A Gamble on Love (26 page)

Her husband would make a superb Member of
Parliament. Born to guile.

“
And what if it warms up and rains away
the snow?” Mr. Singleton inquired, patently enjoying his role as
the Voice of Doom.

“
You are paid to look on the bright
side,” Thomas told him a tad sharply. “You write glowing words
about me, while making dire accusations about my opponent. Which,
believe me, is an easy task. Do not trouble yourself about the
weather. I shall ask the vicar to pray for us. I understand that,
his cloth not withstanding, he is a devoted Whig. Most odd for an
Anglican clergyman, but in this case, quite true.

For perhaps the hundredth time Relia wished
she could tell when her husband was joking.

Thomas looked up, caught the gaze of his
Election Agent. “Ah, Westover, are you about to tell us you do not
care for our scheme?”

“
Not at all,” said Carleton Westover.
“There is little so effective as an expensive treat for the
electors and their families. You will have to do more, however.
Some lasting project, I think. Something the constituents can see
and admire every day . . . something to improve their
lives.”

Thomas’s nod was echoed by the other men at
the table, even young Nick demonstrating his understanding of this
aspect of courting the vote. Livvy was frowning. Relia looked
thoughtful. A long-term benefit to the borough? If politics could
accomplish that, perhaps it was not as much of an anathema as she
had thought. And . . . she knew the very thing!

“
What’s burgage?” Nicholas’s demanding
voice, plainly lacking in proper dinner table manners, interrupted
Relia’s thoughts. But before she could chide him for interrupting
the men’s conversation, Carleton Westover spoke up.

“
In some boroughs, young man, votes are
tied to a specific piece of property. Whoever owns that
property—even if the building where a voter once lived is now used
only as a barn, or is perhaps nothing more than a tumble-down
chimney or a pile of rocks—has the right to vote. Those are said to
be Burgage Boroughs.”

“
And then,” said Thomas, eyes
twinkling, there are Scot and Lot Boroughs and Potwalloper
Boroughs.”

Nicholas blinked, grinned, then demonstrated
that behind his frequent sullens was a wit that would one day rival
his brother. “Does that mean that anyone who can wallop a pot may
vote?”

“
Exactly, my boy!” Patrick Fallon
chortled. “A man must only attest that he is head of a household
and has a pot to cook in. A far more fair and equitable means of
choosing electors, to my way of thinking, than ancient burgage
rights.”

Nicholas frowned. “What was the other one you
mentioned, Mr. Westover?”

“
Scot and lot, boy. In those boroughs a
man may vote if he has enough substance to pay the poor
rate.”

“
In other words,” Relia declared, “our
methods of selecting voters are a maze of inconsistency. Yet not a
one of them includes females.”

Every male face, including young Nicholas’s,
went blank. Livvy’s mouth fell open. “I fear, my dear,” said Thomas
at his most bland, “that even if I should win this election—and
even if I should succeed in accomplishing much-needed reforms—the
vote for females is quite out of the question. Not in our lifetimes
at least.”

“
Good God, I should hope not!” cried
Patrick Fallon.

“
Women are very important, however,”
said Charles Saunders, ever the peacemaker. “Any assistance you are
able to offer in this campaign, Mrs. Lanning, would be invaluable.
Yours is an old, established family, with a vast number of tenants
and employees. Although this is a Freeman Borough, Gravenham
controls most of the ancient burgage rights. He did not exercise
them in the last election, but since his candidate lost, who knows
what he will do this time? I fear Singleton was right. Your style
and elegance, the woman’s gentle touch, would work wonders with the
voters.” Charles executed a half-bow, proffered his open and
patently genuine smile. “I assure you, the electors cannot fail to
be charmed.”

“
Charles!” Thomas barked from the far
end of the table.

Carleton Westover, an interested observer of
Mr. Saunders’s remarks and of Mrs. Lanning’s expression, looked
thoughtful. His employer’s instructions regarding his wife’s role
in the campaign had been vehement. Yet . . .

