A Gamble on Love

by Blair Bancroft

  Temperature. Dropping. Then why was she burning up?

  Thomas leaned forward, his lips touched her ear. A wave of dizziness shook her from head to toe. “Ten days, my dear, and it will all be over. Win or lose, I promise we will go back to the Wells.”

  Ruthlessly, Relia settled her prideful armor back in place. She turned and took her husband’s arm. “I will go to the Wells accompanied by the newest Member of Parliament,” she told him stoutly. Mr. and Mrs. Lanning then proceeded, arm in arm, toward the tea table, where Biddeford had just laid out their late evening repast.

  The next day Captain Fortescue left the shelter of his father’s house and took up residence at The Hound and Bear, graciously refusing a bed at Pevensey Park. That, he told the Whig candidate with a grin, might indeed be the feather that broke the horse’s back. He could endure the inn for the short time remaining in the campaign. After that . . . well, after that he hoped to retire to the estate left him by a doting uncle. With a bride, no doubt, declared Mr. Lanning, a knowing gleam in his eye. The captain responded with a wink and a hearty handshake.

  Captain Fortescue’s presence at Thomas Lanning’s side was enough to sway a goodly number of his father’s own tenants, as well as numerous freeman who considered themselves loyal to the Fortescue family, though not necessarily to the present earl. After all, the lad was a Fortescue, was he not?

  The Earl of Gravenham was incensed. Eyeing his hand-picked candidate with grave disfavor, he announced that stronger measures would have to be taken. “Snatch papers,” he growled, considerably confusing his candidate, for Mr. Trevor had never heard of this esoteric approach to voting rights. “That’s what we need, m’boy,” the earl declared. “Snatch papers. I’ll see to it at once.”

  As Thomas—the man of the City who should not have known about such things—had predicted, a fine new coat of snow blanketed the area. A soft, wet snow that turned the world into a fairyland of white-capped branches and amorphous shapes. On the morning of the Winter Festival the sun came out, sending rainbow sparks from a myriad ice crystals, casting dazzling brilliance over the landscape, almost as if Mother Nature herself were a Whig.

  A crew was set to sweep the new snow off the pond. Trestle tables dotted the terraces, which had also been swept clean of snow. Beside each, was a brazier designed to keep hot food ready from morn ‘til night. Tall stacks of wood marked bonfires, ready to be lit. Six sleighs lined the drive before the house, and on the distant hillside beyond the ha-ha, ten sleds stood ready and waiting. Wooden benches had been placed around the pond to ease the strapping on and taking off of sharp skate runners.

  As for games, three narrow strips had been trampled down for ring toss. And in an empty sheep field, well away from other activities, archery butts rose above the snow. Of course, as Relia had noted during planning sessions, missing arrows might not be found ‘til spring, but archery they would have, as long as the arrows held out. There was also to be a snow castle contest, one for adults and one for children, and a Tug of War, with the losers taking a snow bath, rather than a simple tumble onto soft grass. Relia herself intended to keep a close eye on her childhood sleigh, as it brought back so many happy memories. For the convenience of the mothers, who would be able to watch their children ride from the comfort of the rotunda, she had set the course near the foot of the cascade, where water churned, deep and dark, before running downstream beneath the frozen pond.

  And now came that moment of inevitable silence when Relia stood beside Thomas on the upper terrace and wondered if anyone would come. The sound and fury of the campaign had vanished, as if it had never been. The campaigners, the servants, were poised and ready, like ice statues dotting the landscape. The snow sparkled, the wind was hushed. Nothing moved.

  Overnight the electors had all turned Tory. Twyford had barricaded the roads.

  An hour later, three hours—five—Relia was so immersed in tenants, townspeople, and children that she could no longer recall when or where she had last caught sight of Thomas. Or Livvy or Nick, or half the rest of her household. She greeted and smiled, smiled and greeted, all the while attempting to keep an eye on everything that was happening. A hundred times over she thanked God for Biddeford and Mrs. Marshcombe. And Malcolm Reaves was meeting and greeting as if he had been steward at Pevensey Park for twenty years. He was everywhere, as if he, too, were running for election. Charles Saunders, too, was everywhere, tirelessly helping where help was needed. The still recovering Captain Fortescue, with Jane Edmundson on his arm, was not so active. He did not need to be. The constituents flocked to greet the wounded veteran of the Peninsular War. Now and again, Relia caught a glimpse of Mr. Westover, usually with Gussie glued to his side. And to think how appalled Gussie had been when she found the ring in the plum pudding!

