Blind Trust by Susannah Bamford Page A

chair. Tavish Finn walked in with his hat in his hand and a scowl on his face.
    â€œFor God’s sake, Columbine, where the devil is Bell? And what do you mean, you’re not in?” Tavish’s green galloping gaze swept the room impatiently and was reined in when it got to Darcy. He swallowed painfully. “Forgive me. I didn’t realize you had company, Columbine.”
    Columbine’s voice was cool. “I suspected that from the manner of your entrance, Mr. Finn. Though why you feel you may enter my sitting room in such a fashion when I’m alone troubles me. May I present Mrs. Statton. Mr. Finn.”
    â€œWe’ve met,” Tavish said. He realized he was being brusque as soon as the words left his mouth, but he couldn’t help it; he was too busy staring. Mrs. Claude Statton looked pale and unhappy and very damn beautiful. It made his head ache. What a bother that woman was. He’d almost forgotten her today.
    Darcy rose. “I should be going. I’ve stayed much too long. Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Nash.”
    Columbine looked from Darcy to Tavish and back again. “Nonsense, you can’t go, I—”
    Tavish broke in. “Mrs. Statton, please do not leave on my account.”
    Darcy was already gathering her things distractedly. She had removed her hat without thinking; she never removed her hat for a morning call. She felt as though she was waking from a dream. The intimacy she was beginning to feel in Columbine’s presence had vanished in an instant, and she desperately felt the need to leave. The very air was disturbed by Tavish Finn’s masculinity. His eyes ticked over her. No gentleman looked at a lady in such fashion, Darcy told herself furiously. And why was he so casual with Columbine?
    They are lovers , you fool . Why else would he enter with such assurance, such informality? It was easy to see that the coolness with which Columbine had greeted him masked an irritation that was familiar and well-tried. They were lovers, of course, everyone knew that Columbine Nash took lovers.
    â€œMr. Finn, you said you were leaving?” Columbine asked meaningfully.
    Darcy broke in. “No, I must insist,” she said smoothly. “I really must go.” At least he had interrupted just at the point where Darcy might have been indiscreet. How could she have dreamed a woman like Columbine Nash could keep a secret? Look what her favorite, Victoria Woodhull, had done to that distinguished Henry Beecher. Accused him of adultery in her weekly! Darcy shuddered, thinking of what Mrs. Nash could do with the infermation that Mrs. Claude Statton was forced to submit to her husband in ways she could not bear. “Good-bye. Good-bye, Mr. Finn.”
    She hated him, with his assurance and his height and his scowl. She hated the way he bawled Columbine’s name. She hated his clean-shaven upper lip, and she hated his hat. Not looking at him, Darcy extended her fingertips for an instant, no more, then fled from the room. In the hallway, there was no Bell or Mrs. Hudson to be found, but her coat was hanging on a hook. Darcy bundled herself into it even as she heard Columbine rising and heading across the sitting room with rapid steps.
    Darcy fumbled with the door. It finally opened with a groan, and she tumbled through. Gulping down drafts of fresh air, she fled down disheveled Twenty-third Street, past the tiny, shabby homes and the strange people who turned to look at her furs and her clothes, heading for dear familiar Fifth.
    â€œTavish, really. I am very put out. Very put out indeed. If I leave a message that I’m not at home, then I’m not at home. If you could master the most elementary social rules—”
    â€œI’ve mastered them, as you well know, dear Columbine. I just don’t happen to like following them.”
    Columbine stopped in the middle of her energetic pacing, her deep purple skirt whirling around her ankles. “You