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Imagine needing constant admiration to survive.
Pitiful.
For Asquith’s part, he wanted Lenora’s faith, but he was indifferent to everyone else’s. He certainly wouldn’t need a crowd of callow bucks falling over themselves for want of his notice.
Willard liked to portray himself an arbiter of taste and distinction in high circles, and a libertine leader of decadence and debauchery in low. In truth, he was a hollow man, forever at the mercy of his needs.
Asquith, on the other hand, had a well-established character. So established, Amelia had asked him to take Preston in hand. His life, despite its imperfections, held more depth than Willard’s.
When had Asquith crossed the bridge from greenhorn to nonesuch without noticing? Perhaps the challenge of caring for his wards had tested, and then changed, him.
One ward in particular.
“Asquith!” Lord Hampton greeted.
Asquith had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he’d missed the approach of his host and companion.
“Why aren’t you upstairs dancing?” Hampton asked. “Didn’t I see you arrive with Lady Asquith and your wards?”
“One ward,” he answered.
“One ward,” Hampton’s friend echoed.
Asquith turned. He found himself staring into the eyes of the Lord Chancellor, John Scott. Scott’s current smile radiated an ease, yet beneath his thick white eyebrows, Asquith detected a sharp, calculating mind.
The deuce.
Asquith had met Scott previously, though not in the congenial atmosphere of a private residence. Perhaps that’s why he had not immediately recognized the man.
The Lord Chancellor had once been an Oxford scholar with aspirations for the church, but after he’d fallen in love with a banker’s daughter and eloped, he’d lost his position and had to tutor students.
A lesser man might have accepted that quiet life.
Scott had not.
He’d gained admission to the bar, and his legal profession propelled his rise through Society’s ranks. He spent years in service as a Minister of Parliament, and then, when the role of Chief Justice for the Court of Common Pleas became available, Prime Minister Addington, with old George’s approval, appointed him as Lord Chancellor.
His was a remarkable story, to say the least.
“Ah, Hampton,” Scott said, “the young man deserves an evening away from his responsibilities.”
“They are never trouble,” Asquith said. “And only Miss Lenora came with my mother tonight.”
“The same ward you took to Gunter’s?” Scott’s Newcastle accent remained strong. “My Bessie thought she spotted a Wainwright with you in the Asquith barouche.”
Asquith nodded. “The barouche is hard to miss.” And widely recognized, too. In Season, his mother rarely missed an opportunity to parade with the distinctive claret conveyance during the fashionable hour on Rotten Row.
“Asquith,” Hampton explained, “went to Gunters with Preston and Amelia Monday last.”
“Monday last?” Scott rubbed his chin. “Strange. As I recall, my discussion with Bessie happened a while back. Sometime in the middle of last month.”
Asquith kept a pleasant expression even as the blood drained from his face.
“I must be mistaken,” Scott finished.
“Join us?” Hampton offered Asquith. He lowered his voice. “Scott and I are about to escape to my study for a quiet, peaceful port.”
With a wary glance, Asquith assessed the Chancellor.
