“That is the thing.” She gnawed on her lip. “I am being offered the spot because of a last-minute cancellation. They want me to present this weekend in London. In three days.”
“Well, now. That doesn’t leave much time to get ready…but needs must.”
She stared at him. “You think I should accept?”
“If you do not, you will regret turning down an opportunity you have worked diligently to achieve.”
How well he knew her. Still, there were other pressing considerations.
“What if the blackmailer issues a demand?—”
“By the time we return from London, only a week will have passed since his last note, and his pattern has been to wait a fortnight. Moreover, you should go about your business as you’ve always done so that he believes nothing has changed. He will think that he has kept you silenced with fear, and this will prompt him to contact you again. Then, we will seize the bounder.”
Comforted by James’s logic, she said hesitantly, “If you think it is all right?—”
“Sweetheart, it is not about what I think. It is about what you want. Say the word, and I shall make the arrangements for London. In fact, while we are there, I will attend to some business of my own.”
Her heart swelled with all the love she felt for him.
“No matter how horrid my past was, it was worth it,” she said solemnly.
“The devil you say.” James scowled. “You deserved better, Evie. You should never?—”
“I am not done. What I meant to say is that everything I endured, everything I survived…I would do it all over again if it brought me here. To you.”
Emotion swarmed his eyes.
“So, yes, I would like to go to London and present my work. Thank you for understanding me and being my greatest champion. For being everything I could ever want in a husband.”
“You are welcome.” He cupped her cheek. “Thank you for trusting me. For supporting me—with my family and my political ambitions. For being everything I want in a wife.”
She fiddled with his cravat. “I can think of more interesting ways to thank one another and take care of unfinished business.”
“Thank Christ. The unfinished business, as you so delicately put it, is about to burst its seams.”
He held out his hand.
Fingers linked, they raced, laughing, out of the library and up the stairs.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
They arrived in London the day before Evie’s presentation. The city provided a stark contrast to the pastoral charm of Chuddums. The streets were filled with noisy crowds, as well as hansom cabs, omnibuses, and carts vying to get ahead. Opening the carriage window, James was assailed by the pungent mélange of coal smoke, roasting nuts, and sewage from the Thames. The despair of the poorhouses was juxtaposed with the grandeur of the emerging Palace of Westminster, a Gothic masterpiece still under construction.
James thought that London represented the best and worst of everything. Here in the metropolis, industry was pitted against nature’s order, progress against tradition. Change was around every corner, even if that corner had been there since the first days of Londinium. Many eked out a meager existence in the shadows of a privileged few. Problems abounded, and one had the choice to be part of them or part of the solution. James chose the latter. It exhilarated him to think that one day he might be part of this city’s vibrant history, making his mark in the newly rebuilt House of Commons.
The next morning, he decided to stop by his club while Evie prepared for her lecture this evening. While he was glad that she’d persuaded Harkness to stay behind—to his surprise, the old bat hadn’t put up much of a protest—he did not like leaving his wife alone. He made her promise not to leave the premises and instructed the staff to secure the house. Only when he was satisfied that she was protected did he attend to his own affairs.
Located on Pall Mall, the Reform Club had been designed by famed architect Charles Barry and resembled a Renaissance palazzo with its pale stone, arched windows, and imposing entrance. The interior was equally impressive, a showcase of modernity and progress. The atrium’s glass roof flooded the space with natural light, and gaslight illuminated the darker corners. The high-ceilinged rooms, redolent of coffee and cigar smoke, buzzed with talk about technological advancements, recent bills, and global affairs.
While James could have been a member of Brooks’s, the established Whig stronghold favored by his father and his father’s father, he’d chosen membership at the Reform instead. He had a healthy respect for tradition—for the pedigree and port atmosphere of Brooks’s—but he felt more at home here amongst the intellectuals and radicals, in the often choppy but always exciting sea of change.
Immediately hailed by several peers, he took lunch with them in the dining room, which offered sweeping views of Pall Mall. The meal featured some of the best French cuisine outside of Paris, yet James found his appetite waning. As his cronies extolled his virtues and claimed that his victory was certain, the knot in his gut tightened. Even as he tried to temper their expectations, they waxed on about the importance of his win…and the dire consequences if he should fail.
After lunch, he was ready to take his leave. As he passed through the smoking room, which was fashionably outfitted with walnut furnishings and burgundy upholstery, he saw a solitary figure slumped in a wingchair in a quiet corner. Recognizing Henry Gosford, he hesitated, then decided that delaying the encounter would only make matters more awkward in the future.
As he approached, Gosford looked up. The fellow was only a few years older than James, but scandal had aged him. New lines were carved into his distinguished countenance, and his sandy hair had gone grey at the temples. His blue eyes were bloodshot, and when he put out his cigar and rose, his clothing hung loosely on his frame. He was, James saw with some shock and concern, a shadow of his former self.
“Gosford, well met.”
