September Awakening (The Silver Foxes of Westminster Book 4)

by Merry Farmer

  “Gladstone’s directive is clear,” Alex Croydon said, stabbing his finger on the letter that lay open on his desk in the library. “In order to nip whatever opposition Disraeli’s gang throws at us in the bud, we need to come up with a plan of action for November.”

  “Which is easier said than done, when you consider the monumental work ahead of us,” Malcolm Campbell answered as he paced restlessly in front of the desk.

  Armand Pearson knew that kind of restlessness and then some. He’d felt it nearly constantly since receiving the news five years ago that his eldest cousin had died, leaving him the sole heir to the Helm title and estate and all that came with it. But instead of pacing, like Malcolm, Armand felt frozen to his spot, unable to move.

  “We need to tackle the issues one at a time,” Peter deVere said, looming by the side of Alex’s desk, glancing at the letter. “Gladstone can’t expect us to write an entire agenda for the full spectrum of the Liberal Party’s aims.”

  “Why not?” Malcolm asked with a shrug.

  “Because outlining the entire course of action for a new government in secret could be considered a gross manipulation of power and undermining democratic process?” Peter suggested.

  “I think he just wants us to come up with a course of action on women’s rights,” Alex said. “Especially since I’ll be too busy in the cabinet to put as much effort into it as I have been putting.”

  “Which is why we’re all here, isn’t it?” Rupert Marlowe asked. “To take up your torch and continue to run?” He was the youngest of their group by three decades and likely only there because his indomitable mother had announced she had better things to do than steer the course of the British government. And yet, young Rupert—who was not even twenty—was not the odd man out in the room.

  That honor fell squarely on Armand’s shoulders. He didn’t know what he was doing. Politics was new to him, as was being a viscount. He was a man of medicine, not a statesman. He was in so deeply over his head that he couldn’t even see the light above the water. For the thousandth time, he wished his family’s solicitors had untangled the Helm inheritance mess by choosing his cousin Mark to be viscount instead of him.

  “The first order of our business should be to crush our enemies,” Malcolm said, his southern Scottish accent as sharp as his words. “We’ve already managed to wedge Turpin out of government and into prison. Denbigh has fled to his country estate with his tail between his legs, and word has it he won’t be returning to London for the new Parliament. Shayles needs to be next.” His voice dropped to a low, menacing growl.

  Lord Theodore Shayles was the one bit of politics that Armand had been able to grasp since being forced to take up his seat in the House of Lords. “Last I heard, Shayles was in trouble with his creditors,” he said, the only information he had to add to the situation.

  “Knowing Shayles, if one source of income dries up, he’ll squeeze one of his pimple friends until they burst into giving him whatever money he needs,” Malcolm grumbled.

  “What a thoroughly disgusting metaphor,” Peter said with a smirk. “Apt, though. And what with the income I’m sure he makes from that so-called club of his….”

  “What club?” Rupert asked when Alex fell silent and the rest of them merely winced.

  “You’re too young to know about things like that,” Malcolm said, as though Rupert were his own son instead of Katya’s.

  Alex sent Malcolm a flat look before turning to Rupert. “It’s the blackest sort of brothel, disguised as any other club. Most of its activities are horrifically illegal, but thus far, Shayles has managed to blackmail and bribe his way into keeping it open.”

  “That’s horrid,” Rupert said, turning pale. “Surely, Scotland Yard could do something.”

  “We suspect Scotland Yard is on the payroll,” Peter sighed.

  “I want the Black Strap Club shut down,” Malcolm cut through the discussion, his growl feral. “I don’t care if it takes a parliamentary act closing all gentlemen’s clubs or the destruction of Shayles’s personal fortune, I want that man punished for the harm he’s caused over the years.”

  “Yes, of course, we want the same thing,” Peter said with a vaguely uncomfortable pinch of his expression.

