A Matchmaking Mismatch (Romance Retold #3)

Chapter 40

Chapter Forty

P hilip’s sheets were in an unmanageable twist when he woke in the morning, his feet bound up in a knot that evidenced how much he had tossed and turned all night.

Bleary-eyed, he reached for the pocket watch on the bedside table, blinking as he tried to read the hands. Ten o’clock. He sat up with a jolt. He hadn’t slept anywhere near so late in recent memory.

The money would have already been delivered to Ruth by now. And if he knew her at all—a fact he admittedly doubted after last night—she was likely gone already, traveling home. His heart throbbed, and he put a hand to his chest. How long would it take for it to catch up with what his mind knew?

The door opened, and Nash entered.

Philip rubbed his eyes and reached to undo the tangle at his feet. “What do you mean, allowing me to sleep so late?”

Nash set a breakfast tray beside Philip and cleared his throat. “I attempted to wake you earlier, my lord, but thought better of it after the threats you made.”

Philip fiddled with the sheets then threw up his hands in annoyance with a muttered oath.

“Allow me, sir,” said Nash. With maddening calm, the valet set to undoing the night’s work, freeing Philip’s feet in a matter of seconds. “By the by, sir, Mr. Finmore is below stairs. He insisted that you wouldn’t mind him coming up unannounced, but I managed to forestall him. Shall I turn him away?”

“You could try, but there is little chance of him listening to you.” Philip pulled the breakfast tray onto the bed.

“I thought as much, sir.”

“Send him up. And you might as well send up another tray as well. If I know Finmore, he’s expecting to be fed.”

Philip had little desire to discuss the night’s occurrences with Finmore—or anyone—but he knew his friend enough to know it was useless to keep him from his purpose, whatever it might be.

It was but two minutes before Finmore’s figure appeared in the doorway.

Philip eyed him with disfavor. “Is this a new habit of yours, then? Early morning visits? I don’t particularly care for it.”

Finmore smiled and took a seat in the chair beside the bed, reaching for a slice of toast on Philip’s tray. Philip smacked at his hand, but Finmore ignored it, taking a bite out of the warm, buttered bread.

“Got a head, have you?” Finmore nodded at the half-full brandy decanter that sat on the other side of Philip’s bed. “Must have been a bad night. It isn’t like you to consume so much. Though it looks like you still needed some help.” He got up and walked to the other side of the bed, taking the decanter and glass back with him to his chair.

“For heaven’s sake, Fin. It’s ten o’clock in the morning.”

Finmore only smiled as he poured himself a glass. “So, the Swan.”

Philip’s brows drew together, and he stabbed a piece of ham with his fork.

“Took my advice after all, did you? And yet you kept mighty quiet about it.”

“Can you blame me? I had no desire to be forever teased and mocked.” He stared forward in silent consternation as Finmore took the piece of ham Philip had just cut, tossing it in his mouth with two fingers and washing it down with a swig of brandy.

“Is that why you didn’t tell me? I had thought it was something else perhaps.” He reached for the plate again, but Philip shifted it out of his reach.

“And pray tell what reason that might be.”

Defeated, Finmore sat back in his chair. “That you’d fallen in love with the girl.”

Philip slowed for a moment cutting the meat then finished the slice with fervor. “You mean to say you knew the Swan was a woman?”

“Not at all. Hadn’t any idea of it.”

“Well, neither did I at first.”

“And yet you kept her around after discovering it, didn’t you?” His eyebrows snapped together. “Come, Ox, I cannot allow you to treat that innocent piece of ham so violently.”

Philip set down his utensils in annoyance. “You mean to say that, because I didn’t send her packing, I must necessarily be in love with her?”

“No.” Finmore reached for the unattended breakfast tray and pulled it onto his own lap. “I am saying that I have known you long enough to see that you’re lovesick—and a fool besides.”

“A fool! Yes, she made certain of that, didn’t she?” He threw his legs over the side of the bed and pulled his crumpled shirt over his head. He hadn’t even bothered to change it the night before.