“
I believe, Thomas,” said Mr. Westover,
“that you may wish to rethink the matter of your wife’s
participation. I am quite certain Mrs. Lanning is lady of great
pride. A lady who has no desire to be the wife of the losing
candidate for Parliament.”

~ * ~

As if a general political conversation at the
dinner table was not a sufficient breach of proper conduct, later
that evening, Relia and Livvy suffered the ignominy of having their
most skilled efforts on the pianoforte go unheard and unnoticed.
The men, huddled in deep discussion over the intricacies of
something called the canvass, did not even lift their heads when
the two women exchanged exasperated looks, then exited the drawing
room. Relia’s visit to Gussie Aldershot was equally frustrating. A
sudden indisposition, her friend and companion murmured. It was
nothing. She would be her old self in the morning. Relia was still
frowning over this patent untruth while she allowed Tilly to
prepare her for bed.

“
The new dressing gown arrived today,
ma’am,” Tilly announced with some glee. “The quilted rose satin
with the Chinese embroidery. Right gorgeous it is, too.” With a
grand flourish the maid swirled the dressing gown off the bed and
held it up, turning it around so her mistress could admire the full
length of the intricate design on the back. “Mr. Lanning’ll figure
it money well spent, I promise you.”

As Relia allowed Tilly to slip the new
dressing gown over her nightwear, she noted in her full-length
cheval glass that her cheeks were the same rose red as the satin.
Drat the man! Even with a truce in effect, their lives were
awkward. As if they were attempting to walk along the top of a
wooden fence, teetering one way, then the other, constantly
searching for balance. Always on the edge, gazing longingly,
hopefully, at the safety of firm ground below.

At least tonight she would not have to
manufacture an excuse to linger in the sitting room. Relia
dismissed Tilly, then settled at her
bureau
de dame
. She lit a brace of candles and began to
record the endless lists necessary to organize a Winter Festival to
which every freeman and his family would be invited. Copious
quantities of food and drink, activities for every age group,
sports and games that could be played in the snow. Or on ice.
Bonfires—yes, definitely bonfires—and where they might safely be
lit. A list of those from whom they might borrow sleighs and sleds.
Surely her old one-seat sleigh was still in the stables somewhere.
How she had loved gliding along, a groom trotting beside her
pony—almost as if . . . ah, yes—as if she had acquired fairy wings
and was flying above a sea of ice crystals.

Relia smiled and made another note. No doubt
the mothers would queue up for the opportunity of allowing their
little ones to ride in her elegant miniature sleigh. And return
home with warm memories of Pevensey Park. And not be averse to
whispering kind words in their husbands’ ears about Thomas
Lanning’s candidacy. Perhaps in the dark of night, in the warmth of
the marital bed . . .

Relia was swept by an even stronger
wave of heat than the rosy blush that had matched her new
nightrail.
Impossible man!
As
if she truly cared if he won or lost. She forced herself back to
the list at hand.

Her pen was still scratching away when Thomas
entered the room. Wearily, he pulled up a chair, turned it around
and dropped into it, folding his arms across the back. A barricade?
Relia wondered. If he needed one, that was perhaps all to the good.
Or was it simply the lateness of the hour and her brain was turning
fuzzy?

His gaze moved appreciatively from her face,
past her shoulders, down to the point where the hem of her rose
satin dressing gown lay in graceful folds against the carpet. “My
head may be whirling with the idiotic intricacies of politics,” her
husband said, “but I am still capable of noticing your new finery.
Most attractive, my dear. An excellent choice.”

“
I am indeed surprised you noticed,”
Relia responded coolly.

“
A-ah!” Thomas nodded sagely. “We were
shockingly rude, I daresay. Rattling on about committees, canvasses
and charity projects with not a thought to the ladies amongst
us.”

“
Indeed you were.”

“
So you took yourself off without so
much as a “Goodnight, sweet prince.” Mournfully, Thomas shook his
head.

“
I considered taking myself off to my
grandmama in Bath,” Relia snapped back.