  They all knew why Malcolm had made Shayles his nemesis. Malcolm’s deceased wife, Tessa, had been forced into an abusive and disastrous marriage to Shayles before Malcolm was able to help her escape and obtain a divorce. For Alex and Peter, neutralizing Shayles was a matter of principle and a way to remove the chief obstacle to their grander aims. For Armand, Shayles was the reason his life as he knew it was over. Peers were needed to cast votes in Parliament, not to treat the sick, and so his practice had come to a swift and thorough end. Shayles and his cronies were the reason Armand’s vote in the House of Lords had become more important than his skill at healing, a fact which had made every day since he inherited a misery.

  “We’ll have to include the criminalization of prostitution along with our efforts to increase the rights of women, in our agenda for November,” Alex said with a sigh. “Though, much as it pains me to say it, I fear it won’t be popular.”

  “Nothing we’re proposing to do will be popular until we provide thorough, well-thought-out arguments as to why it is necessary,” Peter added, steering the conversation back to the task at hand.

  “Whatever it takes,” Malcolm snapped. “I’m tired of seeing women suffer needlessly.”

  Armand walked away from the desk, his mouth pinched in a sour expression. He’d seen first-hand the ravages of the venereal diseases women had contracted through prostitution, and often through marriage to scurrilous husbands. When inheriting his blasted title had precluded him from practicing standard medicine, he’d turned to the only sort of medicine he could, the sort that wasn’t considered serious medical pursuit at all, the budding field of gynecology. Even then, he’d only been able to help with research, not treatment. But just a tiny dip in the waters of what women suffered through, without attention or acknowledgement, had increased his frustration. The world told him that being a viscount was more important than being a humble doctor, but he knew differently.

  He reached the window at the edge of the room and pushed it open to gulp in a breath of fresh air. It didn’t do much to lessen the sensation that he was trapped—trapped in a gilded box labeled “Viscount” with no way to get out. There was so much in the medical world that he still wanted to do, so much more healing that he felt called to. But men with titles were supposed to go on shooting parties, ride horses, and make an idle nuisance of themselves. Peers were supposed to sit on a bench in the Palace of Westminster for days on end, listening to the maddening drone of self-important lords who were convinced they controlled the world. It was a terrible life. It wasn’t the life he knew he was born to lead.

  Across the garden, a small group of his friends’ wives sat taking tea. They had more political influence than he did, even young Lady Lavinia Prior. He studied her for a moment, her perfect, pale skin and her auburn hair, caught up in the latest style under a jaunty hat. She glanced to him for a fraction of a second before looking away, color painting her cheeks. Yes, even timid Lady Lavinia had more of a place in the world than he did.

  “Armand, what are you doing over there?” Alex called to him from the desk. “We need your input on these things.”

  “No, you don’t,” Armand grumbled, stepping away from the window and walking back to his friends. “You never needed my input when I was just a physician, and you don’t need my input now.”

  Alex sighed. Peter glanced politely in the other direction. But Malcolm glared at him. “Stop your winging and focus on the matter at hand,” he barked. “You’ve had five years to groan about losing your medical practice. Let it go and do your duty to your country by supporting our cause.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Armand snapped back. “You’ve never done anything besides arguing and spitting in Shayles’s eye your whole life.”

  Malc
olm’s eyes went wide with indignation. “Oh, and you think that devoting my life to the causes of liberty and equality is beneath your high, medical standards, do you?”

  “Liberty? Equality?” Armand sniffed. “What are you, French?”

  “I’m Scottish.” Malcolm pulled himself to his full height.

  “And I’m a doctor,” Armand said. He hesitated, debating sharing the news he’d been sitting on for weeks, but the visceral need to let his friends in on the joy he’d been keeping inside was too much. “I’ve been offered a chance to practice medicine again.”

  “What?” Peter and Alex said simultaneously.

  Armand let out a breath, turning to them. “It’s true. I’ve been offered a position in India. I was contacted by a Dr. Tahir Maqsood, who runs a hospital in Lahore. They need trained doctors there, and they’re not so stuffy about society’s rules that they faint at the thought of a viscount administering pills and setting broken limbs.”

  “Dr. Maqsood,” Rupert said, tilting his head to the side. “Why does that name sound familiar?”