“Oh, stop feeling sorry for yourself,” Finmore said. “It isn’t a good look. If you truly don’t want the girl, perhaps I shall try my luck.”

Philip whirled around. “Don’t you dare so much as touch her.”

Finmore raised a brow, a smile pulling at his mouth. “That’s what I thought.”

Philip turned away, opening the door of his wardrobe and standing behind it as he changed into a new shirt and pantaloons.

“Can’t blame you for falling for the girl. She’s a taking thing.”

Philip tucked his shirt into his pantaloons, feeling his blood course through his veins at Finmore’s words. “And that is your conclusion after a full sixty seconds in her company?”

“No.” The fork scraped on the plate, and there was a pause. “That is my conclusion”—he spoke with a mouth full of ham—“after visiting her this morning.”

Philip froze then stepped backward. “After what?”

Finmore poured enough brandy into his glass for a few more swallows, replacing the crystal top with a slight clanking. “Visiting her this morning.” He said the words slowly and distinctly, emphasizing each syllable. “You really do have a head, don’t you?”

“What the devil did you mean by doing such a thing?”

Finmore shrugged, unmoved by Philip’s anger. “Thought I would see what all the fuss was about before you drove her off. Couldn’t move a foot without hearing your name and hers being whispered at the Walthams’ last night.”

Philip clenched his jaw, wishing he could throw what remained of the brandy into Finmore’s face. “You are the busiest, most gossip-hungry man I have ever had the misfortune of knowing.”

Finmore only smiled. “If you want my opinion, you’ll marry the girl, Ox. Never thought I would advise such a thing to a man in your position, but there you have it.”

Philip inclined his head ironically. “Next time I wish for your opinion, you can be sure I will inform you of the fact.” He turned away, his hands trembling slightly. He wanted to ask Finmore questions—to know what he had discovered on his visit—but his pride wouldn’t let him.

“She loves you. Heaven only knows what she sees in you, but she does love you.”

Philip snorted. “And she told you this, no doubt—knowing you would come relay the information to me.”

“She did not. She hardly said a word, in fact. But believe me—I have spent enough time with enough women to know the look of love when I see it, and Miss Hawthorn can hardly see straight for how consumed she is with Philip Trent.” He put up a hand, cutting off Philip’s attempt to speak. “And don’t try to tell me her regard is unreciprocated—a man doesn’t look at a woman or hold her like you held Miss Hawthorn without being very far gone indeed.”

Heat rose in Philip’s neck and face. “How the deuce—”

Finmore sent him a commiserating glance. “I saw you from the terrace—couldn’t understand why you had left in the middle of the waltz, so I went looking for you.”

Philip’s heart thumped and thundered as images and sensations from the previous evening flitted unbidden through his mind and body, but he focused on choosing a waistcoat. “Perhaps you missed this in the midst of all your philandering last night, but she played me, Fin. Like a flute.”

“Did she?” He crossed his ankles. “Sounds to me like the girl was headlong in love with you from the moment she laid eyes on you but never thought herself good enough to so much as shine your boots—or to attempt to make you into less of an embarrassment around women, God bless her.”

“She lied to me, Fin. She lied to everyone.” Philip tugged his boot so harshly that his fingers lost their grip and flung him in the face.

Finmore watched with amusement. “She did. She was in an impossible situation, from what I can gather. And she will spend the rest of her life regretting it, I imagine.”

“Good.” Philip swallowed, keeping his head down to avoid Finmore’s eye.

Finmore stood and shrugged, setting his glass down. “Very well. It is your affair, after all. But don’t look to me for comfort when regret comes knocking on your door.”

“It will be a sore trial, but I will endeavor to drown my sorrows elsewhere.”

Finmore stepped toward the door and stopped with his hand on the knob. “Oh.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “She sent this back with me.”

Philip took the note with a leaping heart, and Finmore watched him. “You’re a fool, Ox.” He closed the door behind him.