  Big Mike Bolt and some of his cronies hovered at the back of the crowd, ever vigilant. There were men patrolling the outer reaches of the Festival as well. Not for the first time Relia appreciated the forethought of Thomas and his cohorts, for security was not something that had ever entered the heads of the ladies’ planning committee. She supposed . . . yes, she had to admit that men had their uses.

  Right there, standing in the classic rotunda, surrounded by young mothers, Relia blushed scarlet. She drew in a deep breath of the cold, sharp air. With a thousand people covering her acres, thoughts of Tunbridge Wells would have to wait.

  Fortunately, she was right about the child-size sleigh. There was such a demand for the youngest festival-goers to ride in the tiny vehicle with its ornate wrought iron design and single seat, upholstered in red velvet that Relia had been forced to assign each mother a number. Which, necessarily, she must supervise. Each small child was allowed to ride three times around a wide circle on the bank below the cascade, with a groom carefully leading the pony that pulled the sleigh. Eventually, Relia was able to turn over her duty to Jane Edmundson, who, thereafter, alternated with Livvy and Chloe Stanton. It was only late in the afternoon, as dusk approached, that she abandoned her role as hostess and returned to the rotunda, where, with a great sigh of relief, she sat down on one of the marble benches next to Olivia.

  “I am done, Livvy,” Relia announced. “All is a great success, but I swear I cannot stand on my feet another moment!”

  “Well, I am glad enough to get up. I swear I am frozen to this bench! I cannot believe how many mothers are determined to see their little ones ride your infant sleigh. We have gone through two grooms and three ponies, and ’tis a wonder the mothers have not come to fisticuffs.”

  “O-oh!” Both women gasped.

  “Fireworks!” Livvy cried. “Did you know we were to have fireworks, Relia?”

  Fireworks. Not a word, not a single word. Not even from Nick, who ordinarily would have been bubbling over about such a treat. A Thomas surprise, then. And a very fine one, at that. For darkness came early, even in February, and the bright sparkling colors showed clearly above the space just below the ha-ha, where the pyrotechnic experts must be hiding.

  Everyone paused—the festival-goers, the cooks, the servers, the security guards, the campaign workers. It was a beautiful sight, the perfect end to a perfect day.

  The last child in line was set aboard the sleigh. The groom, stifling a weary groan, set off on his final three circles of the day. There was a nasty whine, a trail of fire low overhead. Shouts, cries of warning. An explosion rocked the area around the cascade, tearing a large branch off a willow, sending a shower of rocks plunging into the deep water below. The terrified pony tore free of the groom, running for his life, the sleigh rocking dangerously as he bolted for the safety of the stables. The child, a girl of not more than three years of age, was thrown free. People rushed forward, but they were too late. The child tumbled down the steep bank and disappeared beneath the black water.

  Someone shot out of the crowd, scattering great coat and jacket as he ran. Two almost superhuman tugs, and his boots were off. He dove straight into the icy water. A full minute later, he bobbed
up, empty handed. He gulped for air, plunged back under. This time Relia got a good look. Thomas. It was Thomas.

  Dear God, of course it was Thomas.

  Big Mike Bolt stationed himself at the edge of the black water, peering into the impenetrable depths. The mother was shrieking. Relia did not even hear her.

  And then the little girl was in Big Mike’s arms. He passed her to eagerly waiting hands, then turned and helped his employer escape the frigid water. A flurry of women swept the sobbing mother and unconscious child into the house, with the doctor trotting after. Behind them, a bevy of wellwishers surrounded the hero of the hour, escorting him in triumph into the warmth of the house, while cheers rang from a thousand throats.

  It was more than an hour later, when the little girl had been pronounced well enough to go home, and she and her parents had been sent off in Pevensey’s finest carriage, that Relia was able to think of Thomas. Biddeford had assured her he was fine, but she must, of course, see for herself. Even if it meant . . . indeed, yes, even if it meant entering that holy of holies, her husband’s bedchamber.

