Violet’s voice pulled her from her musings, and she facedthe woman seated across the table. “I beg your pardon, Miss Woolsey. You were saying?”
Violet scanned from her to Mr. Price, then back again. A tight smile followed. “I asked if you think my Edmund will make a fine member of Parliament, assuming, of course, he wins the special election ... which I have no doubt he will.”
Again withher Edmund? Was there something between them?
“What’s this?” Next to Ami, Mr. Fletcher cocked his head at Mr. Price. “Running for office, are you, old man?”
Mr. Price’s brow creased. “Yes, I told you that in my last correspondence.”
“Ah, well, you know, ha-ha!” He fluttered his fingers in the air. “So many plates to spin and all.”
What an odd business relationship. Despite Mr. Price’s assurance Mr. Fletcher was a good businessman, it was Mr. Price who seemed far more competent. Not that it was any of her concern, though. She smiled at Mr. Price. “Congratulations! I would vote for you.”
Seated between Violet and Mr. Price, Lord Bastion snorted a disgusted puff of air. “Thank heaven you cannot, Miss Dalton. Women are far too emotional to make informed decisions at the ballot box. You would do well to take example from my daughter, who aspires to marriage, family, and minding her own home—which is where women belong. Isn’t that right, Violet?”
“I am sure you know what is best, Father.” Violet’s pert little nose wrinkled, belying her words. Perhaps there was more to this pampered princess than Ami had credited.
Ami set down her fork, unwilling to drop the topic so easily. “I respectfully disagree, my lord. Some women can and do choose to keep a home, as is their choice. Others, however, feel called to a different vocation. Regardless, women are just as capable of making political decisions as men.”
A smile twitched Mr. Price’s lips. “Miss Dalton raises a good point, my lord. She and your daughter are fully capable of knowing their own minds. Furthermore, as citizens of the realm, theyhave a vested interest in the laws that govern their lives, and inasmuch, ought to have a say in who represents them.”
Warmth flared in her chest at his thoughtful defense.
Lord Bastion went red in the face. “Do not tell me that if elected to office you will pursue the absurd notion of women’s suffrage. It is a dangerous ideal that will lead to the instability of Britain’s moral fiber.”
Her warmth flared into hot fire. Sentiment such as this was the very reason she struggled so hard to be a recognized Egyptologist!
Even so, she smiled. If she could face brigands selling stolen goods in a dark alley, she could certainly take on this pompous politician. “And yet, my lord, is it not a moral obligation to allow those being governed a chance to participate in the democratic process? I fail to see how ensuring everyone’s voice is heard will lead to instability.”
“It is that exact failure to understand of which I speak.” His sharp eyes homed in on her, a predator bent on shaking the life from his prey. “The fairer sex does not have the intellectual capacity to understand politics. Why, if women start voting, who knows what sort of chaos will ensue?”
“Nothing compared to the sort of chaos in a room full of cutthroat smugglers and opium eaters,” Mr. Fletcher said under his breath.
Ami silently pushed away her plate, her stomach rebelling at the rich food and the viscount’s snobbish remarks.
“I find no lack in Miss Dalton’s intelligence.” Mr. Price’s gaze sought hers, and though he’d spoken for the room, his defense was somehow far more intimate.
Once again her pulse raced. Must he always have that effect upon her?
Violet cleared her throat, eyes narrowed on Mr. Price.
“Of course, Miss Woolsey”—he dipped his head toward the woman—“neither do I find lack in you.”
“To the women, then!” Mr. Fletcher raised his glass.
Mr. Price lifted his as well. “Indeed. To the ladies.”
Though he used the plural, Ami got the distinct impression his toast was for her.
Lord Bastion was slow to reach for his goblet, but to his credit, he did—though he purposely avoided eye contact with her.
Once they drank, Barnaby signaled for plate removal, easing some of the tension in her shoulders. Five minutes more. Just five. She could do this.
Several footmen appeared, placing silver dishes of raspberry sorbet in front of each diner. My, how things had changed in only a couple of weeks’ time when Barnaby himself had waited upon her and Mr. Price. Had Mr. Price hired these servants only today with the arrival of the Woolseys, or did he have a secret cache of them on standby waiting for occasions such as this? The workings of a fine manor home were more mysterious than the hieroglyphics on a stone tablet.
Violet took a demure little nibble of her frozen dessert. “Will you play for us tonight, Miss Dalton?”
Ami blinked. Play what? The piano? She didn’t know her right hand from her left. Cards? The only two games she knew how to play were senet and hounds and jackals. Or did this society lady wish to engage in a rousing round of charades? Whatever it might be, she’d had more than enough of Violet and her father’s company for one evening.