Philip unfolded the note hurriedly, and his heart plummeted as three hundred bills in bank notes fluttered to the ground.

M rs. Barham’s assertion that things would look less dreary in the morning had not rung true for Ruth. She had woken with a gaping hole inside—a rude reminder, along with the mask that lay on the bedside table, that it was no nightmare. It was all real.

Standing in the entry hall of the house in Upper Brook Street, she looked at the coins in her hand—all that remained of the twenty pounds Philip had given her. It was barely enough to afford the stagecoach fare to take them back to Marsbrooke. It was frightening how quickly the sum had been spent during their time in Town.

It was only another minute before Topher joined her there. His face was hard, his eyes lifeless, and the puffy bags beneath them evidence of how similar his night had been to Ruth’s. Ruth didn’t even need to ask what had happened with Miss Devenish.

A hackney carriage conveyed them to the inn from where the stagecoach would depart, and once inside, Topher finally spoke.

“What did that fellow want?”

Ruth looked up from her contemplation of her gloves. She had thought Topher asleep when Mr. Finmore had unexpectedly arrived that morning.

“Nothing, really.” She looked through the carriage window, hoping he wouldn’t ask any more questions. And he didn’t. She didn’t want to tell Topher she had rejected Philip’s money—all three hundred pounds. She hated that, even in his anger at her, Philip had chosen to give her the full three hundred, even though she had not fulfilled the terms of their agreement. There had been no note with the money—only the monogrammed name and address at the top of the paper—and that silence had told her everything she needed to know.

Mr. Finmore had watched her as she opened the note, his eyes never wavering from her face. And though she had spent the last month playing a part, she was not a skilled enough actress to hide the hurt that filled her at the sight of the money and the blank page it was couched in.

She had looked away from it, folding it back into the paper without allowing herself a second glance. She wouldn’t take that money for all the world. She would find a different way to care for her family. She had to.

After nearly a month traveling in Sir Jacob’s well-sprung equipage, the stagecoach was a jarring experience. More than once, Ruth was obliged to steady herself on Topher or Lucy as the wheels dipped into ruts made by the recent rain. She found a strange satisfaction in the jolting discomfort, though. It was no more than she deserved, and it was an unavoidable reminder of her place in life. The stagecoach was where she belonged—not the luxurious carriages and chandeliered masquerades of London.

“What will we tell Mother?” Topher said as they made their way from The Red Lion in Marsbrooke to the house.

“The truth,” Ruth said, readjusting the valise in her arms. She was sick to death of lies.

A bit of silence ensued, broken again by Topher. “ The Weekly will be expecting another column. We must get it to Jolley by tomorrow if it is to be printed with this week’s edition.”

Ruth shook her head. “I am done with the Swan, Topher.”

“What?”

She said nothing, and neither did he.

The house came into view, and Ruth smiled as George’s face appeared at the window, only to vanish as quickly as it came. The door opened soon after, and Joanna and George emerged, wrapping their arms around Ruth’s legs and crying her name and Topher’s.

She stooped down, wrapping her arms around them and breathing in their familiar scent. She shut her eyes on the tears that sprang there. She was home—dirty and small as it might be. Empty-handed and broken-hearted as she was. She was home.

Joanna took Ruth’s face in her hands, pulling her head up so that Ruth was forced to look at her through her blurry vision. “Did you bring my doll, Ruthie?”

Ruth glanced at Topher, and he grimaced before sweeping George into his arms.

“I am so sorry, Jo.” Ruth put a hand on her sister’s dirt-stained face—no doubt she and George had been playing in the small garden where the laundry hung to dry. “We were obliged to leave in a hurry, and I hadn’t any money for a doll.” Her voice broke, and Joanna’s eyes reflected her disappointment.

“That’s all right.” Joanna smiled bravely. “I would rather have you than a doll. I am glad to have you back, Ruthie.”

“I am glad to be back,” she choked out.