“You are referring to the dreadful circumstances which have affected your family,” Dunsmuir said. “The disappearance of Lord Owen during the Afghan War and his, shall we say, unruly behavior after he was rescued. Then there was the tragic accident that robbed Lord Ethan of his musical career.”
James frowned. He hadn’t been thinking of his brothers but of his own weaknesses and how his opponents might capitalize upon them. Now he bristled at the characterization of Ethan and Owen as detriments to his aspirations.
“Owen served this country honorably and at great personal cost,” he said severely. “He is not alone in the challenges he faced returning from war: former soldiers endure hardships every day. As a civilized society, we owe them not only gratitude but compassion, and this must be reflected in policies that provide for their care after the horrors of battle.
“As for Ethan, he has persevered in the face of adversity—adversity that would bring most men to their knees. He is a study in determination and grace. I could not be prouder of my brothers. In fact, they inspire me to be a better man.”
“He is ready.” Friend turned to Dunsmuir, his face lit with excitement. “I told you he was ready, and this proves it.”
“That was a pretty speech,” Dunsmuir agreed.
Scowling, James said, “That wasn’t a speech?—”
“Not quite,” the Scot agreed. “Yet it has potential. Listen to me, old chap.” His expression grew uncommonly serious. “This isn’t just about your ambitions. If we do not put our best candidate forward, we will lose the seat…to Ryerson.”
“Eustace Ryerson?” The thought chilled James’s nape. “Do you think he has a chance?”
“Since the repeal of the Corn Laws, Ryerson’s stance has grown increasingly reactionary. His proposed policies aim to punish the poor for their so-called moral failure and to silence reformers—he’s taken aim at trade societies and ‘strong-minded females’ already. Unfortunately, his fear-mongering has gained him a devoted following.” Dunsmuir’s shrug was philosophical. “You know as well as I do that Ryerson plays dirty. Several of my sources say that he was the one who leaked Gosford’s indiscretion to the papers. He will undoubtedly brandish the scandal like a weapon against our party during his crusade for righteousness.”
James swore softly. “You think Ryerson could win Gosford’s vacated seat?”
“We think that he will win if we do not have a stronger candidate.” Friend leaned his arms on his thighs, his gaze solemn and unwavering. “Think of what is at stake here. Ryerson wants to reinstitute harsher workhouse rules. He wants to subject poor women and children to his ‘morality screenings’ to qualify for medical attention. He opposes any kind of electoral reform because, apparently, if anyone but wealthy landowners has a say in the way this country is run, it will lead to mob rule and social collapse.”
“Now that is a speech.” James tilted his head. “Why don’t you run, Friend? Or you, Dunsmuir?”
Friend shook his head. “I’m not good with people.”
“And I might be a little too good,” Dunsmuir said ruefully. “I’ve a few skeletons in my closet. From back in the day, of course.”
“You are the one for the job, Manderly,” Friend said firmly. “When you speak, people listen. Be the voice of change, and we will manage things in the background.”
“We’ve built relationships,” Dunsmuir added. “We have people to call upon, people eager to support you as Gosford’s replacement. Say the word, and your campaign begins now.”
How could he turn down friends who had such faith in him? How could he refuse the opportunity to contribute to the greater good? At the same time, how could he do any of this without Evie’s support—without the foundation of a healthy, if not happy, union?
James expelled a breath. “I must consult my wife before giving an answer. This decision will affect her life as much as mine.”
“By all means.” Dunsmuir smiled. “However, I think I know what she will say.”
That makes one of us, old boy.
“Lady Manderly is a sensible female.” From Friend, this was the highest form of praise. “During our talks, she has made convincing arguments supporting the rights of women and the working class. You will do well with her by your side.”
That depended on the outcome of James’s conversation with Evie. He realized that he could no longer allow things to continue as they were. His efforts to protect Evie’s delicate sensibilities in the past had backfired. The best option now was to address the issues concerning their future head-on and without further delay.
“I shall speak to her,” James said.
Chapter Nine
Evie crept down the corridor like a thief. Stealthily, she opened the door to her bedchamber and peered inside. The low-burning lamps told her that Harkness had not waited up for her, which felt like a reprieve. She couldn’t deal with her companion at this moment—couldn’t face yet another loved one she was now keeping secrets from. Closing the door, she sagged against it, her heart thudding with a mixture of fear, guilt, and relief.
I did it. I paid the blackmailer.
She drew off her gloves with hands that shook. Going to the fire, she rubbed her clammy palms over her cheeks and tried to calm her nerves. Had she done the right thing? By meeting the fiend’s demands, had she simply opened the door to further extortion?
What choice did I have?
When she arrived at the greenhouse yesterday morning, she’d seen with dread that her journal lay upon her desk. She knew she had locked her notebook in the drawer; someone had invaded her sanctuary yet again. Forcing herself to flip through the pages, she’d found a blunt message:
