A Gamble on Love (27 page)

“
Perhaps.” Thomas noted, however, that
his wife was regarding him as if he were one of the lions in the
Tower. An animal ready to spring and gobble her up at a moment’s
notice. “Relia . . . Westover is not the only one who felt the need
to bare his conscience tonight. It’s more than time I fully
explained why I went off to London directly after our return from
Tunbridge Wells.”

“
To see Mrs. Ebersley?”

Thomas’s head shot up, his hands
tearing at his dark locks. “Damnation, woman, no,
not
to see Mrs. Ebersley! I mean,
yes, I did see her, but only to reaffirm what I had told her
earlier. That I had given her her congé.”

His wife’s nod was slight. She still looked
as if she were confronting a ravenous beast.

“
Just as I told you I went to London to
take care of business matters left unresolved by the haste of our
marriage . . . but I stayed there, in spite of the short journey
down to Pevensey, because . . .” Thomas gripped the side rungs of
the chairback, leaned away from his wife and admitted, “I have
always been a very controlled person. I give great thought to every
action. In Tunbridge Wells I discovered I was not the iron man I
had supposed, but a male as vulnerable as any other. A creature
whose mind could be sent reeling by the sight of his wife about to
break her pretty little neck. By sharing a sitting room with a
woman
en déshabillé
. By
knowing this woman was my wife.
My
wife!
And yet I was no more ready for marriage than
you were. So I ran back to the safety of the City, to the only home
I knew.” Thomas paused, regarding his wife with a silent
plea.

Her response was . . . applause. “Oh, bravo,
Thomas. You are indeed learning the art of being a husband,” she
informed him with dignity and no little sarcasm. “But perhaps you
would care to tell me what other matters kept you in London for six
long weeks after only three days of supposed connubial bliss?”

Thomas had the grace to chuckle. Truly, her
quickness of mind delighted him, even if he might wish her less
stubborn. “Very well. If you must have the wood with no bark on it,
in addition to being terrified of failing to keep the ridiculous
promise I made to you, I was deliberately shirking my
responsibility to you and Pevensey Park, as I had to Livvy and
Nicholas. I wanted the life I had for so long, free of all
obligations except those of the empire I had built. Oh, I wanted
the By-Election, but I was daunted by all that went with it.”

“
Such as a wife, a sister and
brother.”

“
An agricultural empire I knew nothing
about. County people, county ways. A world more foreign to me than
Paris, Rome, or Athens.”

“
People who thought of you as a
Cit.”

“
That, too.”

“
A wife who thought of you as a
Cit.”

“
Yes,” Thomas breathed. The air between
them seethed with unspoken thoughts and chaotic
emotions.

“
Then it is fortunate we have a truce,
is it not?” Relia declared. And fled the room.

As Thomas found his way to bed, he marveled,
not for the first time, at the forethought of his wife’s ancestors.
In most households his bedroom would have been joined to his wife’s
by the width of his dressing room plus the width of hers. Their
rooms would have had separate entrances. Husband and wife would
converse only if one, usually the husband, sought the other out.
Since this process tended to involve actions with little need for
conversation, husband and wife could go for months, perhaps years,
without private conversation. Without that blessed sitting room, he
would not be any better acquainted with his wife than he had been
after three days in Tunbridge Wells.

Nor would he feel as tormented—both
physically and mentally. If not for the blasted election . . .

Get thee behind me,
Satan!
The words of his Dissenter grandmother echoed
down through the years.

No, he dare not chance it. He needed his
wife’s support. And yet . . . Thomas pictured Relia’s sharp eyes
turned sultry, her lips as inviting as the rose red satin of the
new dressing gown. A garment never intended to keep a husband at
bay. The woman was driving him mad!

After the election, Lanning. After the
election!

