Simon wasn’t much of a drinker. He didn’t like losing control of his senses. But some occasions called for burying one’s sorrows in a bottle, and this just happened to be one.
Unfortunately, he had barely embarked upon his quest for oblivion at White’s when a familiar voice hailed him.
“Foxmoor?”
He glanced up. “Ah, Trusbut. Good evening.” He lifted a bottle. “Port?”
With a nod, Trusbut lowered himself carefully into a chair across from Simon, settling his cane between his spindly legs. “I didn’t see you in sessions, so I wasn’t certain if you had remembered our engagement.”
Their engagement? Christ, he had forgotten all about it. “Did I miss anything interesting at Westminster?” Simon asked as he filled a glass for Trusbut.
“Not in the session.” Trusbut leaned forward to take it. “But I did hear some interesting gossip. A friend in the Commons told me that Thomas Fielden received a note from your wife yesterday, saying that you and the London Ladies Society mean to support him in the by-election.”
Simon’s fingers tightened on his glass. Damn, he had forgotten that Louisa had already informed Fielden of their choice. For the by-election she would now have to abandon.
But he could not tell Trusbut that. He owed it to Louisa not to reveal anything until she’d had her talk with Fielden and the London Ladies.
Trusbut sipped his port. “I must say I was pleased to hear it. There had been talk of the Society supporting Godwin, and that would have been very bad.”
With a nod, Simon took a gulp of his port. He did not want to have this conversation. But he also did not want to alienate Trusbut by dismissing him.
“Fielden’s a good man, very sensible,” Trusbut went on. “And very interested in reform.”
“So I gather,” Simon said noncommittally.
They were silent a moment. Then Trusbut cleared his throat. “Actually, the news of Fielden has emboldened me to broach a matter of some delicacy.”
The last thing Simon needed right now was to discuss matters of delicacy.
But before he could put the man off, Trusbut said, “It concerns Liverpool. And his cabinet.”
Taken by surprise, Simon searched Trusbut’s face, but could read nothing in the older man’s rheumy eyes. “That is indeed a delicate subject.”
“Some of us…that is…you probably are aware of the explosive situation that has arisen in England in the past few years.”
“Yes.” More aware than he’d like, given the havoc it wreaked in his marriage.
“A number of us think it’s time for a change in government.”
Simon blinked. Had Sidmouth and Castlereagh already started marshaling their forces? “I quite agree,” he said evasively.
“Not the prime minister, you understand. Liverpool has his faults, but he is not a bad leader. The people would support him if not for Sidmouth and Castlereagh. They’re who the masses blame for the recent troubles, and rightly so.”
Gulping a generous measure of port, Simon sat back in his chair. This was not what he had expected. “So what exactly are you and your friends proposing?”
“We have spoken to Liverpool, discreetly, of course. And he seems to agree that those two ministers need to step down. He is even willing to let himself be guided by more moderate individuals in choosing new ones.”
“Is he?” Simon said, his mind awhirl. How had he missed this particular bit of masterful machination going on around him?
That was easy to answer: he’d been distracted by his wife and by the king and Sidmouth. They seemed to believe that Liverpool was entirely under siege by the Commons and the Lords, but the truth was apparently not so clear-cut. “What new ministers do you and your friends have in mind?”
“Robert Peel for Home Secretary, of course.” Trusbut tilted his glass toward Simon. “You and your wife should approve, given his support of prison reform.”
“Yes, Peel would be my own choice.”
“George Canning for Foreign Secretary,” Trusbut went on.
“Canning!” Simon exclaimed. “The king will not like that.”
“No, but we don’t mean to consult him. Liverpool intends to present this as a fait accompli. The king will have little choice but to accept it once he is shown the wisdom of it.”
“I see.” This new turn of events set Simon back on his heels.
“Canning is a brilliant statesman.”
“Indeed he is,” Simon admitted. Although Canning had once turned down the position as prime minister, he might accept a position as Foreign Secretary. The man was unfortunately against parliamentary reform, but perhaps he could be persuaded to change his stand. At least he supported other reforms.
Trusbut surprised him by taking a large gulp of port. “And…er…we’ve been thinking that you might consider a position, as well.”
Simon’s heart hammered in his chest. “Oh?”
“Secretary of War. Given your experience in India, we thought you would be an asset in that area.” Trusbut held him with a piercing gaze. “Since your aspiration is to one day become prime minister, that position would provide you an excellent start. For the day when Liverpool is willing to step down. Which, given the current turmoil in the country, we hope won’t be too soon.”
Simon wondered if Trusbut knew that Sidmouth and Castlereagh wanted to unseat Liverpool. Surely not, or he would never be talking about this to the man they wanted to put in Liverpool’s place.
But perhaps they had known that this was in the wind. That was why they’d made their offer, to trump the others by putting Simon in their court. In exchange for his selling his soul and grinding his wife under his thumb.
He swallowed some port, dizzy from having his world shifted on its axis. Because if Trusbut and his companions were successful…“Can you really bring this change to pass? Gain the resignations of both Castlereagh and Sidmouth?”
