A Gamble on Love (29 page)

Yet . . . all those nights they had met
in the sitting room, he might have retired to his bedchamber via
the dressing room door. But he had not. He had
wanted
to talk to her, she was certain of it. And
had he not dropped everything today to dash to her
rescue?

That was his obligation. The very heart of
his promise to her. And Thomas Lanning was an honorable man.

Tunbridge
Wells
. He planned to spend a week in bed in Tunbridge
Wells. Not alone.

Relia gulped, took another look out the
window. Reality was needed, not flights of fancy. “I fear it will
rain,” she pronounced. “Two days ‘til the Festival, and what if the
snow is all gone?”

Thomas’s hand came down on her
shoulder. Dear God, he was standing directly behind her! “There’s
an old saying, my dear—
Do not borrow
trouble
. And you will recall the vicar is on our side.
It is indeed clouding up tonight, but the temperature is dropping.
A fine covering of new snow is what we’ll have. Conditions will be
perfect.”

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.