“The mill owner blamed chance,” I went on. “An unfortunate accident, he claimed. But Wickham heard the truth instead—about locked exits, ignored warnings, and the cost of installingproper safeguards.” I met Redmayne’s gaze. “He has not forgiven the men who called it inevitable.”
Silence settled between us, heavier than before.
“That,” I said at last, “is why his vote is secure.”
Redmayne nodded slowly. “Memory can be a powerful ally.”
“So can outrage,” I said. “When it is properly directed.”
“So who’s against it?” Redmayne asked. “I imagine Weatherby would be one.”
“And Denholm is another.” I tapped the edge of the desk. “Pennington is lost as well. He will not cross his brother-in-law, who owns several factories. His income depends upon precisely the abuses we are attempting to curb.”
Redmayne’s lip curled with disgust. “The sort of man that would rather see children maimed than dividends diminished.”
“Exactly.” I leaned back, folding my hands. “Which leaves us with the undecided.”
Redmayne considered for a moment. “Cheswick, Fenner. Mallory, Hartwell.”
“Four men,” I said, “with four different vulnerabilities.”
Redmayne did not speak at once. Instead, he settled back in his chair, attentive now, waiting for me to continue.
“Cheswick,” I continued. “He fears exposure. Not scandal precisely, but ridicule. The press unnerves him. He votes with public opinion when it grows loud enough.”
Redmayne quietly nodded.
“Fenner is simpler,” I went on. “He worships figures, precedent, and reports bound in calfskin. He will not be moved by sentiment, only by evidence so thorough he cannot dismiss it.”
“And Mallory?” Redmayne asked.
I hesitated a moment. “He values survival above all else. He watches the wind and adjusts his sails accordingly. Convince him the tide is turning, and he will follow.”
“What of Hartwell?” Redmayne asked.
“Hartwell,” I said, my voice flattening slightly, “is ruled by appetite.”
Redmayne glanced up. “Cards?”
“Among other diversions,” I replied. “He gambles beyond his means and exists in a constant state of needing ready coin. Every vote he casts is weighed not against principle, but against what it may cost him privately.”
“That makes him unpredictable,” Redmayne said.
“It makes him vulnerable,” I corrected. “He cannot afford principles that threaten his purse.”
Redmayne leaned back, studying me now with a different expression—less collegial, more alert. “You have thought this through.”
“I have had to,” I said. “Reform does not succeed on virtue alone. Appeals to conscience have failed. Which leaves persuasion of a different sort.”
He met my gaze steadily. “I wondered when we would arrive there.”
Silence followed, broken only by the faint tick of the clock upon the mantel. Outside, a carriage rattled past in Grosvenor Square. London continued on, indifferent to committee rooms, to crushed fingers, to men who voted one way or another and called it governance.
Redmayne frowned slightly, then tapped his temple. “Greystowe. We have not mentioned him. I had thought he might vote with us.”
“No,” I said at once.
“He will not?”