“We can. Especially if you join us. When you first returned, we weren’t sure where your alliances lay, given your past friendship with the king. That day at my house you made it clear you opposed radical candidates, but I couldn’t tell if you supported the other extreme. Particularly in light of your connection to Monteith.”
“My grandfather?”
“He always championed Sidmouth in the early days.”
Simon had not known that. By the time he had been old enough to take his seat in Parliament, his grandfather had long retired as prime minister. A chill skittered down his spine as he remembered Louisa’s words. That he was becoming his grandfather. God help him.
It suddenly occurred to him that Trusbut was nearly the age his grandfather would have been if he’d lived. “Did you know my grandfather?”
“Not personally, no.” His clipped tone showed he was hiding something.
“But you knew enough not to approve of him,” Simon guessed. When Trusbut looked wary, he added, “I understand, believe me. And I would very much like to hear your honest opinion of him.”
“He was a solid statesman, a shrewd negotiator, and a brilliant orator, but—”
“But?”
Trusbut frowned. “I once overheard him speak privately to Lady Monteith at a party. His manner was most ungentlemanly. Indeed, I would be ashamed to say such…awful things to my Lillian.”
“‘Ungentlemanly.’ A rather astute assessment of my grandfather’s private character.”
“But I can tell that you’re not such a man, sir,” Trusbut went on. “Indeed, I’ve been impressed by your treatment of your wife. One can tell a great deal about a man by how he treats the women in his care, don’t you think?”
“I believe you are right,” Simon said, his blood thundering in his ears.
Trusbut looked at his watch. “And speaking of wives, I promised mine that I would be home for dinner this evening.” He shot Simon a questioning glance. “About the matter I mentioned—”
“Could I have a day to think about it, sir?”
“Certainly.”
He rose. “I trust you will be discreet.”
Simon managed a smile. “Of course. No one will hear of this from me.”
“Then I shall see you tomorrow afternoon at the meeting.”
“Meeting?” Simon asked.
“I saw Lord Draker earlier today. He asked me to tell Lillian that your wife has called a meeting of the London Ladies Society for tomorrow. Since Fielden is also supposed to be there, I assume the meeting is to announce your support.”
No. The meeting was to announce Louisa’s resignation. “Ah, the meeting,” Simon managed to say. “Remind me again what time it is?”
Trusbut eyed him closely. “Draker said four P.M.”
“Right.” He forced a smile to his lips. “I am not sure if I will be attending. I may have another appointment. But I will try.”
“Then I hope to see you there.” Taking up his cane, Trusbut made his slow way from the room.
Long after the elderly gentleman left, Simon sat staring into his port. All this time, he had considered only one solution to the problems plaguing the present government—Liverpool stepping down. But that was because Simon had intended to take the man’s place.
Trusbut’s proposal opened up other possibilities. Peel was a Tory, but not quite the old guard. He was certainly more moderate than either Sidmouth or Castlereagh. And if men like Trusbut intended to back him, they were probably also eager to begin the process of reform, not only in the election process, but in other badly needed areas. Like the prisons.
That meant they might accomplish exactly what Simon had wanted to accomplish himself. And all he had to do to help was forget about becoming prime minister for now. Perhaps forever.
Why must it be you?
His wife’s words rang in his ears as he set down his glass. Yes, why must the prime minister be him? He had said it was because only he could ensure that England was set on the right course. But was that truly his reason? Or had Louisa stumbled upon the truth—that he was really more concerned about proving himself to Grandfather Monteith than about doing what was best for his country?
A sobering thought, and quite possibly a just one. Even now, as Trusbut’s proposal lay before him, his first instinct was to refuse. And why? Because he would have to temper his ambition.
Because he would not be able to prove his grandfather wrong.
He clenched his fingers on the glass. Louisa was right. He didn’t give a damn about England—he was just trying to silence the curst voice of a dead man.
Suddenly no longer eager to drink himself into oblivion, he rose and set his glass aside, then left the club and headed home in a daze.
If he agreed to Trusbut’s proposal, it would change everything. There’d be no reason for Louisa to resign from the London Ladies Society, no reason for his wife to look at him with such disappointment and pity that it chilled his blood.
There you go again, he could almost hear his grandfather sneering. Letting your passions ruin your ambition.
Ruin it? Or enrich it?
What if Louisa was right about that, too? What if it wasn’t his passions he was trying to control, but his feelings? The part of him that cared about what happened to farmers wanting representation in government, and convict women who wanted only some kindness and a chance to start anew?
The part that yearned to have his wife regard him with pride and respect. And love. Definitely love.
Once home, he went right to his bedchamber, not wanting to make any major decisions when his body needed sleep so badly. But sleep eluded him in a bed whose sheets smelled of his wife.
So he left it to wander down to his study. If anything could help him sleep, it was those curst letters. He opened the box he’d brought back from his solicitor and skimmed the first few, sure that the exercise was pointless. Then he picked up a thick packet, and his heart began to pound. Not only were the edges charred, as if someone had rescued it from a fire, but it was postmarked India.
He couldn’t prevent a little leap of excitement. Especially when he carefully separated the fragile parchment sheets to find an official document sandwiched in the middle.
