She gave a wistful sigh. “It’s tempting, but he would think me a very unnatural parent. Go to your meeting, darling. I shall catch up on lost sleep, and see you after you return.”
With this Sir Ethan was forced to be content, and yet he could not be entirely easy in his mind. He knew what he wanted—and wanted very badly, at that—but he also knew what he must do. And so it was that, upon his reaching Brooks’s and being shown into the small private room where waited those bastions of the Whig party, Sir Lawrence Latham and Lord Grey, he bided his time only long enough for handshakes to be exchanged all around before declaring, “Gentlemen, I think I’d best drop out of the race.”
His audience stared at him slack-jawed for a long moment before Sir Lawrence protested, “Drop out of the—damn it, man, you can’t do this!”
“We’ve been laying the groundwork for your Parliamentary bid for months,” pointed out Lord Grey. “Why would you choose to drop out now?”
“It’s not a good time,” Sir Ethan said. “Things ’ave changed since you first approached me. Me father-in-law ’as died, so me wife is in mourning, and I’m the executor of ’is will, so young Tisdale—the new Duke of Reddington, I should say—needs me. Then, too, me boy Willie is ill.”
“I’m sorry for it, Brundy, truly I am,” Lord Grey said in conciliatory tones. He sank into an upholstered armchair before the fire and gestured for the other men to do likewise. “But you must see—”
“Who would we find on such short notice to take your place?” demanded Sir Lawrence, all but bouncing on the edge of his seat in vexation. “Tell me that, if you can!”
“Your opponent has a powerful patron with deep pockets,” continued Lord Grey, ignoring the interruption. “Sir Valerian Wadsworth’s mother is the sister of the Earl of Mountlake. The earl is willing to shell out considerably to establish his nephew.”
“I should’ve thought ’e was ‘established’ already,” objected Sir Ethan. “ ’im ’aving a title and all.”
“Unfortunately, Sir Valerian’s estate was depleted long before he came into his inheritance. Since he left Oxford, he appears to have done little enough to restore it. In fact, it appears the fellow hasn’t done much with himself at all, beyond leading a fashionably extravagant life in London, mostly at his uncle’s expense.”
“If ’e’s as worthless as you say, ’e sounds as if ’e’d be an easy man to beat,” Sir Ethan pointed out. “Almost anyone could stand against ’im and win.”
“One might think so,” conceded Lord Grey, “but then, one would be reckoning without the influence of his uncle. Mountlake appears determined to put an end to his nephew’s continued feeding at the family trough, so to speak. He’s investing a great deal in Sir Valerian’s campaign, in terms of both money and influence.”
“I understand your position, and I’m sorry for it,” said Sir Ethan apologetically. “Per’aps next time—”
“If Sir Valerian is allowed to win the seat at this juncture, there’ll be no booting him out of it later,” Sir Lawrence predicted grimly.
“Alas, too true,” seconded Lord Grey. “He may appear to be a worthless fribble, but Sir Valerian is not without a ruthless streak. If we’re ever to have a trustworthy man in that position, Sir Valerian’s political career must be nipped now, while it is still in the bud.”
“Then, too, your withdrawal at this point would be perceived as unsteadiness of character,” Sir Lawrence continued. “It would be held against you, should you decide to stand in some future election.”
Sir Ethan put forward every argument he could muster—and these were many—but Lord Grey, or Sir Lawrence, or both had an answer for them all. Had he really done his best to wriggle out of it, he wondered, or had he allowed himself to be persuaded because it was what he wanted all along?
He was still wrestling with this home question when he returned to Grosvenor Square. The house was dark; apparently his wife had not lied when she’d said she intended to seek her bed early. He let himself into the house with his own key, and glanced idly at the little pile of letters lying on a silver tray on a table beside the door. Lady Helen had evidently retired even before the late post had been delivered. He picked up the letters and carried them into his study, where a fire had been lit in anticipation of his return. He shuffled through the stack of correspondence: three or four invitations, most of which must be declined due to his wife’s bereaved state; one letter to his wife from Emily, Lady Cutliffe, which could wait until morning; a couple of bills, forwarded from Lancashire, from suppliers for raw materials for the mill, and—
He recognized the handwriting on the outside of the single sheet, and muttered under his breath something that would certainly have got Willie’s mouth washed out with soap. Sir Ethan sighed. At the moment, he had a sick child and a wife worn out with nursing, a deceased father-in-law who had saddled him with the responsibility of serving as his executor, a Parliamentary bid that might well be over even before it began, and a young brother-in-law who showed every sign of repeating the wastrel proclivities of generations of Dukes of Reddington before him. The last thing he needed at the moment was a message from that same brother-in-law bemoaning his present condition and begging for a reprieve.
“You young fool,” Sir Ethan grumbled, albeit not without affection, for he was genuinely fond of Theo. “Don’t you see I’m giving you your last, best chance?”
Hardening his heart, he tossed the letter, unopened, into the fire.
11
All’s fair in love and war.
FRANCIS EDWARD SMEDLEY, Frank Fairlegh
DAPHNE STOOD IN THE middle of the footbridge spanning the river that flowed some little distance behind the house, idly plucking petals from the last of the late-blooming