  “Demmed military rocket!” Relia heard as she sneaked open Thomas’s door, her soft scratching having gone unheard.

  “What!” Her husband’s roar did much to reassure her that he was far from death’s door.

  “Trevor,” declared Charles Saunders grimly. “I doubt Gravenham would stoop so low.”

  “You mean it was deliberate?” Thaddeus Singleton choked out. “Someone might have been killed!”

  “Someone almost bloody was,” Thomas ground out.

  “I’ll take care ‘of ‘im, guv’nor,” Big Mike declared. Relia, with her ear to the crack in the door, almost gave herself away by applauding.

  “As much as I appreciate the offer,” said the candidate, “we’ll settle for besting Trevor at the polls.”

  “Not a doubt about the vote after today,” propounded Carleton Westover. “You’re the hero of the hour, Thomas.”

  “Trevor likely thinks you staged the whole,” crowed Patrick Fallon. “I couldn’t have thought of anything better if I’d spent the entire campaign plotting it out.”

  “A plot that puts our candidate in grave danger of inflammation of the lungs,” Mr. Singleton sniffed. “I think not.”

  Thomas, who was growing exceedingly tired of all the fuss and bother, as well as adulation for what he looked upon as nothing more than an act of absolute necessity, glanced restlessly around the room. He noted the opening in the door to the sitting room with considerable interest. It might be his imagination. Wishful thinking, but . . .

  “Out!” he barked. “Enough politics for one day. All of you out! Peace and quiet is what I need.”

  Liar.

  As the door closed on the last of the Election Committee, Thomas closed his eyes, wondering if he had misinterpreted the crack in the door. If so, he was going to be gravely disappointed. “You may come out now,” he called softly.

  His wife peeked her head around the door, proffered a tentative smile. She appeared more than a little apprehensive, Thomas noted. To the best of his knowledge, she had not set foot in this room since she had approved Mr. Arnold’s redecoration. “Come, come, Relia. I assure you I am not about to expire. I have been plunged into a hot bath, dried with warm towels, and been put to bed with hot bricks at my feet. I have had so many attendants I now know what royalty must suffer. But we are married, so you may safely enter without shocking the residents of Pevensey Park or the electorate.”

  Slowly, Relia advanced across the carpet, looking suspiciously like Eve directly after taking a bite of the apple. “You are all right? You are sure?” she breathed.

  “Quite—” Thomas bit off his remark. “We-e-ll,” he hedged, “I am still a bit chilled, but I daresay I shall recover.” He allowed his voice to fade away on a sigh.

  “Shall I ring for a hot toddy?” she inquired anxiously.

  “I’ve already had two,” Thomas admitted. “Relia?”

  “Yes?” Eyes wide with concern, his wife awaited his next words.

  “There is something you might do . . .”

  “Anything,” she declared earnestly.

  “’Tis said there’s nothing as effective as body heat in warming up someone who is well nigh frozen.”

  His wife blinked. Her gaze plummeted to her toes. “Thomas,” she whispered, “I am not quite certain what you mean.”

  “You know exactly what I mean.” Instead of blushing, she turned pale. As if his bed were occupied by a ghost. A venal one, at that. “Be a good girl and lock the doors, Relia. The candidate would like a few moments alone with his wife. God knows I’ve earned them,” he added softly, but not so softly she did not hear him.

  Relia considered swatting him with a pillow, but decided, in all fairness, that he was probably right. Nor was she anxious to return to the days of their constant sparring. There were moments, like this one, when the wise woman kept her silence. Even if it meant . . .

  She marched with deliberate step, crisscrossing the bedchamber to lock both the dressing room and sitting room doors. But her step slowed, the brave set of her shoulders slumped as she turned back toward her husband’s imposing bed. He looked her up and down, shook his head. “Skin to skin, that’s the only remedy,” he told her. “Turn around, so I can do your buttons.”

  To his surprise, she approached the bed, meekly turned and presented her back. Thomas nearly stopped breathing. In his eagerness he fumbled the task, yet somehow her gown slipped off her shoulders, fell away. “Leave it,” he ordered. “No hands,” he added as she criss-crossed them over her thin chemise, eyeing him askance. If that was the only undergarment she had worn at the Festival, she needed warming as much as he! Incredible. She wasn’t even wearing stays.

