Daphne, blushing crimson, stammered something about having copied it from an old issue of the Ladies’ Monthly Museum which the squire’s wife had been so obliging as to lend her.
“Sir Valerian, you know, has been most particular in his attentions,” Mrs. Drinkard confided to the entire table in a whisper that might have been heard even by old Mr. Nethercote.
Theo might have cautioned his hostess that no aspirant to a seat in the Commons would entertain thoughts of marriage to a lady with neither fortune nor connections to aid him in achieving his ambitions. But as he had no desire to embarrass Daphne even further (much less knowing of no way to express these sentiments that would not sound insulting in the extreme), he could only hope that Miss Drinkard did not share her mother’s hopes regarding Sir Valerian.
When Mrs. Drinkard rose to signal the end of the meal, Theo did not repair to his bedchamber, as was his usual practice, but lingered in the drawing room with the others to await the parliamentary candidate’s arrival. On this occasion, Daphne had been excused from clearing the table; Theo could only suppose her mother dared not run the risk of having Sir Valerian catching sight of her engaged in so menial an occupation.
They had not long to wait before the door knocker sounded. As Mrs. Drinkard employed no footman, much less a butler, Daphne excused herself to answer it, and returned a moment later with Sir Valerian in tow. The aspiring Member of Parliament was all affability, bowing to Mr. Nethercote as if he were visiting royalty and raising Mrs. Jennings’s hand to his lips with what Theo considered an oily grace, assuring the elderly lady that she grew lovelier every time he saw her and determinedly ignoring the fact that the rings on her fingers were badly in need of cleaning. At length he turned his too-bright smile onto Theo.
“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, Mr.—?” he inquired, offering his hand.
“Tisdale. Theodore Tisdale.” Some demon of mischief led him to add, “And you are—?”
He had the satisfaction of seeing the man’s smile grow rather brittle. “Sir Valerian Wadsworth, sir, your very obedient servant.”
Daphne gave Theo a rather reproachful smile, but addressed herself to the parliamentary candidate. “Sir Valerian, Mr. Tisdale is the one I told you about.”
“Ah, I see! I believe you are to serve as my secretary tonight, Mr. Tisdale.”
“That is my understanding,” said Theo, inclining his head.
Daphne led them to the dining room, which had undergone a hasty transformation since dinner. The dirty dishes had all been removed and the soiled tablecloth stripped from the table, replaced with a clean one that showed only the slightest evidence of having been darned. Although Mrs. Drinkard could not bring herself to bestow the contents of her late husband’s cellars on a group of mill workers, neither could her instinct for hospitality tolerate the prospect of not offering Sir Valerian’s guests any refreshment at all. A compromise had clearly been reached in the pitchers of barley water that stood at each end of the table and the second-best crystal glasses positioned at intervals corresponding to the placement of the chairs.
“If there is anything else you need, Sir Valerian, you know you have only to ask,” Daphne assured him. “Now, if you will excuse me, I shall leave you alone to make whatever further preparations are needed.”
Having delivered herself of this speech, she hesitated, clearly hoping for an invitation to stay. But as she received no encouragement beyond a rather bland smile from Theo and a nod of dismissal from Sir Valerian, she was left with nothing to do but dip a curtsey and betake herself from the room. After the door had closed behind her, Sir Valerian withdrew a small notebook and pencil from the inside pocket of his coat.
“You may take notes in this, Mr.—Tisdale, was it?” His brow puckered. “I say, you look deuced familiar. Have we met before, by any chance?”
Theo, assuring him that they had never met, recalled his oft-remarked-upon resemblance to his sister, and thought it much more likely that Sir Valerian had at some point glimpsed Lady Helen Brundy; perhaps she had even been pointed out to him as the wife of his opponent.
“There is one more thing,” Sir Valerian said, lowering his voice. “Anything that is said in this meeting, either by myself or any of the men, is to be kept in strictest confidence. Is that understood?”
Theo assured him that he understood this caveat very well.
“Excellent! Miss Drinkard assured me that I might rely on you.”
“I should not like Miss Drinkard to be disappointed,” Theo said, “in either of us.”
“No, of course not.” Sir Valerian dismissed Daphne with an impatient shake of his head. “Let’s see, what else? Would you care for some barley water? Never touch the stuff myself, but I’ve no objection if others do. Ah! If I’m not mistaken here comes the first arrival now.”
He was not mistaken. The heavy tread of a large man sounded in the hall beyond, and a moment later Abel Wilkins entered the room. He appeared momentarily taken aback by Theo’s presence, but made a quick recovery.
“Well, if it isn’t Thee-o-dore,” he said, his lip curling in a sneer.
“I believe you know Mr. Tisdale,” Sir Valerian put in smoothly. “He has agreed to take notes for us this evening.”
Wilkins looked less than pleased with this revelation, but raised no objection. Theo suspected he was afraid of running counter to Sir Valerian’s wishes, and thought it rather ironic that one who didn’t hesitate to bully the dozens of mill workers under his supervision should himself be cowed by a fellow of whom any one of a dozen gentlemen of his acquaintance (to say nothing of his own brother-in-law) would have made very short work.
A number of mill workers arrived in Wilkins’s wake, including the boy Davy Williams, who shot Theo a look that was both sheepish and reproachful. Although Theo could not have put a
