
“Mary!” he exclaimed, his face flushing. It was terribly rude to speak to a lady of rank in such a tone, but Finley’s mother wasn’t about to apologize.
“I told you people to leave us alone.” Her mother practically trembled with rage. “Edward said we were safe—that we would never be bothered again.”
“You know each other?” Not that Finley needed an acknowledgment, but she wanted to hear it all the same.
It was Lady Marsden who answered. “We used to. Although, Mrs. Burke and I haven’t seen each other since I was but a girl. Edward was my late brother. How are you, Mary?”
Finley frowned. For Griffin’s aunt to refer to her mother by her Christian name, or for her mother to refer to the late duke in a similar manner, they must have known each other very well indeed at one time. Her only consolation in this confusion was that Griffin didn’t seem any more aware of what was going on than she was.
Her mother, back stiff as a board, replied, “I was very well until a few moments ago.”
There could be no mistaking the insult this time. “Mama, we need to talk to you,” Finley said, taking control before her mother did something foolish like toss the marchioness out of the shop. “May we go upstairs where it’s more private?”
Her mother looked as though she’d rather swallow rat poison than go anywhere with Lady Marsden, but the gentle slump of her shoulders signaled defeat. That innocent gesture formed a cannonball of dread in Finley’s gut. She wasn’t sure she wanted to have this conversation anymore, no matter how much she wanted to discover how to fix what was wrong with her.
The lot of them climbed the stairs in single file, Finley’s mother leading the way and Silas at the rear. He’d even gone so far as to flip the Closed sign over and lock the door so they wouldn’t be disturbed.
Burke’s home was a comfortable space—certainly not as grand as the Duke of Greythorne’s mansion, but welcoming and warm. Fitzhugh, the family cat, trotted over to Finley and twined himself between her ankles before rubbing his head against Griffin’s calf. To his credit, the duke bent down with a smile to pet the fluffy orange tom.
“I apologize for the intrusion,” he spoke, rising to offer Silas his hand. “It’s just that I discovered a strange connection between our families and I’d like to learn more. I’m sure Finley would, as well.”
Mary’s eyebrow rose at the familiar use of her daughter’s name, and Finley blushed a little. She straightened her shoulders. “Mama, how is it possible that you and my father knew His Grace’s parents?” She couldn’t help but sound incredulous. It was too strange to fathom. “Is it true that my father was Thomas Sheppard,
