A Gamble on Love (25 page)

Mr. Saunders sank into a soft leather chair,
while his employer swore imaginatively and colorfully. “Trevor is
from Sussex, is he not?” Thomas said at last.

“
As you are from London.”

“
Our election laws are in sad need of
reform, Charles,” declared Mr. Lanning, with considerable
irony.

Mr. Saunders made a noise that could only be
described as a snort. “Our election laws are a frightening
hodgepodge needing sweeping reform from Hadrian’s Wall to Land’s
End. That is, as I recall, one of the reasons you wished to run for
office.”

After a few moments of glum silence, Thomas
asked, in uncharacteristically plaintive accents, “Did we not
banish The Terrible Twyford, Charles? I am unaccustomed to being
such an inept dragonslayer.”

“
I am beginning to fear there is only
one way to banish him, and that, my friend, is a path we cannot
walk.”

Thomas tapped a thumb against his lips, his
gray eyes reflecting the depths of an arrogant, stubborn
determination second to none. “Then we must do it at the polls,” he
said.

“
This borough is even more peculiar
than most,” Mr. Saunders replied, with a shake of his head. “The
earls of Gravenham controlled the vote for years, but they grew
complacent, forgot their obligations, and Yeleverton beat out the
Tories by a goodly margin. Gravenham’s determined to get the seat
back.”

“
And yet some of his tenants must have
voted independently,” Thomas mused. “We must make certain they do
so again.”

“
As they will, if you are generous in
your largesse, munificent in your promises, and lay on ample
amounts of charm, as well as pounds sterling.”

“
Delightful.” Thomas lowered his head
into his hands. “I wanted this, did I not, Charles?” he added
softly. “I have turned my life upside down so I could run for
Parliament. I have acquired vast country holdings I did not want. I
have married—”

“
And gained a great deal even if you
never become an MP”

“
Thank you, Charles. What would I do
without you to provide my conscience?” The sarcasm was tossed like
a knife from Mr. Lanning to his long-suffering
solicitor.

“
Our agents and workers will be
arriving over the next few days. We will canvass door to door,
stand drinks every night at The Hound and Bear. Perhaps an assembly
or two. A picnic party in the park would have been splendid, but
the timing is wrong,” Charles sighed. “But perhaps a parade,
handbills . . . and you must think of some good works. You will
recall we spoke of this in London. Something grand—enlarge the
village school, add to the bells in the church steeple, a new
organ, an almshouse—”

“
I am a wealthy man, Charles,” Thomas
groaned, “but you would bankrupt me.”

“
You could buy and sell Gravenham three
times over,” Charles declared. “Believe me, I investigated the
costs when you first spoke of running for MP Funds are not a
problem.”

Thomas nodded, but did not raise his dark
head from his hands. “You are aware,” he said, “that my wife is
going to hate every moment of this campaign. And likely every
moment of being a political wife thereafter.”

“
Mrs. Lanning is a lady who always does
her duty.”

“
Yes, of course,” Thomas murmured, his
fingers clutching at his hair. Aurelia and her blasted sense of
honor. Aurelia, the Ice Maiden. Lady of the Manor in inch-thick
armor. His wife.

His penance.

He couldn’t look at her now without being
consumed by guilt. No matter. Once he won the election, he would go
back to London, leaving her at Pevensey Park as she so clearly
desired. They would lead separate lives, as so many married couples
did. An occasional visit, of course, to ensure continuation of the
line . . .

“
You’re smiling,” Mr. Saunders said.
“What miracle has brought that about?”

“
Just a thought that crossed my mind,
Charles. Just a thought.”

On the fifth day after Twelfth Night, Relia
looked down the length of her greatly expanded dining table,
rejected an almost overpowering urge to grimace, then firmly
replaced her inclinations with a gracious smile, albeit a trifle
wan. To her right was Mr. Carleton Westover, her husband’s Election
Agent, a tall, distinguished man of indeterminate years, whose
streaks of gray hair merely added authority to a dynamic and
commanding presence. Gussie Aldershot had taken one look at Mr.
Westover when he arrived and tottered off to her room, later
sending word that she would not come down to dinner. Relia,
respecting her companion’s privacy, had not pressed the matter.

