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Jane took her aunt’s hand. It was no easier to come to her feet than it usually was, but her shoulders felt lighter than they had before. “Thank you, Aunt. I needed you here to help me do the right thing.”

“We are not there yet, my dear,” Aunt Millward said, a determined look in her eyes. “But if we can persuade Cook to our way of thinking, we shall be well on our way.”

Alexander climbed the steps to the front door of Claremont House and breathed a sigh of relief. It was over. The House of Lords had finally passed the Chimney Sweepers Bill, and the prime minister was already on his way to see the king. Once Royal Assent was given, the bill would be made law. No longer could any boy under the age of eight be bound by apprenticeship to a sweep. Parents’ consent would be required for apprenticeship, and the master sweep would be obliged to provide suitable clothing and living conditions for the boys.

A clause compelling master sweeps to offer each boy an opportunity to attend church services on Sunday had made it through the process. As expected, however, the one demanding that master sweeps be licensed had been struck from the bill. Lord Harrington and his supporters were claiming victory in that one area, but Alexander refused to allow it to lessen the sense of accomplishment he’d seen on the faces of all those who’d worked tirelessly to facilitate this change. What they had done today was a good thing. And there were greater endeavors ahead.

The front door opened, and Hastings greeted him with a bow. “Welcome home, my lord.” He straightened, waiting patiently to take Alexander’s hat.

Alexander was halfway through removing his gloves when his mother glided into the hall, her wide skirts taking every inch of space between the large assortment of trunks gathered on either side of the staircase.

“Alexander! You are home at last. I was hoping I would see you before I retired for the night.”

“Good evening, Mother,” Alexander said. “I apologize for being late. It has been a long and rather grueling day.”

“So I suppose,” Lady Bloxley said. “Your cravat is looking considerably more limp than it was when Peters tied it this morning.”

Alexander tugged at the silk, loosening it from around his neck. “Seeing as that event occurred over twelve hours ago, I daresay it has reason to be.”

“It would not do to allow your reputation for impeccable appearance to slide, my boy.”

Alexander groaned. “Honestly, Mother, I would hope that my reputation for working hard to effect positive change in the country would be slightly more important to you than the condition of my cravat.”

“Of course it is, my dear. Especially now that I have your word that once Parliament finishes for the season, you will turn your efforts to courting.”

Battling the overwhelming urge to turn around and walk back outside, Alexander gritted his teeth and gave his attention to the trunks. “Does the current state of chaos in the hall mean you are leaving London?”

“Yes.” For a fleeting moment, Alexander saw weariness on his mother’s face. But then she looked away. “I aim to leave first thing in the morning. It is time to go home.”

“You will be ahead of me by only a day or two,” he said.

Lady Bloxley swung around. “You are coming to Bloxley Hall so soon? This is marvelous! You shall be there for the annual picnic.”

Blast it all! How could he have forgotten? His mother held a picnic for the local gentry every May. She had been doing it as long as he could remember. In his youth, he’d looked forward to it as much as everyone else. Baskets overflowing with tasty pork pies, cheeses, and treacle tarts. Donkey rides and foot races and an excuse to be out of the schoolroom for an entire day. But then his father had died, and suddenly, he was the earl, and people had treated him differently.

At first, the hardest part had been the pressure to be on his very best behavior before so many people—to maintain his father’s formidable legacy despite his youth. When he had grown older, it had been dealing with the whispered expectations that flowed in a steady stream from every young lady he spoke to at the picnic—not to mention their mothers.

Over the last few years, he’d delayed his departure from London long enough to avoid the picnic altogether. It was easier that way. But if he wished to resolve the issue of Asher Barton’s living conditions right away, there would be no escaping the picnic this year.

“The invitations are sent,” his mother said. “Already, I have received acceptances back from the Greens, Pickens, and Barrows. I expect the Hadfords will come. By this time, I imagine most of our neighbors have made their introductions, but the picnic would be an excellent time for Mrs. Barrow to discover if the Hadfords are bridge players and for Lord Picken to find another gentleman willing to shoot with him.”

“Indeed.” Alexander had all but stopped listening after his mother mentioned the Hadfords. As their closest and newest neighbors, of course they would be invited. Which meant that Miss Jane Hadford would undoubtedly be in attendance. That, in and of itself, might be the single redeeming factor of his being there for the event.

“. . . given the circumstance. Do you not think so?”

With a start, he realized his mother was still speaking. And worse, she had asked him a question.

“I beg your pardon, Mother. Do I not think what?”

“Have you been standing there woolgathering this entire time?”

“Of course not.” Alexander had overtaken his mother in height over ten years previously, and yet, when she wished to, the autocratic lady still managed to look down her aquiline nose at him. She was doing it now, and Alexander knew he was in trouble. “You were telling me about the picnic.”

“Hmm.” Lady Bloxley looked unconvinced. “Then I shall take your silence on the matter as assent.” She turned to go. “Good night, Alexander. I shall look for you in the morning before I depart.”

Alexander had a sinking feeling that he’d just been foxed by his own mother, but other than admit that he’d heard nothing beyond her mention of the Hadfords, there was little he could do about it. “Good night, Mother,” he said. And as Lady Bloxley started up the stairs, he headed for his study.

A fire was burning low in the fireplace, and beside it, his favorite leather chair beckoned. Unwinding his cravat from around his neck, Alexander dropped the silk fabric on the desk and picked up the small pile of letters Hastings had left there. He carried them with him to the nearby armchair and lowered himself into the seat with grateful relief.