Malcolm Reaves, the new steward, arrived with
his wife and three children on the day the hustings went up in the
market square. Although his north country accent brought the
inevitable speculations about his ancestors earning their name by
reaving other people’s cattle, it was generally agreed that Mr.
Reaves was a good choice. Mrs. Thomas Lanning handed over Pevensey
Park’s daily problems and its accounting ledgers with a right good
will. On the following day, accompanied by Miss Olivia Lanning,
Relia sat, proud and erect, behind her husband on the banner-draped
raised platform while he declared his candidacy, speaking to the
crowd with a power that confirmed her belief that he was born for
politics. And shamed her cynical conviction that such a gift was
not a virtue.

And yet . . . she was sitting here, was she
not, as a candidate’s wife should? She and Livvy, shockingly garbed
in bright blue velvet pelisses with small matching hats that did
not hide their faces—hats topped, quite outrageously, by two
scarlet ostrich plumes. What did it matter that she was wearing a
proper half-mourning gown beneath? All anyone could see was blue
and scarlet. It was humiliating. They looked like lightskirts!

Relia raised her eyes from her toes, which
were beginning to go numb with cold, and caught the broad smirk of
a rider hovering at the back of the crowd. Twyford! And she could
not blame him for laughing. Who would have thought when Nicholas
proposed blue and red for Thomas’s colors that matters would go to
such an extreme as scarlet feathers on a blue hat!

Her cousin Twyford was wearing a cockade on
his top hat, Relia noted, almost grinding her teeth, for it was a
tasteful arrangement of burgundy and gold pinned to one side of his
black beaver. His jacket was burgundy, his waistcoast striped in
burgundy and gold. Beau Brummel himself could not have faulted The
Terrible Twyford’s appearance. Relia sighed.

The crowd burst into applause, then into a
full-throated roars of approval as Thomas ended his maiden speech
in ringing tones. Carleton Westover rose and, taking the arms of
both women, drew them forward to stand on either side of Thomas,
where they smiled and waved . . . and did exactly as they had been
instructed.

Relia greeted those nearest the hustings by
name. She kept smiling, waving . . . and wondered, deep down, if
she truly wished her husband to win. If he did, her life was never,
ever, going to be what she wanted it to be.

What she had thought she wanted it to be.

Thomas was bending down, shaking hands. At
the back of the platform, Patrick Fallon and Big Mike Bolt, with
the aid of several committeemen, were attempting to match those in
the enthusiastic crowd with the poll lists in Fallon’s hand. The
crowd surged forward, sweeping around the platform into The Hound
and Bear for a round—several rounds—of ale, laid on by Blue and Red
Election Committee.

With a wave of his riding crop Twyford Trevor
saluted his cousin and trotted off. The campaign had begun.

~ * ~

“
My dear,” declared Margaret Stanton,
her generous bosom overhanging her lap in a manner reminiscent of a
pouter pigeon, “you are aware, I trust, that you will be
entertaining every butcher, baker, and candlestick maker in this
part of Kent.”

“
Mama!” Chloe Stanton
protested.

“
It is the nature of politics, my dear
Margaret,” declared Lady Trent, looking down her nose at the
squire’s wife.”

“
In Freeman Boroughs, at least,” Livvy
qualified.

“
Innkeepers, brewers, mercers, grocers,
shoemakers, glovers, cabinetmakers, tailors,” Chloe
intoned.

“
Soldiers, sailors, bankers, wool
buyers, booksellers, solicitors,” Jane Edmundson added.

“
Apothecaries, surgeons, blacksmiths,
leather workers, jewelers,” said Gussie.

“
Enough!” Relia laughed, holding up her
hand. “Indeed, Mrs. Stanton, I am well aware of the numbers and
occupations of the electors in this borough. I have heard little
else this past sennight. Which is why I have asked you ladies to
join me for tea. The men have their Election Committee; now we
ladies must have ours. I am not so arrogant as to think I can
manage the entertainment of the entire borough without assistance.”
Mrs. Thomas Lanning smiled benignly at her circle of Whig
neighbors. “Ladies, may I have your support? My husband and I will
be eternally in your debt.”