With a table predominantly male, there was no
hope of balance, so Thomas had allowed Nicholas to join them,
remarking that the boy might as well learn about politics. Olivia
and Relia, therefore, were the only ladies in a veritable sea of
males. On Thomas’s right was Thaddeus Singleton, a writer.
Speeches, squibs, handbills, poems, newspaper articles, he told her
grandly—everything a candidate needed in the way of words. A man in
his mid forties, Mr. Singleton was short of stature, almost as
broad around as he was tall, and in imminent danger of becoming
completely bald. But he brimmed over with confidence and loquacity,
his stream of conversation providing a steady drone over which all
others must attempt to converse.

Nicholas, seated next to Mr. Singleton and
almost opposite his sister, was, Relia noted with considerable
interest, as animated as the day he had helped bring home the Yule
Log. Evidently, like his brother, he found politics fascinating.
Never . . . absolutely never would she be able to understand why!
The other newcomer at the table this evening was Mr. Patrick
Fallon, an Englishman of Irish ancestry. His job description, when
offered to Aurelia at teatime, was so vague that she had not been
able to make sense of it. But, interpreting the sly smiles, the
winks and nods exchanged by the other newcomers during Charles
Saunders’s glib introduction, she could only suspect that Mr.
Fallon was the man who handled the aspects of the election campaign
that were not discussed in the drawing room. This suspicion might,
of course, have been augmented by the very large, very brawny
behemoth who hovered at Mr. Fallon’s side, a man who topped even
her husband by several inches and at least three stone in weight.
He had a face that looked as if he had spent his life in the prize
ring. His name, Mr. Saunders told her, was “Big Mike Bolt.” The man
mountain had promptly tugged his forelock, obviously fearing to
take her delicate hand in his. His relief, when swept below stairs
by Biddeford, was patently obvious.

Thaddeus Singleton’s voice rose above the
others. “We need an artist, Lanning. And a musician,” he boomed. “I
can write, but I cannot draw worth a brass farthing. We must have
cartoons, caricatures of this Trevor. I understand there’s enough
material to draw on! And songs. Poems alone won’t do, no, indeed.
We need music, catchy tunes for people to sing. We’ll parade ‘em
down the street with your colors flying—”

“
A fine picture, Singleton,” said Mr.
Westover, “but we must move one step at a time. First, we must form
a committee, with strong locals we can trust. And we must listen to
what they have to say. Nothing riles up the local electors more
than someone dashing in from the outside and telling them what to
do.”

“
He is right, you know,” Thomas said to
Mr. Singleton. “The earls of Gravenham have greatly influenced the
vote for more years than any of us have been alive. In order to
win, we have to cultivate every last freeman in the
borough.”

“
You are wrong,” Relia said to Mr.
Westover in a voice that carried the length of the table,
surprising everyone, including herself. “Nothing riles the local
freemen more than being ignored by their supposed aristocratic
patron, Lord Gravenham. He has expended little money and less
energy in cultivating the vote in this borough. That is why his
candidate lost to Marcus Yelverton in the last election. I heard
Mr. Yelverton and my father speak of it many times.”

Thomas leaned back in his chair and regarded
his wife with the amused expression she found so intolerable. “My
dear, I had no idea you knew anything about politics.”

“
I don’t, nor do I want to,” she
snapped, much stung by his despised patronizing look.

“
But my dear Mrs. Lanning,” cried Mr.
Singleton, “you will be an immense asset to your husband in this
campaign. A lady’s touch is just what is needed, I assure you.”
Smoothly, he turned a beaming smile on Olivia. “And Miss Lanning’s
also. Lovely ladies standing by the candidate’s side are precisely
the image we want. They are a glowing example of womanhood, an
inspiration to all those of lesser stature. Beauty, elegance, noble
bearing. The men will be dazzled, the women charmed.” Thaddeus
Singleton waved a hand above the table, nearly oversetting his wine
glass. “And if you do not think women have an influence over how
their men vote—”

Thomas grabbed the swaying wine glass, as Mr.
Westover interrupted the spate of words. “I am certain Mrs. Lanning
will be happy to do all she can, Singleton, but you will leave her
role in this election to me. We will not discuss it again at
table.” The momentary silence following this pronouncement left no
one in doubt about who was in charge of Thomas Lanning’s
campaign.

