Sixteen
Strategies and Secrets
Lord Redmayne arrived just after one, bringing with him a gust of cool May air and the faint scent of cigar smoke clinging to his coat. “Your Grace,” he said, inclining his head.
“Redmayne,” I replied, stepping forward and offering my hand. “I am glad you could make the time.”
His gaze swept the room, lingering on the piles of papers arranged with deliberate order across my desk. “Mayhaps I should have brought reinforcements.” A touch of humor colored his voice.
Men who’d recently acquired a title tended to be either toplofty or wary of making a mistake. Good to know he possessed a sense of humor.
I laughed. “We do have our work cut out for us. I can offer you brandy or whiskey from my private reserve.”
“It’s a bit early in the day.”
“Then I’ll ring for tea.”
Redmayne’s face took on a look of horror. “Heaven forbid. I meant it as a joke.”
“Ah.” I shook my head, faintly amused. “You give nothing away. I should remember that, if I ever find myself across a card table from you.”
I turned toward the sideboard and poured two modest tots of whiskey, passing one to Redmayne before taking the other for myself.
He accepted the glass with a brief nod of thanks, though his attention did not linger on the whiskey. His gaze remained on me, alert, measuring, as I gestured toward the chair set opposite the desk.
“Please,” I said. “Sit.”
He did so, settling forward rather than back, his posture suggesting a man accustomed to listening for the moment when talk turned consequential.
“Have you had occasion to read the Manchester reports?” I asked, taking the seat behind my desk.
“I have,” he replied at once. His mouth tightened. “They make for grim reading.”
“Injuries catalogued with appalling regularity. Deaths attributed to causes that would be avoidable with the most modest of safeguards. They are hard pills to swallow. My goal is to enact legislation to minimize those tragedies.”
He exhaled slowly. “Some of the committee members will fight you every inch of the way.”
“I expect nothing less.” I took a measured sip of whiskey, then set the glass aside. “Which is why we must be convincing with our arguments. We require seven votes in favor to move the measure to the full House of Lords. By my reckoning, we are three short.”
He braced his forearms against his knees. “And who, precisely, do you count as secure?”
“I can rely upon four without hesitation,” I said. “My own. Harcourt’s. Wickham’s.” I paused a fraction, then added, “And yours—if I may.”
“You may,” he said without hesitation. “But Harcourt and Wickham?” A note of curiosity entered his voice. “I would not have placed them so firmly in your camp.”
“Harcourt’s opposition to industrial magnates borders on the personal,” I replied. “He has never forgiven them for treating Parliament as an inconvenience rather than an authority. As for Wickham—” I shook my head. “He does not forget the mill fire. Nor the testimony that followed.”
I leaned back, my gaze briefly unfocusing as memory supplied what the papers could not. “A fire occurred two winters ago at a cotton mill outside Oldham. A blocked stairwell. A single iron door that opened inward. When the machinery overheated, the blaze spread faster than anyone could outrun it.”
Redmayne stilled.
“Fourteen were killed,” I continued. “Most of them women. Three children.” I paused. “More than twice that number were injured—burns, crushed limbs, lungs ruined by smoke. Wickham attended the inquest. He was meant to observe. Instead, he listened.”
“To whom?” Redmayne asked quietly.
“To a widower who had lost his wife and eldest daughter in the same quarter-hour,” I said. “To a boy of twelve who survived only because he leapt from a second-floor window and shattered his leg. Wickham knew the family. Had hunted with the father years earlier. Had dined at their table.”
Redmayne’s jaw tightened.
