Valor Under Siege (The Honorables) (13 page)

“You’re a barrister, then?” interrupted the second gentleman.

“Well,” Norman prevaricated, “I wish to look to the future and help create a more just England. Would you be so kind, gentlemen, as to name for me several social or economic challenges that plague the good people of Fleck?”

His question was answered with expressions of bewilderment. Norman shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Now, now, Mr. Wynford-Scott,” said Alderly, sauntering over. “I heard you dodge the gentleman’s question.” Cupping a hand to the side of his mouth, he told the two men
sotto voce
, “He hates talking about himself. Makes his ears go red.” The men chuckled. Alderly rocked back on his heels, thumbs hooked in his waistcoat pockets. “You asked if Mr. Wynford-Scott is a barrister? Well, here’s the truth.”

Norman’s eyes widened.
What are you doing?
he silently demanded. Alderly flashed an easy grin. “The truth, my good sirs, is that Mr. Norman Wynford-Scott has not been called to the bar. So moved was he by his firsthand experience with the Crown’s justice system, that he decided— Well, these were his very words. He told me himself, he said, ‘Alderly, The People need an advocate.’ Just like that, sirs, humble as your mother’s Sunday roast. And I told him”—Alderly clapped Norman’s shoulder in that too-far reach again and gave him a fond smile—“I told him
he
was the advocate The People need in Parliament, and that I’d dedicate my all to get him there. And so we both of us took leave from our studies at Gray’s Inn to pursue this noble undertaking.”

The gentlemen made sounds of admiration. Norman’s thanks tasted like ashes in his mouth. He understood the necessity of saying he’d temporarily stepped away from Gray’s Inn to pursue a seat in Commons. It was the truth ... of a sort ... and the most prudent explanation of his leave of absence without dredging up the matter of his screening.

“Well, you certainly have my attention, young man,” said one of the fellows. “You’re a credit to the opposition party, and I, for one, believe it would be Fleck’s privilege to send you to Parliament. This country needs more men with a mind for public service.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Norman shook the man’s hand. “Thank you for your support.”

When they’d left, he turned his head and leveled a glower on Alderly. “What?” said the younger man. “You were drowning out there. I threw you a lifeline. You’re welcome.”

“We agreed a straightforward taking-a-leave-of-absence story would be best. I don’t need embellishments like these. You lied to those men.”

Alderly barked a laugh.

Norman sighed and ran a hand down his cheek. “I don’t like it, is all. It feels wrong.”

“Maybe it is.” Alderly shrugged. “I’ll leave that to the philosophers. Think of it this way: These little untruths are only temporary, just until the election. Once you’ve taken your seat, you will take Parliament by storm and dazzle this sleepy little borough, and they’ll return you as often as you like on the basis of your work in Commons. The topic of Gray’s Inn will never arise again.”

Norman considered his toes, some six-and-a-half feet below. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Mrs. Mattingly!” Sir Seymour called out the door. “Looking for your husband? Here he is, keeping us rascals company. Won’t you join us, madam? And you as well, Lady Fay.”

Norman’s eyes flew to the entrance just as Elsa stepped into the rectangle of light delineated by the doorframe. Their gazes locked, and time seemed to stop. Her indigo eyes were clear, her complexion graced with a kiss of healthful color. The temptation of her body was like a magnetic force drawing his eyes down.
Exquisite.
Even in a prim muslin frock, her curves called to him, made his hands hunger to touch. His eyes returned to her face. She was watching him look at her. Elsa’s plump lips parted slightly, the roses in her cheeks a little redder. Norman’s body responded to her unspoken cues, hardening, preparing to lay claim—

“Come in, my lady, have a drink, won’t you? With my compliments.”

Sir Seymour’s question shattered the moment. Elsa paled; her mouth snapped shut. “No, thank you.” She shot Norman a look of hurt. “It would be unseemly to fraternize with the enemy.” Her tone was teasing, but she bared her teeth in almost a snarl. “Gentlemen.” With a curt nod, she was off.

Enemy?
Norman internally reeled at the word. Was that how she saw him?

Grimly, he set his jaw. If Elsa Fay was determined to have a battle, then Norman would give her just that.