“
I draw,” ventured Hugh Blacklock. “And
I’ve a sketchbook full of caricatures. It seemed a talent I would
never use, but I should be happy—”

“
Excellent,” Carleton Westover beamed.
“You may show them to me directly after dinner. “A resident artist
would be most convenient.”

“
Now all you need is a musician,” said
Patrick Fallon.

“
And some locals willing to serve on
our Committee,” declared Charles Saunders, who was seated to
Relia’s left.

“
Do you not have to choose colors?”
Livvy asked, speaking up for the first time since the table
conversation became general.

“
Blue,” Nick declared. “Everybody likes
blue.”

“
What do the Tories use?” Fallon
asked.

“
Burgundy and gold,” Relia
supplied.

“
Blue and white, blue and tan, blue and
yellow?” Thaddeus Singleton threw out.

“
Blue and red?” Nick said. “Like the
flag?”

A general chorus of
aahs
. Eyes gleamed. “By Jove, perhaps the lad’s
right,” said Mr. Fallon.

“
A bit bright, but I like it,” Thomas
agreed. “Nicholas, we thank you. Choosing the right colors is not
only important, but it lets us move forward with the banners.
Which, I am assured by my faithful town crier”—Mr. Lanning tossed a
conciliatory grin at the chastened Thaddeus Singleton—“is of utmost
importance.”

“
Ribbons and cockades,” Fallon added.
And we’ll find people to paint our colors on the handbills with
your picture.” He broke off, turning to Hugh Blacklock. “Do you do
portraits, as well as caricatures? We need a noble view of our
candidate.”

“
I shall most surely try,” said Mr.
Blacklock earnestly. Turning to his employer, he inquired, “Can you
manage a sitting in the morning, sir?”

“
I can see by the anticipatory grin on
young Nick’s face that I must agree,” Thomas declared. “No doubt
this education in politics will do him more good than the lessons
he will be missing.”

“
The time of year is unfortunate,” Mr.
Singleton sighed, looking doleful. “Saunders was saying your park
fairly begs for a lawn party, Mrs. Lanning. Such an event would
have garnered a great many votes.”

“
Could we not have a skating party?”
Livvy asked.

Thomas offered his sister an indulgent smile.
“I fear that many people would shatter the ice of our small pond.
We would drown our electors rather than secure their vote.”

“
But it snowed again last night,” Nick
said. “We could have sleigh rides and sledding. There’s a fine hill
out beyond the ha-ha.”

“
Do you skate, Thomas?” Relia inquired
sweetly into the silence following Nick’s suggestion.

“
I’d fall flat on my—” Thomas bit back
his words, adding ruefully, “In front of all the
constituents.”

“
Do you have a sleigh, Mrs. Lanning?”
Carleton Westover inquired.

“
Yes. At least I think so. It has not
been used in many years. And there are sleds somewhere, I
believe—”

“
And we could borrow from the
Stantons,” Livvy cried. “On Twelfth Night Harry mentioned
organizing a sleigh ride sometime soon,” she added on a
blush.

“
We certainly need the squire’s
support,” Thomas mused.

“
The Stantons dislike my cousin
Twyford,” Relia said. “It is doubtful they would support him. And
the Trents are staunch Whigs,” she added thoughtfully. “It is
possible, they, too, would contribute.”

“
If necessary, I’ll buy new,” Thomas
declared. “I like this idea. Livvy, Nick, I thank you.” Then,
tempering his enthusiasm, Mr. Lanning studied his wife. “Is this
feasible, my dear? Can we manage hot food and drink for such a
crowd? Fires and shelter for the faint-hearted? I know how much
work a simple Twelfth Night party caused . . .”

Mrs. Lanning’s serene expression never
changed. “Of course,” she told him.
Monster!
He knew quite well she could not resist
such a challenge to her management skills. Nor could she resist his
open, if manipulative, attempt to placate her by consulting her
opinion.
Impossible man!