Malcolm would rather die before ever setting foot in that wretched inn again. The memory of the last time he had left it, hat pulled low over his face to hide his eyes and all hopes dashed forever, was too painful to dwell on.
A little of that pain must have showed on his face, for George leaned closer, and dropped his insouciant grin. “Caversham, I hate to become one of those old married men who are continually giving out unwanted advice. But the thought has occurred. If there did happen to be something more important than the Twynham election, it might do you good to forget the politics and go after it.” Malcolm glared, and George shrugged apologetically. “I have a habit of noticing things. Lately, you have not been the man you were at Lady Aldershot’s. A perceptive fellow might even say you were unhappy. Forgive me if I’m wrong.”
Malcolm realised there was little point in denying it. He felt a strange sense of relief. Streatham was not the man he would have chosen to confide in, but, now that Malcolm came to think about it, the people in whom he could confide were vanishingly few.
Non-existent, some might say.
“I fear there’s little I can do about it now,” he said. The bitterness in his voice surprised even him. George frowned.
“You know, I thought at first that you were meddling with Selina simply to gain the upper hand at Twynham.”
“Meddling,” Malcolm repeated, letting a little of his anger flare. “One does not meddle with a woman like her.”
“Is she aware of that fact?” George leaned back in his chair, throwing up his hands. “Really, Caversham, you’re making this dreadfully complicated. Why don’t you simply propose, and put yourself out of your misery?”
Malcolm felt almost hysterical. There was nothing funny about any of it, but he wanted to laugh so desperately that he could hardly contain himself. “Streatham,” he said, “I have asked that girl to marry me so many times I’ve lost count. I proposed to her last week, in Twynham. I proposed to her at Lady Sturgeon’s musicale. I wrote her a letter declaring my intentions, which she returned unread. I proposed to her the night of the Austrian ambassador’s ball. And, before that, I must have proposed to her at least ten or fifteen times, over the years, and for my troubles I’ve seen champagne tossed into flowerpots and been on the end of more withering remarks than you can imagine. There comes a point when a man has to accept his fate. She’s made it perfectly clear.” He remembered what she’d said, that night at the ambassador’s ball, when everything had been golden and glorious as the champagne she’d thrown away, and she had still been the most radiant jewel in the room. “No dukes need apply.”
“Ah.” George’s face creased in sympathy. “Do you think you might somehow be doing it wrong?” He held up a hand, shaking his head quickly. “No, no. Forgive me. Well, that settles it. I am sorry I brought it up.” He pushed himself to his feet, but hesitated. “There was something else I wanted to say, but… Well, I don’t suppose it will be any good to you. And you won’t like to hear it.”
Malcolm cocked an eyebrow. “Does anything about what I have just told you imply that I am not used to hearing things I don’t like?” He gestured to the seat. “Sit back down and spit it out.”
George pulled the chair a little closer, glancing around to ensure they were not overheard. “It concerns the voters at Twynham.”
Malcolm groaned aloud. “The voters of Twynham can collectively jump off a cliff, for all I care!”
George’s voice was low and urgent. “It seems that there are several of them who have falsified their credentials.” He reached into his inner jacket pocket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. “I have here a list of names of those who are ineligible to vote.”
Malcolm stared at him. “How on earth did a man like you come by a thing like that?”
George said nothing, but merely handed him the folded paper. Malcolm took it but did not look at it.
“You weren’t hiding from anyone in the Whitbys’ secret corridor, were you,” he said. “You were listening in. Just as we were.”
George nodded, once. “The Crown has an interest in such things, of course,” he said.
George Bonneville, the charming but lazy Earl of Streatham, a spy. Well, well.
Malcolm unfolded the paper, though he suspected he already knew what he would find.
There were twenty names on the list. One or two were expected to vote for Mr Forrester. The majority, of course, were pledged to Sir Roderick.
“Who else knows about this?” asked Malcolm.
“So far, only you, me, and a few select men who will never reveal it. My… employers… are happy enough to let matters take their course, in this case. But since I discovered the deception, so might anyone else. A duke, perhaps. A duke with something to gain by winning the election… or losing it.”
Malcolm shook his head. “It’s too late for that, Streatham. There’s nothing in it for me if Forrester wins.” An image sprung to his mind. The image of Sir Roderick, red-nosed and triumphant, shaking the hands of the men who had just cast their false ballots.
Sir Roderick, slumbering through the speeches in Parliament.
And, on the other hand, Selina, passionate and pink cheeked as she told the voters of Twynham why Mr Forrester was the right man for them.
“Though I suppose,” he added, running his eyes over the list of names once more, “it might be better for Twynham if Forrester took the seat. It might be better for the country.”
“I never took you for a great proponent of democracy, Caversham.”
“I never was before.” Malcolm pocketed the paper and got to his feet. “Thank you, Streatham. I’m afraid I must take my leave.”
George checked