  “Because he’s a renowned physician,” Armand answered, barely stopping himself from adding, “Like I once was.”

  “Are you going to accept this position?” Peter asked.

  “Very possibly, yes,” Armand answered.

  “You can’t,” Malcolm said, frowning. “The duties of that title you inherited call you elsewhere.”

  “I’m a doctor,” Armand insisted. “I was happy as I was, on the verge of opening a practice on Harley Street. I never asked for the title. They should have given it to Mark.”

  “The judge determined your father was born ten minutes before his,” Peter said.

  “The records were destroyed,” Armand fired back. “It could have been the other way around. They’re going off the word of a midwife in her nineties.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Alex cut in before he could take his argument any further. “I’m sorry that it meant you had to give up something you love, Armand, but the title and everything that goes with it was given to you. And right now, our nation needs healing. The law has no provision for reversing the court’s decision. Once a viscount, always a viscount. If you don’t take up your seat in the House of Lords, it will be vacant, which means one less vote for our cause when it counts. You’ve been called to help, so help where you are called.”

  Armand clenched his jaw and stared off at the shelves of books lining the room. He had been called to help. And the cause his friends were fighting for was absolutely worthy. But it wasn’t the life he’d built for himself. It wasn’t what he wanted.

  “All right,” he breathed, trying to let go, but only managing to quiet the roar of unfairness within him, not quench it altogether. “What do we need to do to make Gladstone happy?”

  Before any of his friends could answer, there was a knock on the door. One of Alex’s footmen stuck his head inside.

  “Yes?” Alex asked.

  “If you please, sir,” the man said to Alex, then glanced to Armand. “A guest has been taken ill. Your help is needed.”

  As if fireworks had lit the sky, joy blossomed in Armand’s heart. “Where are they?” he asked, marching toward the door without a second thought. “Take me to them.”

  “Yes, sir,” the footman said, leading him on.

  Finally, something Armand felt competent to handle.

  Chapter 2

  Dread roiled in Lavinia’s stomach as she followed Tad through lavish, unfamiliar halls and up a grand staircase decorated with oriental carpets, centuries’ worth of portraits on the walls. She wasn’t concerned so much for her mother’s health as for what sort of mischief she was about to wreak on them all.

  “Does she do this often?” Marigold asked as they mounted the top step and turned down a long, well-lit hall.

  “Only when she thinks she has something to gain by putting on the act,” Lavinia sighed.

  Her mother’s plaintive groans floated down the hall from an open door, but that wasn’t what made Lavinia jerk to a stop. Dr. Armand Pearson had just stepped into the hallway from a staircase at the other end, followed by a second footman. Lavinia’s stomach dropped to her toes.

  “Is something wrong?” Marigold asked, pausing and glancing back at Lavinia.

  Lavinia pressed a hand to her stomach, eyes wide and fixed on Dr. Pearson as he marched toward her. Really, he was marching toward the door to her mother’s room, but Lavinia knew better. “She wouldn’t dare,” she whispered.

  Marigold stared at her curiously, but all too soon her expression shifted to understanding. “My, she doesn’t like to waste time at all, does she?”

  “No,” Lavinia sighed and started forward again.

  Dr. Pearson had already headed into her mother’s room, sparing only a quick glance for her. There was nothing for it but to face the inevitable matchmaking that awaited her around the corner in the Rose Suite. She allowed herself one painful wince before soldiering on.

  “Mama, whatever is the matter?” she asked, feigning innocence when she entered the front room, Marigold at her side.

  “I don’t know, my dear, I don’t know,” her mother answered. She’d draped herself elegantly on a chaise that sat in a beam of cheerful afternoon sunlight, the back of one wrist pressed to her forehead, in a position worthy of the finest stages in London. “I came over so faint as soon as I was shown to my room.”

  “It could be the strain of the journey,” Dr. Pearson said in a low, clinical voice. He sat on the side of the chaise and took Lavinia’s mother’s hand, testing her pulse.

  “Oh, Lord Helm,” her mother said in a suddenly hale voice. “Have you met my daughter, Lavinia?”