“You said it would be uncontested!” Oliver Fay fumed. He paced the length of the solarium she’d had added to the rear of the cottage, paused to watch a hedgehog, atypically out in the daytime, waddle across a stretch of grass and seek shelter beneath an azalea. He rounded, jabbing an accusing finger in her direction. “You assured me I had only stand for the seat and it would be mine.”

Elsa maintained her composure, careful not to show any of her own turmoil. Idly, she plucked a loose hair from her ivory skirt. “In my defense, Cousin Oliver, Fleck’s elections
have
been uncontested for half a century. This is rather an exceptional circumstance. Still, I don’t believe you have reason for concern. Mr. Wynford-Scott is an outsider, while you have roots here.”

“
Pah!
” Oliver swiped his hand through the air. “My parents are long gone, and my brother has scarcely been in residence since inheriting Cousin Harvey’s title. It’s just you and me now, Elsa, and you’re only a Fay by marriage.” The heels of his shoes tapped a rapid tattoo against the tile floor; he looked like he was running in place. His small brown eyes narrowed. “Perhaps our influence is no longer as great as it once was.”

Elsa harbored similar misgivings, but it was her job to inspire confidence in her candidate, not undermine it. “Nonsense. The Fays of Beeswick Hall have provided patronage and guidance to the people of Fleck for more than a century.”

The family seat, Beeswick Hall, lay but two miles from Berrybrook Cottage, but Elsa had not stepped foot in the place since a month after Harvey’s death. As soon as she’d been able to secure the funds of her inheritance, she had purchased her little home here and her townhouse in London and walked away from the houses that had seen some of the darkest moments of her life.

Oliver collapsed into the chair beside Elsa’s in a dejected slump. “But the Hall is shut up, and that underhanded Sir Seymour has come out in support of this Wynford-Smith—”

“Scott.”

“—and he’s far more educated in the law than I, and he’s giving speeches about issues.
Issues
, for God’s sake!” With a growl of frustration, he pressed his hands to the silver wings frosting his close-cropped dark hair. Instinctively, Elsa dropped her gaze to her hands, now twisted together in her lap. Her stomach quavered. Oliver did not look much like Harvey, but his voice was similar, and when his temper began to rise ...

The desire for a drink speared her throat. She drew several slow, deep breaths.
I am safe
, she reminded herself.
Harvey is gone.
When the flutter of fear subsided, she addressed her craving.
I have not had a drink in ninety-seven days, and this will not be the day that breaks me.

“Tell me about my rival.”

In her mind’s eye, Elsa saw Norman standing up there on the hustings, a veritable fortress of a man, stilted in manner but eloquent in speech as he addressed Fleck’s electors intelligently, but in a way that was accessible to them and their concerns. Were he not campaigning against Oliver, Elsa would have cheered and applauded him. He was a gifted orator and would make a formidable member of Parliament.

But he
was
standing against Oliver. And more to the point, she was convinced that he was really here to stand against
her
. At the Rabbit’s Glen, when Sir Seymour offered her a drink, Elsa caught a sardonic tone to his voice, a wry slant to his smile. If he knew about her habitual drunkenness, he must have learned of it from Norman.

The idea of such a betrayal sent a stab of pain through her chest. After Harvey died and Elsa began taking lovers, she had always conducted her affairs in London, where it was easier for her activities to go overlooked. The jaded
ton
didn’t much care what she did as long as she was discreet. Fleck was her safe haven, but if word of her drunkenness and bedroom activities got out, it would not be much longer. She would no longer be a respected pillar of the community, but a moral bankrupt, a persona non grata.

Norman, for all his kind eyes and careful manners, posed a danger. She would do well to remember it.

“Mr. Wynford-Scott is highly intelligent. As you say, he knows more about the law than you ever will.”

Oliver scowled. “If that’s supposed to make me feel better ...”

Just then, the footman announced two visitors, Mrs. Cecily Easton and Mrs. Amelia Hewett.

“Well!” the young and exuberant Mrs. Easton exclaimed. “Hasn’t our quiet little by-election turned into quite the intrigue!”

“Hardly,” drawled the older Mrs. Hewett. She looked pointedly down her beakish nose at Oliver. “Mr. Wynford-Scott is the only candidate who seems to be doing anything.”

“And that’s why I asked you here,” Elsa said. “You were both kind enough to offer your assistance with Mr. Fay’s events. With this unforeseen addition of a rival candidate, our efforts will have to be a little more vigorous than previously anticipated. I was just telling Mr. Fay about Mr. Wynford-Scott. I am personally acquainted with the gentleman, as we have mutual friends in London.”