  Thomas lifted the thick pile of bedcoverings, silently inviting his wife to join him. Truthfully, he was so hot he needed a dose of cool flesh to slow him down, keep him from frightening the dear girl to death.

  Heart pounding, but spirit willing, Relia snuggled down beside him. A-ah! Poor darling, he must indeed be freezing, for there was a part of him that seemed as stiff as a board. Men were built very oddly, it seemed. Her lips curved in a soft, secret smile. It was high time she discovered the why of male anatomy.

  Mr. Lanning was all too willing to demonstrate.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Mrs. Thomas Lanning and Miss Olivia Lanning stood shoulder-to-shoulder at the foot of the wooden steps that led up to the hustings. Both ladies were clad in the bright blue velvet pelisses and off-the-face hats with scarlet ostrich plumes that had been worn so frequently over the past weeks that they were now familiar friends instead of garments to be despised. Beside them was Master Nicholas Lanning, who had blossomed into such a quick-witted and competent young man during the campaign that few doubted he would one day follow in his brother’s footsteps. All three kept their eyes fixed on the Whig candidate as he ascended the steps, stated his name, proclaimed his occupation as investment counselor, avowed he was a freeman, resident of the parish of Peven, and qualified to vote in said election. He then moved on to the table manned by a solemn-faced polling clerk and, in a voice that boomed out over the hushed crowd, stated that he voted for Thomas Lanning, the Blue and Red candidate for Member of Parliament.

  A great cheer went up. A signal from Patrick Fallon, and the first parade of voters came marching up the street toward the market square, banners flying, feet synchronized to the tune of a lively band of musicians. It was the delegation of hops workers from Pevensey Park. Similar arrivals had been carefully scheduled to enliven the voting over the next six days, in addition to catching the attention of those laggard electors who had not yet made up their minds.

  After Candidate Lanning descended from the platform, beaming and catching outstretched hands proffered from all directions, he and his family were whisked off into the relative quiet of a private dining room at The Hound and Bear, where they sank gratefully into chairs arou
nd a table piled high with food and drink. No one could ever say Mr. Carleton Westover did not know how to manage every aspect of a campaign.

  “Almost over,” Thomas said to his wife, with a wink that promised so much more.

  Although the candidate and his wife had reached an accommodation in the bedroom, Aurelia Trevor Lanning had not given up her spirit. “All this,” she sighed into the quiet that ensued as the others turned their attention to the high-mounded plates of food, “for a job that pays not a single ha’penny.”

  Hands froze in mid-air. Everyone stared. Thomas burst into laughter. From Carleton Westover down to Nicholas Lanning, the Whig campaigners, reassured that Mrs. Lanning was merely funning, joined in the general amusement.

  “How fortunate that I married you,” Thomas drawled, “for I have no doubt Westover has gone through my entire fortune.”

  “Thomas!” that gentleman protested, “we have spent a mere pittance compared to some campaigns I’ve managed.”

  “And more to come, I fear,” said Patrick Fallon. “We haven’t heard the last of Trevor’s bully boys, and I’d swear Gravenham has a trick or two left up his sleeve.”

  “But the voting has begun,” Nick said.

  “Six days, lad. Six days,” said Mr. Westover. “We’re allowed up to fifteen, but this borough has a tradition of managing the matter in six. And campaigning continues as long as there’s a voter who has not climbed the hustings. Anything may yet happen.”

  And, of course, it did.

  “Thomas, Thomas! It’s Charles. Wake up!” Although Mr. Saunders was well pleased by the reconciliation of his friend and his wife, on this, the eve of the fifth day of voting, their recent practice of locking all three doors into the hallway was a confounded nuisance.

  Thomas dragged himself to awareness, fumbled to light a candle, then gazed down at his wife, who was also awake, eyes wide with anxiety. “I doubt the house is about to burn down about our ears,” he assured her, “and all else we can manage.” He brushed a kiss across her lips, threw on his dressing gown and padded barefoot through her dressing room, where he opened the door and peeked down the hall. “Wrong portal, Charles,” he called with a wry grin to his friend who was pounding on his own dressing room door.