The Wicked Sister Page 17

  He smiled at her. “You are not just a beautiful face, are you?”

  “No,” she said crossly, though she could not help blushing with pleasure because he’d said she was beautiful. Even if he didn’t mean it. She hoped the light was poor enough to hide her reaction.

  She led him to the western stair by a darker, slightly more circuitous route that avoided any likelihood of encountering guests or their servants. As they approached the stairs, she stopped abruptly and turned to find him suddenly too close to her. His candle flared and flickered at her movement, casting light and shadows across his lean face. His eyes were fixed on her. The warm, familiar scent of him that she remembered from waltzing with him, flooded her with awareness so that she couldn’t breathe.

  For several heartbeats, neither of them moved.

  Then his breath came out in a ragged rush. He inclined his head in silence and ran downstairs.

  She almost ran on to her own chamber, overwhelmed with confusion. She had no idea what to feel about this sudden knowledge, but it was clear to her now that whatever his love for Judith, he was not indifferent to Maria. The intense, hungry way he had looked at her at the top of the stairs… She did touch him, did move him. He did desire her. And God help her, she wanted it to be merely duty and honor that kept him betrothed to Judith. Which was unkind to both of them and inspired by a horrible jealousy she was not proud of.

  I could be happier for him—I could!—if only I knew Judith to be the woman who wrote that pamphlet and not the creature I think her…

  It isn’t my concern. I have to forget him. In that way, at least. There can never be anything more than friendship between us. That is enough. It must be enough.

  In turmoil, she reached her chamber after encountering no one other than servants. She rushed inside and emptied her reticule under her pillow. Then she took a moment in front of the glass, staring into her own wild, warm eyes. Her heart and stomach seemed to burst with emotion. She calmed them deliberately, breathing deeply instead of worrying at the wound in her hand.

  More composed, she left and walked back down to the drawing room, well before the gentlemen joined them.

  *

  Later, by candlelight, in the privacy of her bedchamber, she read enough of Gayle’s pamphlets to know that these were exactly what Mr. Betts was looking for. One of them, while making very valid points, also called the people onto the streets to demand food, jobs, and even a say in government—an incitement to riot. The other, aimed at the army, was, basically, a call to mutiny.

  If she had to guess, she would suspect Judith of authoring the first, though she doubted her involvement in the second more serious pamphlet, and was glad, for Michael’s sake. She stuffed them back under her pillow and blew out the candles. As she lay down and closed her eyes, her mind drifted inevitably away from the pamphlets, their legality and their effects and what should be done about them, to Michael himself.

  As usual, he had not stayed long in the drawing room, and she had not spoken to him while he was there. But somehow, his very presence in the room had made her glad. Without even looking at him directly, she had been so aware of him, his quiet voice occasionally overlaid with humor, every movement of his long, lean body…

  She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to imagine they were his. And slept.

  In the morning, she rose bright and early and hid the pamphlets between the pages of Mansfield Park before she walked down to the library.

  As she had hoped, Michael was already there, busily writing.

  “What on earth does my brother have you doing now?” she asked, walking up to his desk.

  He stood at once. “I confess, I have nothing to do for him at the moment, save write to arrange our overnight stops when we return to London. This is my own work.”

  “What is it?” she asked eagerly.

  “Ideas mainly, for a book I might write, if I can tie it all together.”

  “I would like to read some of your writings,” she said.

  He hesitated, searching her face as if wondering whether she really meant it, or, perhaps, if he should “contaminate” his employer’s sister with his radical thoughts. Then he bent and plucked two different pamphlets from the bottom shelf behind his desk.

  “That one I wrote for your brother—parliamentary business. That, for private distribution.”

  “Thank you.” She took them eagerly, then, remembering why she was here, set her book on the table and retrieved the pamphlets, telling him briefly what she had read.

  He glanced at the military one and, presumably recognizing its subject matter, grimaced, and tossed it on the desk. “For Betts,” he agreed and picked up the second. After a moment, his eyes seemed to become fixed, as if he were no longer reading. It was the one she had suspected Judith of writing, and she guessed he felt the same. Then he frowned and picked up the military tract once more.