The footman returned with the refreshments Elsa had ordered. She poured beverages into crystal tumblers that had been, in their former life, her scotch glasses.

Mrs. Hewett held her glass aloft, appraising the contents with a gimlet eye. Then she brought it to her nose for a cautious sniff. “What is this?”

“Chilled tea, with muddled strawberries and a dash of cream,” Elsa replied. “A recipe of my own devising.” Without the diversion of intoxicating beverages, Elsa had tired of pot after endless pot of tea and, lately, had taken to concocting new drinks to entertain her palate.

Cecily took a sip, let out an appreciative “
Mmmmm
,” then smacked her lips. “Delicious, Elsa! Please give me the recipe. This would be perfect for my summer lawn party.”

“Of course, dear. Just now, though, we really must put our heads together about the campaign.” Returning to her own seat, the familiar weight of the tumbler in her palm, Elsa leaned forward. “Now, Mr. Wynford-Scott is intelligent, and he knows the law inside and out. We’ll never defeat him if we try to campaign on bills and exploratory committees and all that dry stuff. No offense, Cousin Oliver, but he will run roughshod over you if you try to approach on that front.”

“None taken.” Oliver sipped his chilled tea, wrinkled his nose. “Have any brandy to hand, Elsa? This could use a dash.”

“No. Mr. Wynford-Scott has two weaknesses we can use to our advantage: He is not familiar with Fleck as we are, and he is socially reserved. Since we cannot woo voters on legal matters, we will have to entice them to come to the hustings for us in other ways.”

Cecily’s face creased in confusion, but Mrs. Hewett’s eyes narrowed in shrewd understanding. “A charm offensive.” Elsa nodded. The old lady cracked a laugh. “Marvelous! My sisters and I used to assist our mother when she went to every house in town, delivering cakes and jams and soaps and little sweets for the children on our father’s behalf. He was returned to Commons every election, until he retired,” she said, her voice ringing with pride.

“Just the sort of thing I had in mind,” Elsa said. “Also, ribbons, banners, and buntings in Tory orange. We must get visual markers out there,” she said, recalling Laura’s Whig blue ribbon at Norman’s speech. “Cecily, can you see about organizing some women to make and distribute those things? And Mrs. Hewett, since you have experience with it, can you take charge of the door-to-door gifts?”

Mrs. Hewett’s spine straightened. “Leave it to me, Lady Fay.”

“Excellent. Now, Oliver, if you do not yet have one, I need you to order an orange waistcoat and cravats. You wouldn’t wear the waistcoat and cravats together, of course, but use them to add a dash of orange to your ensembles. Oh, and perhaps a hat?” She tapped her lip. “I wonder if I’ve time to get an order in to Mr. Milton in London. He did the most ingenious—”

“Elsa!” Oliver blurted.

She startled, nearly dropping her glass. “What?”

“In all of your schemes, am I anything but a doll for you to dress up and pose? Ribbons and jams and hats—my God! I do not want a petticoat campaign—begging your pardon, ladies,” he hastily added, nodding to the others. “But you seem to have planned this whole thing around women. Need I remind you who does the voting?”

Mrs. Hewett snorted into her drink. Cecily’s mouth carved a sly smile. Elsa clucked her tongue. “Oh, Oliver. You really should have married. Had you done so, you would know that while it might be a man on the hustings stating how he votes, that vote is the communal property of everyone in his household. You can be certain each and every elector will have heard plenty from his wife and children, and that there may even be grief if he casts that vote against their wishes. Men want harmony at home. They listen to their wives.” She tilted her head and pinned him in a sharp stare. “Mr. Wynford-Scott is going for the intellect, economics, this and that reform. He’s good at that, very good, but he lacks the emotional connection that will sway the hearts of Fleck. If you want to win, dear cousin, you would be wise to begin with the women.”

Oliver pursed his mouth thoughtfully. Elsa straightened and smiled sweetly. “Or, if you do not care for my advice, you’re welcome to try to find someone else who knows how to win an election.”

• • •

The following morning, Elsa met Lady Laura Beaufort in front of the village’s little chapel as throaty clangs reverberating from the squat bell tower sounded ten o’clock.

“Meeting like this feels clandestine almost,” Laura said with a note of delight.