Chapter 8
And so, it’s decided then? We’ll vote yes on next week’s resolution.” Graham, Viscount Dunburton, asked as he put down his napkin and looked at the men gathered.
Edward had gone to White’s with the express purpose of getting away from Fiona. The entire carriage ride home she had stared out the window, clearly wanting as little to do with him as possible, and he had surreptitiously watched her and the emotions that played across her face as she took in all the good and bad that was London.
That artlessness, the complete lack of guile, had transfixed him years ago. He rarely banked on the expressions on a person’s face. Yet, Fiona’s true feelings had never been a mystery to him. Today he’d seen hurt and anger and mistrust and he’d known he deserved every bit of that.
So he’d left. Partly to give her room and partly because he yearned to do something to make it right—to undo the damage he’d caused—and it was best that he didn’t. It was cleanest if she continued to loathe him.
So he’d gone to the place he was most comfortable. No sooner had he arrived than Graham and Lords Jeffries, Buchanan, and Haddington joined him, and they’d quickly gotten into a discussion about what relief measures could be put in place to alleviate the burden on the working classes while King George insisted on driving up taxes.
The discussion eased the knot of guilt that sat heavy in him. The development of new laws, crafting the direction of the country in such a time of turbulence, these were good, worthwhile things he was passionate about. They were things that felt familiar, that he felt sure about. Unlike the maelstrom of confusion buffeting him since setting eyes on Fiona again and the trepidation that gripped at the thought of her under his roof.
A footman cleared the plates so quickly and quietly Edward barely noticed his presence.
“I think we can all agree that this is the best move for the country,” Haddington said. “Although we do need to be prepared for opposition from some landowners.”
“Aye,” said Jeffries. “And those bloody protests outside Westminster aren’t helping to ease the tension. Yesterday’s gathering got completely out of hand. I heard a full dozen men were arrested.”
Edward’s hand tightened on his glass.A dozen men and a woman.
Not that anyone could discover that. The information would destroy any chance Fiona had of selling her matches, and it would cause a scandal at least as great as his failed engagement to Amelia. One scandal in a decade was more than enough.
“They say Charles Tucker was seen at the gathering,” Graham said. “The sooner they can find a reason to ship him off to Australia, the better.”
All the men gathered nodded in assent. Tucker, here in London and no doubt planning on trouble. He’d been traveling around the country for years now. A powerful orator, he left nothing but destruction in his wake. Last year was proof of that. He’d whipped the village of Abingdale into a frothing beast.
Edward had done what he could to quell the rising storm but it hadn’t been enough to stop the loudest, drunkest, angriest of them from marching on Asterly’s house with pitchforks. Fiona’s father among them. Only the explosion of Asterly’s steam engine—a blast that knocked men from their feet a full five furlongs away—had ended the strife. The rioters scattered. One of them, a young lad, had died.
By the time the watch arrived, the villagers had sobered up and Tucker had vanished. He hadn’t stopped, though. There were still reports of a short, bulldog-looking man speaking at village taverns across the country, sowing dissent. Edward wouldn’t be shocked if Alastair McTavish had entangled himself in Tucker’s web of subversion.
Alastair who, in another life, might have been Edward’s family. Had he not broken his engagement to Fi. Had he not broken his promise to never leave her.
Buchanan rose. “Well, gentlemen. Should we retire to the card room for a hand of faro?”
“Not for me,” Edward said, though he doubted Buchanan had anticipated a yes. It was widely known that that Duke of Wildeforde did not gamble.
Buchanan chuckled. “It’s a shame you’re not your brother. I could use the extra blunt.”
While the men around him laughed, Edward clenched his jaw, putting on a tight smile to conceal his frustration. This tone taken about the Wildeforde family was exactly what he was trying to avoid. But William’s blatant disregard for the family’s reputation often threatened to undo all of it.
“Will we see you at the Macklebury ball?” Jeffries asked as he pulled his chair back.
“I’ll be there,” Edward said. “My sister will be in town by then, so I’m unlikely to miss a ball for the next few months.” With any luck, he could get her married off this year and go back to his regular routine of showing up to just enough gatherings to satisfy the masses and no more.
“And it has nothing to do with you being on the hunt for a new fiancée?” There was a speculative edge to Jeffries’s tone.
Edward grunted. He didn’t want to discuss his hunt for a wife because it wasn’t news he wanted broadcast to theton’s marriage-minded mothers. But when Haddington hung back while all but Graham went to the tables, Edward knew exactly what conversation was coming.
“Are you truly thinking of marrying this season?” Haddington asked, turning his glass in circles on the tablecloth.
Edward debated answering. It was no one’s business, but Haddington had been a longtime friend and ally.
“It’s not something I want widely known, but yes. The plan is to marry soon. The older I get, the younger all the marriageable misses seem. If I wait much longer, I’ll feel like I’m marrying an infant.”
Haddington nodded. “That’s fair. Commendable. Plenty of men don’t think twice about saddling a young girl with their old, decrepit arses. Not that you’re old, mind you.”
Next to him, Graham coughed.
