“Yes, well. Least said and all that.”
“That, as you well know, is Papa’s way of saying that you are one of three daughters of his and that is that,” Lillian said with a smile.
“Now, Lillian. I do hope you have been accepting offers to dance. You really must make an effort, you know,” George said, changing the subject with all the subtlety of an infantry regiment marching across a battlefield.
“I have been mingling, as I am supposed to,” Lillian said, defensively.
“Because a marriage does not just land in your lap. You must play the game, little one,” George continued, “or you will end up on the shelf and an embittered old spinster.”
“I know all of this, Papa. It is just…something I am not very good at,” Lillian said, frustration plain on her face.
“Then let your older sister help you. Violet excels at this sort of thing,” George said, pride evident in his voice. “If it were permitted, I would say she should go into politics.”
“Or marry a politician,” Violet added. “That is how women exercise influence in our society. Through the men they marry. And you have ambitions, Lillian.”
Lillian nodded. “Yes, yes yes. I know all of this. I just find it all so intimidating.”
“Then I will help you. I know just the group of ladies that you simply must become acquainted with. Don’t worry, I will lead the conversation and you will soon find yourself feeling more at ease.”
Violet turned, ready to guide Lillian back into the shifting currents of the Ton. She looked back at George for a moment.
“And perhaps later we can continue discussing that particular matter which we began to talk about earlier? Uncle?” she said, catching and holding his eye.
George nodded briskly, then looked away.
The matter which you promised to talk to me about. The matter of who my real father is.
Chapter 2
Alexander Fitzgrant would rather have been cornered in an alleyway by a Glasgow razor gang than stand up before the room full of English peers in which he now found himself. He dressed like them, a waistcoat of royal blue, a matching cravat, and a snowy shirt. His coat was dark and his breeches cream, with patent leather shoes. In his hand he held a copy of the motion which the House was debating. It was slightly crumpled where, in his nerves, his grip had become too tight. In the seat beside him, Sebastian Cadzow, a fellow Scot by birth, sat with crossed legs and an arm lying indolently across the back of the cushioned chair.
He looks completely at ease among these glaikit Sassanachs. Because while I was choking in the chimneys of Kelvinside mansions, he was being educated at Glasgow University. And spending summers at the family estates here in England.
Cadzow caught his eye; gave him a wink and a nod. Alexander took a breath as the Speaker called out.
“His Grace, the Duke of Lorchester!”
The Tory peers that filled the rows of seats opposite shouted and jeered. Partly because Alexander had allied himself with the Whig government on this particular bill. Partly because they heard his title but saw a long-haired, bearded Scot. A highlander. A Jacobite, despite the fact that he hadn’t set foot in the highlands during his entire childhood and adolescence. It had been a common discrimination experienced ever since he had first arrived in London. The Dukedom had come to him five years ago and he had first stepped into the murky waters of London society two years ago.
What he had not been prepared for were men who smiled and spoke politely but whispered daggers behind one’s back. Alexander was used to his enemies confronting him face to face, coming at him with bared teeth and unambiguous intentions. In the savage world of politics, where words were weapons, he felt defenseless. And all the more when his Scottish accent and dialect were highlighted. The English seemed to think there was one type of Scot, wearing a kilt, wielding a claymore, and playing the pipes. And of course, roaming the glens of the highlands.
The only greenery I saw before taking the Dukedom and the estates in Hampshire was Glasgow Green. But they just hear the accent and the unfamiliar words. I may as well be French. I’m a foreigner to them.
He took a breath.
“My Lords, this bill we have before us is an important piece of legislation that will take the economy of this country into this nineteenth century. We have all heard the calls for the abolition of slavery coming from Mr. Wilberforce in the Other Place. Freedom is coming for those adults who suffer in bondage. But that Bill proposes to free adults taken from their homes and forced to work for others. This Bill is even mair important…” a smattering of laughter among the Tories at the Scottish word that had crept in despite Alexander’s best endeavors.
Flustered, he looked down at his speech held in the same hand as the bill paper. But, in that glance, he could not see exactly where in the cramped lines of scrawled script he was. Looking up, his eyes met the bright blue gaze of Ambrose Deveraux, Earl of Godstone. Deveraux was handsome, with the cold perfection of a sculpture. He was elegant and dignified, with piercing blue eyes and a confident personality giving him a charisma that few could resist. There was talk of making him leader of the Tories to challenge the government of the Earl Gray at the next election.
Deveraux’s smile was mocking. He didn’t jeer, allowing others to do that for him. As always, he behaved entirely properly for a member of the House of Lords. But that mocking smile stabbed at Alexander. He could feel the anger rising as he fought to maintain the momentum of his speech.
This is bloody important if these dunderheids could see it!
“…even more important. It would free our own children. British children from the bonds of slavery…”
“Point of order!” The Speaker called out.
Alexander saw that Ambrose had stood.