Visions of advancement for younger sons
danced enticingly through the elegant drawing room at Pevensey
Park. Of houseparties filled with distinguished and influential
gentlemen down from London for the weekend—eligible suitors for the
hands of Kentish daughters. While Lady Trent, Margaret Stanton, and
others of their generation examined the advantages of actively
supporting Thomas Lanning, Jane Edmundson studied the toes of her
half-boots with a small secret smile. “What if . . .,” she
ventured, “what if Captain Fortescue were to support Mr.
Lanning?”

“
Do not speak nonsense!” Lady Trent
told her daughter. “Go against Gravenham? Absurd!”

“
But Alan—Captain Fortescue—refused to
run,” Jane persisted.

“
That was personal inclination, I
believe,” Relia said. “But go against his father’s wishes? I doubt
it. And Twyford is his friend . . . although how the captain could
be so indiscriminate in his taste I have never
understood.”

“
Nonetheless—”

Relia eyed Jane Edmundson with sharpened
interest. “Do you, then, have some idea of the captain’s feelings
in this matter?”

The widow ducked her head, hiding a blush.
“The captain has been gracious enough to call at Trent Manor once
or twice since Christmas.”

“
Or four or five or six,” intoned her
mother with a self-satisfied curl of her lip.

Relia leaned forward. “Is it possible, then?
Will he come out for Mr. Lanning?”

“
He likes him. Very much,” Jane
confided softly. “I will ask.”

“
Is it possible?” Later that night, in
the privacy of their rooms, Thomas Lanning echoed his wife’s
question. “The endorsement of Gravenham’s son, a wounded veteran of
the Peninsula? Lord!” Thomas paced the carpet in the sitting room,
running his hands through his dark hair until it is was nothing
more than a disheveled heap.

“
I am almost sorry I mentioned it,”
Relia said, “for family loyalty is always strong. The captain may
wish to endorse your candidacy, but whether or not he will actually
do it . . .”

“
After what happened today, he may very
well do so.”

“
Tell me.”

“
Gravenham is so fearful of losing
again that he’s invoking the old burgage rights. Today he served
eviction notices on thirteen widows living in burgage
properties.”

“
Whatever for?” Relia cried, instantly
outraged, though not quite understanding the
significance.

“
Because the right to vote is tied to
their cottages, and they cannot vote.”

“
Merciful heavens,” Relia breathed.
“That is despicable.”

“
Indeed. Westover is arranging to bring
in voters from London to counteract Gravenham’s
maneuvering—”

“
London? But how is that
possible?”

“
Ah, such political naïveté,” Thomas
teased, coming to a halt and managing a wry smile. “And, no, you
need not tell me you would know more about politics if women had
the vote. My understanding is capable of anticipating that remark.”
His wife sniffed, but kept silent. “Any man who has ever had the
vote in this borough may return for the election. We, too, will
bring in voters from beyond the borough—from as far away as the
Midlands and the West Country, but the majority will be from
London.”

“
A transportation nightmare,
surely?”

“
Which is why I have employed so many
experts. Voting is to be spread over six days. We will
manage.”

“
Thomas . . .?”

“
Yes?”

“
Every morning you hold breakfasts at
the inn, with, I’m told, as much ale as food. All day you canvass
door to door, showering the constituents with smiles and
handshakes, wringing from them the promise of their vote. Then
every evening it is back to The Hound and Bear for more food and
vast quantities of drink. How is it you return home so remarkably
well preserved and steady on your feet?”

“
Good God, my dear, was that a
compliment?”

“
It was a serious question. I am
curious.” For once, Thomas noted, his wife’s smile was close to
winsome. It became her.

“
Then it deserves a serious answer.”
Thomas sank into one of the comfortable chairs facing the
fireplace. “I suppose . . . yes, I endure because I must. Because
campaigning is only a few short weeks, and needs must when the
devil drives. I find I draw energy from the people. Each person is
different—a challenge. Someone I am promising to serve in return
for his vote. Each day I learn more about what is needed, and, like
you, I make lists of what needs to be done for this borough after I
win. As for the ale?” Thomas proffered an almost boyish grin. “It
is the floorboards of The Hound and Bear that should be reeling
with drink. I have grown adept at letting gravity empty my
mug.”