  She thought he whitened. However, he said nothing, merely swept them both up. “I’ll go to the coffee house before eleven and see what transpires.”

  “And I shall follow Mr. Gayle in case CH is somewhere or someone else entirely.”

  “Please don’t do that,” he said at once. “Remember Heath.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll stay in company!” And she went off to have breakfast and see what Serena and Frances were up to.

  *

  Michael watched her go and sank back behind his desk. Judith’s pamphlet, the one he had asked her not to distribute until after the war, was already in circulation. She had given copies of it to Gayle. Worse, she had clearly printed the one aimed at the soldiers, too, for he had finally recognized it as the manuscript he had read in her parlor. Perhaps they were even both printed before he spoke to her. Either she had lied to him or defied him. More seriously, how the devil was he to stop Gayle without exposing Judith?

  At least she would not go to the coffee house, since ladies did not frequent it. On the other hand, until he understood exactly what was going on and had Judith out of this nonsense, he could not involve Betts.

  He stood, grabbed up his own writing and the incriminating pamphlets, and left the library. In his own chamber, where a fire had been lit against the chill of the spring morning, he threw the pamphlets into the flames and watched them burn. Then he stirred up the ashes with the poker to make sure they were destroyed, before he seized his hat and coat.

  A thin, rectangular parcel seemed to glare at him accusingly from beside the door. Alice’s second painting, which he had promised to take to the gallery for her. It had gone out of his head yesterday. Hastily, he snatched it up. He had time to do that before he went to the coffee house.

  However, as he ran down the main staircase, he met the earl coming up with an opened letter in his hand.

  “Ah, there you are, Hanson! I was just coming to find you. Do you have a moment?”

  “Of course.” There could be no real question about his time for his employer, but Michael appreciated the courtesy. They walked downstairs together and across the hall toward the back of the house.

  In the estate office where the earl was often to be found, Braithwaite closed the door and held out the letter he carried to Michael. “I was just going through the morning’s post, and I found this. Beddingfield is dead.”

  Beddingfield was the member of parliament for Whalen and North-West Cumberland.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Michael said. “Was he a friend of yours?”

  “We were not close,” Braithwaite said honestly, seating himself on one side of the desk. “But he was glad to vote in the House of Commons as I suggested. He was an amiable man, and I am sorry he is dead. A sudden illness, his son tells me.” The earl seemed to hesitate. “To be honest, however, he did not greatly care for his constituents, beyond those few who voted him into parliament. I believe we could do better with someone younger, more forward-thinking.”

  “You have someone in mind,” Michael guessed. Which was, near-enough, election in itself. With Lord Brait
hwaite behind him, a candidate could not lose in this part of the world.

  A smile flickered on Braithwaite’s lips. “Of course. You, my friend.”

  Michael was sure his jaw dropped. Certainly, it seemed an effort to close his mouth to swallow. “I’m four-and-twenty years old. No one would take me seriously. I’m surprised you seem to.”

  “I have worked with you, talked with you, witnessed your dedication. As for your age, I believe Pitt was four-and-twenty when he became prime minister! I know it is your ambition to enter parliament, and I offer you this opportunity solely on the strength of your merits.”

  Michael gazed at him, still stunned. “Sir, there are so many arguments against this! I have no means to support myself for one.”

  “That need not trouble you. I will arrange an annuity.”

  “But that would be another thing against it. I would be beholden to you even more.” He looked into Braithwaite’s amused eyes. “Despite that, I would not necessarily vote as you wish. I would go my own way, perhaps reflecting ill on you, my sponsor as everyone will know.”

  “I would expect nothing less. I won’t hold it over you. Nor fall out with you over political disagreements, which we already have.”

  “Yes, but you must know such disputes might be rather more serious in parliament!”

  “True.” Braithwaite lips twisted into a crooked smile. “Look, I know change is coming. It has to, and I applaud it. But I would manage it so that the upheaval is gradual and as little distressing as possible. Having a radical I can trust to do the right things—even if they are not my things!—is a necessary beginning. I accept all your caveats and ask only that we talk occasionally.”

  Michael sat down, dropping the unread letter onto Braithwaite’s desk and dragging his fingers through his hair. “I always imagined I would stand in one of the industrial communities.”

