She had filled in the rest for herself. She had known all along that Malcolm’s heart was not on offer, and yet she had foolishly indulged herself in fantasies of his good character that he had not earned.
Well. She was a match for him, true enough, in politics as much as the marriage mart. Her heart was not his for the taking, either.
“About that question you wanted to ask my brother, Your Grace,” she said. “I will save you a thankless visit. I am quite sure the answer will be no.”
She held out her hand. Malcolm pressed it a second too long, staring down at the way his strong fingers covered hers.
“It was a pleasure to see you here, my lady,” he said. “I shall never regret the damage to my phaeton.”
He set his hat on his head, nodded to the ladies one last time, and followed Sir Roderick out.
14
Since Roddy had not had the sense to keep away, Malcolm hoped that at least he would be generous enough to spread the noxious infection that had him continually coughing into his handkerchief, so that Malcolm might endeavour to die from it.
This wish, too, went ungranted. The long journey back to London in Sir Roderick’s uncomfortable carriage passed without Malcolm feeling so much as a tickle at the back of his throat. Sir Roderick was fastidious about keeping his phlegm to himself.
If only the same had gone for his political ambitions, he would have saved Malcolm a great deal of trouble.
“I cannot tell you enough how little I care about whatever has caused you to fall out with Lord Louis,” he said, as Sir Roderick attempted to explain himself for the third time. “For heaven’s sake, Roddy, close your mouth before you do your voice permanent damage. You will never be able to cast votes for me in the Commons if you cannot talk.”
Sir Roderick cleared his throat with an unpleasant gurgling sound. “We have arrived.”
Malcolm glanced out of the carriage window, noting the drizzle of rain with a shudder. “I can see that. We’re at my own house, after all.”
“Lord Louis will be waiting for us. He said he would wait in your doorway, if necessary, until he could speak with you.”
Malcolm restrained himself from rolling his eyes. “I am sure the servants had the wits to at least show him inside. Here, Roddy. Take my umbrella. You are in no state to go out in the rain.”
Sir Roderick took it gratefully. Malcolm turned up his coat collar and hurried past him into the house, kicking up a splash from a puddle that soaked him to the knees.
“English weather,” he snarled, glaring up at the sky from the safety of his own porch. As though the lowering clouds had anything to do with the painful bruises forming around his heart.
They found Louis sitting in Malcolm’s drawing room, which was a study in bachelor comforts, all dark wood and leather furnishings. Louis had been provided with a glass of brandy and a cup of tea which both sat untouched on the table, a worrying sign. His legs were clamped tightly together, an odd sight in a man whose limbs were thick as tree trunks, and his eyes were unusually bright. “Caversham!” he said, rising to his feet and knocking the table with the tea and brandy as he did so. “Caversham, thank goodness you’ve come! I have terrible news.” He raised a finger and jutted it accusingly at Sir Roderick. “It concerns this blackguard here!”
“Strong words, Louis.” Malcolm could not remember the last time he had been in such need of a drink. He went to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a strong helping of brandy. “Drink, Roddy? Or shall I send for something hot?”
“Don’t think of it!” said Louis, his voice rising to a squeak. “He doesn’t deserve it!”
Malcolm set his drink aside regretfully. Louis was the sort of man so unused to upset that he would require a steady hand to soothe him. “Come now. We’re all friends here. Sit down again, Louis. I can see you’ve had a shock.”
“You will understand why when I tell you what I have discovered!” said Louis, his round face trembling with outrage. Malcolm leaned against the wall, arms folded, eyes flickering from his scandalised friend to his coughing, treacherous one.
“There’s no need to tell me. It’s plain what has happened. One of the Twynham voters was not as crooked as Roddy supposed. Someone has told you that the Duke of Caversham’s man is buying votes.”
Louis deflated like a punctured balloon. “Oh, Caversham, no. Tell me you did not know about this. Tell me you don’t condone it!”
“Know, yes. Condone, certainly not.” Malcolm took up the glass and raised it ironically to Sir Roderick, who was now coughing from outrage as much as illness. “I overheard Roddy myself at the Whitbys’ ball.”
“And you have not withdrawn your support for him?” Louis’s eyes bulged. “Caversham, the insult to your reputation –”
Malcolm summoned every reserve of ducal severity he had in him. “Yes. I am quite aware of it.”
Louis opened and closed his mouth a few times, and then, at last, took Malcolm’s advice and sank back into his chair.
Malcolm turned to Sir Roderick. “Roddy. You will put a stop to this nonsense at once. You will tell the corrupt voters that no bribes are forthcoming. Is that clear?”
“Certainly,” rasped Sir Roderick.
“Good.”
“If you want to lose the election.”
Malcolm felt the screw of irritation turn so tight in his stomach that he was liable to start fuming and frothing like Lord Louis. “What?”
Sir Roderick backed away, startled by the snap in his voice. “Lady Selina’s candidate is stronger than we could have predicted. I have it on good authority that we are in for a close-run contest.”
“I am the Duke of Caversham. Mr Forrester is a commonplace lawyer. Who would dare…” Malcolm sighed and pinched
