A remnant of grief, perhaps, or the natural awkwardness that came with getting reacquainted? Lying on the lumpy sitting room sofa, he didn’t know what the problem was, precisely, but he knew he needed to take things slowly with Evie. They needed to get to know one another again…or perhaps for the first time.
That didn’t stop him from fantasizing, however. The images of making love to his wife while she was clad in only her pearls and spectacles had made his blood rush. Like a damned greenling, he’d been forced to take matters into his own hands, stifling his groans with a pillow. The release had cleared his head and clarified his plan.
He would court Evie again, get to know her body and mind. He would secure her love. By doing so, he would steer their marriage back on course…and finally fulfill his family legacy.
“The filling and flavor depend on Mrs. Thornton’s mood,” Ethan was saying as he clapped Owen on the back. “A word to the wise, lad. Whatever you do, do not ask the good lady questions about the menu.”
Owen frowned. “Why not?”
“Just trust me on this?—”
“Good evening and welcome, sirs.”
The booming voice belonged to Mr. Thornton, the proprietor. The fellow’s chest was as wide as the barrels of ale lined up behind his bar, and his rolled sleeves revealed bulging arms that would make a guest think twice about unruly behavior. His hair was concentrated on his bushy mutton chop whiskers, and his bald pate gleamed as he bowed.
“Good evening to you, Mr. Thornton,” Ethan replied. “We were in hopes of securing a table, but it appears you are fully occupied?—”
“Never too occupied for the Harringtons,” Mr. Thornton declared. “Or for you, Mr. Godwin. The improvements you’ve made to the square have already brought new business to the village and my establishment. As landlords go, you are a breath of fresh air. Especially after the last bloke.”
“The investment is of mutual benefit,” Godwin replied. “And when it comes to cultivating Chuddums, my wife is never short on inspiration.”
“Gigi says the village needs an apothecary, a theatre, and a hospital,” Ethan said wryly. “I don’t suppose you’re going to build those for her as well?”
His green eyes glinting, Godwin said nothing.
“Bloody hell,” Ethan grumbled. “You are going to spoil our sister rotten.”
“She could never be anything but sweet.”
Hearing the former cold-blooded rake utter those words with absolute conviction, James felt his lips twitch. Yet he wasn’t surprised. His baby sister could melt a heart of stone.
“Lord Manderly, you are an esteemed guest this eve.” Mr. Thornton’s gaze turned speculative. “If you don’t mind my saying, your bid for the Reading seat is a topic of great interest to many here.”
“I never object to the truth,” James said easily. “I would expect, nay hope, that there would be curiosity about my candidacy and the upcoming hustings.”
Friend and Dunsmuir had gone full steam ahead with the campaign. Their most recent plan involved hosting a hustings in Chuddums. They’d argued that holding a political rally here—the first of its kind in Chuddums’s history and one that would bring visitors to benefit the local economy—would signal that James was no aristocratic snob, but a man of the people. The fact that the formerly downtrodden place was undergoing a renaissance, thanks in no small part to James’s kin, was visible evidence of what he stood for: progress and prosperity for all.
While James had to admit the plan was sound, he had to prepare with haste since the hustings was to be held in three weeks’ time. His rival, Eustace Ryerson, had already agreed to debate him—and planned to preach fire and brimstone, no doubt. Ryerson was also spreading coin to win favor, and rumor had it he meant to pack the hustings with hired supporters. When Dunsmuir suggested copying that strategy, James had unequivocally refused. He was going to win by honest means—or not at all.
As the innkeeper led them through the crowded public room, James did indeed draw his share of attention. He exchanged pleasantries and answered questions. Whether these men had the right to vote was irrelevant: everyone had the right to be treated with respect, and their concerns mattered as much as any landowner’s. As he’d expected, people’s main worries had to do with putting bread on their tables and caring for their families, and he took the time to explain the benefits of his proposed reforms in plain and simple terms.
At a prime table by the fire, he found himself face to face with the village’s oldest resident and pillar of the community. Mr. Walford, known simply as “Wally,” had a shock of white hair and more wrinkles than a laundry. His coat was a blazing shade of magenta, and his dark eyes were magnified by thick spectacles. He was accompanied by two ancient cronies, and the collection of empty tankards suggested the trio had been there awhile.
“Lord Manderly.” Wally drew himself up. “I would like to pose a question.”
“I shall be happy to answer if I can, sir.”
“What will you do about the curse?”
James paused, nonplussed. “I beg your pardon?”
“Are you not familiar with the legend of Bloody Thom?” Wally smacked his lips, as if preparing for a delectable dish. “I shall be happy to enlighten you?—”
“That won’t be necessary, Wally,” Ethan cut in. “My brother knows about the curse.”
Frowning, James said, “I am acquainted with the legend, yes. However, I wouldn’t say I know all the specifics?—”
“Of course you do.” Godwin, known for his composure in any situation, was suddenly as jittery as a kettle on the boil. “Mr. Thornton is taking us to our table, and we mustn’t hold him up.”
