“Mitch, I’ll be going—Oh.” The voice halted when a woman nearly tripped over her feet as she stopped just outside the kitchen where Collin was talking with Michael.
“Lord Penderdale, allow me to introduce my sister, Miss Patricia Finch.” He waved to the woman. Collin stood and bowed, quickly guessing she was a few years younger than his sister, Joan, and round in all the ways Joan was fine-boned. Her curly blond hair was forcibly pinned into some semblance of a design he didn’t understand, and her eyes flashed with curiosity, then wariness.
“He’s to be trusted, or at least trusted enough, Pat. Go ahead and run along to your detrimental education.” He chuckled as his sister speared him with an irritated glare.
“It was a pleasure, Lord Penderdale.” She curtsied to Collin, quirked her lips as she regarded her brother, and disappeared out the door.
Collin watched her leave and turned to her brother.
Michael held up a hand. “Patricia likely heard nothing, and if she did, the only friend she has is the scholarly type—odd for a woman. But it’s companionship for her, which, when all she has is the likes of me around her, is necessary.”
“Scholarly?” Collin asked, a suspicious feeling tickling his spine.
“Ach, I’m not supposed to know, but I follow now and then just to make sure she’s safe. It’s a harmless little club for women who want to learn more than needlepoint. It’s borderline heretical, especially if you were to listen to any of the folk from the university, but I see no harm in it. My sister loves the teacher, and they’ve become fast friends.”
Collin shifted on his feet. “Is the teacher a woman?”
“Do you think I’d let my sister go unaccompanied if it wasn’t?” Michael Finch twitched his nose and took a deep drag of his cigar. “If we’re to work together, you need to have higher expectations of my character.”
Collin held up his hands in surrender. “I meant no slight. I was just curious. It’s not common for something like this to happen in London; therefore I find myself…fascinated.”
Michael studied him, then nodded. “Understood, nor is it common here.” He shrugged. “Nevertheless, no harm can come from it.”
Collin wanted to ask outright if the teacher was Elizabeth Essex, but rather than give away that he was familiar with her, he went about the question in a different manner. “How do you know this teacher has anything worthwhile to teach? Just curious.”
Michael answered. “She’s one of the professors’ daughters, lives like a bloody ghost at one of the colleges at Cambridge. Poor thing, probably the only social life she’ll ever have.”
Collin bit his lips to keep from smiling. Of course she taught. He wasn’t surprised. He applauded her ingenuity in finding an outlet for all those hours spent in the library. Belatedly, he wondered if her father knew. After a moment’s consideration, he decided that she likely didn’t tell him the full extent of the truth, but she wasn’t one to lie—of that he was certain, even on such a short acquaintance as they shared.
Collin turned his attention to Michael. “I’ll return in the morning, and you can go over any details you have regarding the situation.”
“I’ll be here.” Michael lifted his cigar.
“Then I’ll take my leave. It was a pleasure, Mr. Finch.”
“Michael, or Mitch, either suits, but Mr. Finch was my father and I’m not too keen on being called by his name.” There was silent hostility in his expression at the last words.
Collin nodded. “Michael it is.” He stepped down from the porch and made his way to the carriage. Part of him wished he could follow Miss Finch to her meeting with Miss Essex. However, showing up unannounced and without invitation would not be helpful.
So instead he told his coachman to take him back to Rowles’s town house, where he’d be staying for the foreseeable future. At least he was assured to have a very comfortable residence while he was in Cambridge. A duke as a brother-in-law certainly had its benefits. Though, to be fair, Rowles had been one of Collin’s best friends before he became a brother-in-law as well.
The carriage moved forward on the cobbled streets before halting in front of a stone edifice. Collin stepped out, observing that the number on the door was the only differentiating trait from all the other doors on the street belonging to the same building.
“Well, Rowles, I must say I expected a little more than this,” he muttered under his breath.
The door opened as he took the last step up, and a weathered face nodded in deference. “Lord Penderdale.” The butler stepped aside, allowing Collin entrance into the dark hall.
As Collin’s eyes adjusted, he noted the tasteful furniture, speaking of the wealth of its owner in an understated fashion. He reevaluated his first impression. The duke’s residence did not disappoint in the least. He gave a nod to the butler and was greeted by a plump woman who curtsied her welcome.
“Lord Penderdale, it is our pleasure to serve you at His Grace’s residence here in Cambridge. If you’ll follow me, I’ll direct you to your chamber. Would you care for refreshment in the parlor in a quarter hour?” she asked, a hospitable smile on her face.
“That would be delightful.”
She nodded her understanding and led the way down the hall and up the stairs to the second floor. Collin noted the open doors as they passed, marking the small library and office, likely piled high with notes and books. His brother-in-law had been a professor at Cambridge before he had inherited the title of duke.
Collin stifled a shiver at the memory of the fire that killed the duke’s brother, as well as his own twin.
Odd how the memory of fire made him feel cold.
The housekeeper paused in front of double doors, opened them, and stepped aside for him. Collin walked in, approval in his tone as he turned to the housekeeper, thanked her, and made a mental note to write and thank Rowles as well.
“Refreshments will be waiting whenever you are ready, my lord.” With a final nod, she closed the door as she left.
Collin sighed deeply, his body aching from the long travel and events of the day. He sank into a wing-backed chair by the low-burning fire and leaned back, closing his eyes. It hadn’t been an all-in-all unproductive day, although it wasn’t as helpful as he’d hoped. But it was a start. And one had to begin somewhere, he reminded himself.
He glanced about the room, rose, and watched out the window. The windows faced the street where his carriage had arrived, and beyond that he could see down another street toward the river in the distance. But mostly, he saw other buildings, similar to the one he was currently in. He looked down to the street. If necessary, a hasty exit through a broken window would be possible, though less than ideal. It would likely result in some broken bones; however, bones healed. This was a safe place, he told himself.
He took in the rest of his surroundings. Four-poster bed, chairs, desk, the usual. It was comfortable, and he was at ease. All that was missing was a spot of tea, which he thankfully had waiting for him in the parlor downstairs. It was a bright spot in his day, he thought rather sardonically as he started toward the door. As his hand touched the cool brass, he paused. There was another bright spot, and it involved tea as well.
A smirk teased his lips as he walked out into the hall. Verbal sparring with a fascinating woman was always a highlight, and fascinating women in London were few and far between. Beautiful? Yes. Well trained? Yes. Fascinating? No. Most were dull as mud and equally shallow. As he took the stairs to the parlor, he pondered Miss Essex. Her strawberry hair was the color of a sunset with a storm on the horizon, and those dark eyes and long, lean fingers added to her full allure. But if he were honest, her mouth and the words she’d spoken were what had him thinking about her long after they’d met.