Uncle Tobias’s marriage certificate.
Swiftly, Simon separated out the pages of the letter that came with it and began to decipher his uncle’s unfamiliar scrawl. When he finished, he sat back and stared blindly across the room.
Hard to believe that it had been in his grandmother’s papers all this time. He remembered her as a mousy woman utterly cowed by his grandfather.
Saving this from the fire had been her tiny rebellion. She had probably realized that her husband would never expect her to defy him, would never look through her papers after she died. Since her oldest son was still alive when she died, she wouldn’t have known if the paper might become necessary one day.
But she’d kept it just in case. As any caring mother would. And if she, his sad and pitiful grandmother, could ignore the demands of her bastard of a husband to thwart him beyond the grave, Simon damned well could.
Because the truth was, he did not want to listen to Monteith anymore. He wanted to listen to the demands of his heart.
Apparently he had one after all. Otherwise, why was his stomach in knots over the thought of losing his wife’s respect? Why was there a persistent ache in his chest that worsened every time he considered a future in which they lived separate lives, like his parents?
He could not do it. Not now that he’d tasted love.
In that instant, he knew exactly what his path must be.
He waited for his grandfather’s voice to plague him, to lash at him, to call him a fool—but nothing came. Just a blessed, blissful silence, a pure and holy peace. As if the ghosts of his uncle and grandmother had finally shamed Monteith into retreat.
All that was left was the sweet and lilting voice of his wife. I know without a doubt that my husband could become the greatest statesman England has ever known. Whether or not he ever became prime minister.
And with that hopeful, loving statement ringing in his ears, he was finally able to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Dear Cousin,
I cannot imagine Louisa ever resigning her position unless some great reason required it. She might do it for love. I begin to think that she loves her husband dearly.
Your cousin,
Charlotte
At 3:55 P.M. the next day, Regina and Louisa stood at the front of the ballroom in Regina’s town house, watching the members of the London Ladies Society mill about the rows of chairs with several of Mrs. Fry’s Quakers. A few men who supported the Society’s aims had come, too. Even Lord Trusbut was here with his wife, although he kept perusing his pocket watch with a frown.
“Simon has no right to demand this of you,” Regina whispered as she scanned the room. “When next I see him, I shall tell him that.”
“It will do no good.” Louisa glanced over to where Marcus stood a few feet away, brooding. “You didn’t tell my brother, did you? He thinks I really want to step down?”
“I didn’t say a word, but he’s not an idiot. He can tell from looking at you that something is wrong. But he’s trying hard not to meddle. He does not believe in coming between a man and his wife.” She drew herself up. “I, however, do not believe any such thing. If you would just let me, I would talk to Simon—”
“It won’t change anything. Your brother is even more stubborn than mine. Once he sets a course, he doesn’t waver, no matter how much anyone reasons with him.”
Loving him didn’t seem to work, either. Yet she couldn’t stop. She’d spent last night churning her sheets, missing him, rethinking everything she’d said, wishing for what couldn’t be.
Part of her had hoped he would show up this morning, begging her to return home. If he’d come here after her, it might have made her sacrifice easier.
Because the one thing she couldn’t hope for was a reprieve. Simon’s ambition had always usurped anything—and anyone—in his life. She’d be mad to think he would
give it up just so she could continue leading her group.
Never mind that his cohorts were utterly unreasonable. Never mind that he didn’t respect them or their aims, and that giving in meant the end of his own aims for reform. He was determined to prove himself to his dead idiot grandfather. And there wasn’t anything she could do about it.
Tears sprang to her eyes that she desperately squelched. Surely she’d cried enough in the past day to fill a lake—must she fill an ocean, too? But how could she help it with the pitiful choices that the future offered her?
She couldn’t leave Simon. Even if it could be managed legally, she could never divorce him, for that would ruin his political aspirations. But they could live apart. She could busy herself at his estate while he spent his days in London. And when the season was over and he returned to the country, they could still live separate lives. It’s not like they’d be stumbling over each other on his grand estate.
The trouble was, she didn’t want to leave him or live apart from him. She wanted to be his wife, to bear his children, to live with him in harmony. But she couldn’t when it meant letting him swallow her up, body and soul. How long before she became like his mother—brittle and distant, cold and uncaring? How long before she became just like him?
A footman pushed through the crowd to approach the dais they had set up. “Your Grace,” he said as he reached her and Regina. “There is a man from the Times requesting entrance to your meeting.”
Louisa sucked in a breath. “What? How did they find out about it?”
“Perhaps Mr. Fielden told them?” Regina whispered.
“Before you had your meeting with him earlier?”
“Good heavens, I hope not.”
Louisa glanced to where Mr. Fielden sat stalwart and grim. He’d agreed to stay until after the meeting, but his disappointment was unmistakable. “Mr. Fielden doesn’t seem the type to court the press on his own.” She turned to the footman. “Tell the gentleman from the Times to leave, if you please.”
With a nod, the footman left, only to return moments later. “The gentleman refuses, Your Grace. He says he is waiting for the duke, your husband, to arrive.”
Only a Duke Will Do Page 29