Thomas chuckled. “No, you will not, for you
would be certain we were tearing Pevensey Park to bits in your
absence. And”—he cocked his head to one side, examining her face
with some interest—“I do believe Westover is right. You would not
wish to miss the excitement of helping your husband become an MP
Nor the triumph when I win,” he added softly.

“
Speaking of winning,” Relia said,
ignoring her husband’s annoyingly sharp assessment of the
situation, for which she was unable to summon a suitable retort, “I
know what charity work you should pursue. Mr. Yelverton first
proposed it, and papa was going to pay half the cost. An
almshouse,” she declared. “The expense of building and upkeep are
great, I know, but it is much needed—”

“
An almshouse?” Thomas straightened in
his chair, frowning thoughtfully.

“
I am sorry,” Relia apologized. “It is
probably more than you can afford, but you could use funds from
Pevensey, just as papa was going to aid Mr. Yelverton,
and—”

“
Mrs. Lanning,” Thomas pronounced,
“have I told you you are a remarkable woman?”

“
I am arrogant, independent,
sharp-tongued, and stubborn. I can assure you no one, including
yourself, has ever termed me ‘remarkable.’”

“
Then consider it said.” Thomas
proffered a lop-sided smile. “We will be assembling an election
committee in the next few days. If they give their approval, an
almshouse it is. And, Relia . . . I do not need funds from Pevensey
Park to build it. I never needed funds from Pevensey,” he added,
“though I assure you I fully appreciate its value.”
Ah, good
. His wife was looking
thoughtful, assimilating the wonder of a husband who did not need
her money.

“
There is another matter,” Thomas said.
“Have you spoken with Miss Aldershot this evening?”

Thomas could clearly see the play of emotions
as his wife’s thoughts changed direction from his wealth, to
puzzlement, to dawning understanding. Suddenly, her eyes snapped
fire. “Do not tell me you have learned what I could not!”

Thomas shrugged. “We were all tired, we’d
drunk a bit more than we should have. Westover was last to take
himself off to bed . . . and eventually a bit of the story came
out.”

Fascinated, Relia leaned forward—a mistake,
as she found herself only inches from her husband’s lips. Swiftly,
she straightened her back to ramrod, clenched her hands in her lap.
Thomas, she noted, was wearing his amused look again. “Well?” she
demanded.

“
It seems Westover and your Gussie were
childhood sweethearts, but he was full of dreams and ambition, and
must be off to London. She was tied down with an ailing mother and
could not leave home. And, as happens, he was dazzled by the city,
letters were severely restricted by her father, Other Interests
came along.”

“
For
him
,” Relia interjected bitterly.

“
Naturally,” Thomas murmured. “It is
always the fault of the man, is it not?”

“
Do you think . . . is it possible
there is still some interest there?” Relia asked, making a valiant
effort to recall that she and Thomas had declared a
truce.

“
I have never before seen Westover even
close to maudlin. He was tonight. I believe he was quite as shaken
as Miss Aldershot.”

“
And Livvy has fallen under the spell
of Mr. Blacklock,” Relia sighed.

“
Good God!”

“’
Tis far better than her making
sheep’s eyes at The Terrible Twyford, I do assure you.”

Thomas groaned and dropped his chin onto his
folded arms. “Ah, Relia, what have I done to you? If I were the
devil creating a hell designed exactly for you, with all the things
you hate most, I could not have done a better job.”

Mrs. Thomas Lanning stared at her husband for
some moments. In spite of the lateness of the hour and the amount
of drink consumed, his eyes were wide open, studying her as
intently as she was studying him. “You know, Thomas,” she said at
last, “you are the perfect candidate for Parliament.”

“
Somehow I know that statement is not a
compliment.”

“
I find I am no longer certain of
anything,” his wife responded, “except that you have the gift of
telling people exactly what they wish to hear.”

“
If I am improving in what I say to
you, then I have exceeded my wildest fancies. No? I am not
improving, or you do not wish to admit it? Come, my dear, there is
no one else here. Can you not concede that I am becoming more
experienced in the business of being a husband?”