  It was all Lavinia could do not to cringe where she stood. When Dr. Pearson glanced briefly at her and nodded, a hot blush came to her face. She would die a thousand deaths if the doctor-turned-viscount caught on to what her mother was attempting. But then again, Dr. Pearson was a man of experience. She’d learned through her friends that he was in his late forties, considered the “baby” of his group, and that he had lived a vivid life while practicing medicine. There was no way he wouldn’t see what her mother was doing.

  “I believe Lady Lavinia and I have been introduced on a few occasions,” he said, then went right on to, “Did you feel dizzy before the onset of faintness? Do you feel feverish at all? When was the last time you ate?”

  “Lavinia, come closer,” her mother said, back to sounding as though she were on death’s door. With mortification in her soul and an apologetic look for Dr. Pearson—which she was certain he didn’t see—she inched closer. “No, no, dear. Come sit by my side.” Her mother patted the chaise.

  Lavinia swallowed, praying she wasn’t as red as an apple, and slipped to the chaise. She lowered herself to perch gingerly on the opposite side from Dr. Pearson, glad, for once, that the copious material and cage of her bustle prevented her from settling comfortably.

  Dr. Pearson lifted his eyes to study her for what felt like an eternity. His expression was grave, though his features were attractive. He’d aged well. His eyes were a deep, crisp blue, and his skin had a healthy glow. His jaw was square and strong, but at the moment, his lips were pursed in irritation. The lines around his eyes and mouth spoke of frustration rather than smiles and laughter. Lavinia began to tremble. He didn’t like her, she could tell. He didn’t approve of her at all.

  “Lavinia, say something to Dr. Pearson,” her mother demanded as Dr. Pearson rested the back of his hand on her forehead to check her temperature.

  Lavinia opened her mouth, but all that came out was a withered squeak of helplessness.

  “Lavinia,” her mother scolded in a whisper.

  “I’m sorry,” Lavinia managed to blurt, staring at Dr. Pearson with wide, frightened eyes. He was ten times greater than her. He’d traveled, seen things, done things. Even though he was clearly aggravated, he had a powerful aura of confidence around him. She wanted to lean toward him and run away at the same t
ime.

  And then he met her eyes with a flash of kindness and understanding that sent spirals of heat through her. “It’s all right,” he said softly. Yes, he knew precisely what her mother was up to.

  “I…I didn’t know,” Lavinia blundered on, face burning with embarrassment. “That is to say, I assumed she would—” She snapped her mouth shut, biting her dry lips. “It’s the travel, of course,” she said, praying she’d covered her blast of badly-timed honesty well enough.

  The faintest hint of a smile touched Dr. Pearson’s lips before he turned back to Lavinia’s mother. “My diagnosis is that you have overexerted yourself through travel. I recommend that you indulge in a long nap and take tea before—”

  “Where is the patient?” a new voice shouted as a squat, balding man rushed into the room. “What seems to be the trouble?”

  Dr. Pearson and Lavinia stood simultaneously, glancing to each other in question and then to the newcomer. Lavinia’s mother straightened, an odd, offended look twisting her smile into a frown. But it was Marigold’s reaction that gripped Lavinia. She’d gone white as a sheet.

  “What are you doing here?” Marigold whispered, eyes wide and glassy, pressing a hand to her belly.

  “I was told a doctor was needed, so I came,” the man said.

  “Dr. Miller was just passing in the lane,” Anne, who had come in with the newcomer, said. “You told me to fetch a doctor.”

  “Not this doctor,” Marigold said, fury rising in her voice.

  In an instant, Lavinia remembered it all—the horrible news that had reached her after Marigold had been in a carriage wreck which caused her to miscarry the summer before, the reports of the doctor who had botched her treatment, resulting in Marigold’s loss of the ability to bear children.

  Fury replaced embarrassment in Lavinia’s gut. “Stay away from my mother,” she hissed with a surprising amount of force. She stepped around the chaise to stand between Dr. Miller and her mother, which resulted in her standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Dr. Pearson. “You’re not wanted here.”