  “There is necessary work everywhere, and there is no reason why you cannot support such people as well as your own.” The earl sat back in his chair. “Think about it. The annuity will not be huge, but it will support a wife.”

  Michael’s gaze flew up to his. He couldn’t think why this didn’t make him happier. “When do you need your answer?”

  “In a few days. There is no need to act with unseemly haste.”

  Michael rose to his feet. “I will think about it and give you your answer very soon.” His lips quirked. “Whatever that answer is, I thank you from the bottom of my heart for thinking of me. Goodbye.”

  The earl’s voice stayed him at the door. “Hanson—your parcel.”

  Sheepishly, Michael returned, picked up Lady Alice’s painting, and left again.

  His head was in a spin of conjecture, triumph, and despair as he strode into town, going over and over Braithwaite’s offer. He did not wish to be elected to such a way…but to be elected at all, with the backing of such a man as the earl, and still to have freedom to vote according to his own conscience… To make a real difference rather than merely writing interminable pamphlets and making speeches to people who already thought much as he did…

  He wondered what Judith would think about it. And this was where his stomach twisted in revolt. He would not form it into words, but for the first time since he had met her, he did not want to involve her, not in this decision. Even marriage was no longer the attraction it had once been.

  However, he fiercely squashed such disloyal thoughts, mentally lashing himself in disgust. Just because Judith had made a mistake, had not told him about printing the pamphlets… It was possible Gayle had compelled her to hand them over. He needed to talk to her.

  In no time, it seemed, he was in Blackhaven, walking first to the gallery, where, by coincidence, he saw Judith. She and her sister were looking in the window, examining the pictures displayed there without much obvious appreciation.

  He greeted them at once, adding, “I’m very glad I ran into you, Judith. I need to talk to you.”

  “We’re going to the market,” Judith said, “but come to the inn for luncheon, if you wish.”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  “What have you there, Michael?” Gillian asked, indicating the parcel under his arm.

  “A commission from one of the earl’s sisters,” Michael replied.

  Inevitably, Judith curled her lip. Somehow, her fearless contempt was not so endearing when turned against good people that he liked, and his hackles rose in instinctive defense, even before she said, “I suppose it was Lady Maria, using you as her personal servant.”

  “Actually, it is nothing to do with Lady Maria but still a request I am glad to fulfill.”

  “Of course you are,” Judith said scornfully.

  This was a discussion that really needed privacy, so he merely bowed coldly and stepped into the gallery. Judith did not wait but almost dragged her sister away from the window.

  Chapter Seventeen

  After leaving Alice’s second picture with the gallery, Michael made his way to the coffee house. Although it was barely half past ten, he saw at once that Gayle was already present, seated at the table in the back corner. A quick glance around the other patrons assured him Betts was not here.

  “Hanson!” Gayle said jovially. “Join me.”

  This was hardly the invitation of a guilty man about to commit sedition and treachery. Nor did he seem overly rotund from carrying too many pamphlets on his body. Michael sat beside him and ordered coffee.

  “Surprised to see you here,” Gayle observed. “I thought Braithwaite would have you slaving away.”

  “He grants me the odd hour or two away from my labors,” Hanson said mildly. “But if it comes to that, I am surprised to see you abroad at this hour.”

  “Oh well, early to bed, you know. Not much else to do at the castle since the ball. To be honest, I’m sure the countess—both the countesses!—wish us all at Jericho, but Underwood will hang around like a lovesick puppy. Never thought I’d see the day. But at least we’re off tomorrow morning.”

  “Back to London?”

  “As you say. Westminster duty calls. I hope we’ll run into each other again, back in town. Call at my house when you have a moment.”

  Michael, who had no idea where Gayle lived, only smiled faintly.

  “Dashed good to run into you again,” Gayle said, vaguely, looking around him.

  Michael dropped his gaze from Gayle to the table and then beneath it. “Why?”

  Gayle glanced at him in clear surprise. “Why what, old man?”

  Michael raised his eyes. “Why are you so pleased to see me? We were never friends.”

  “Weren’t we?” Gayle smiled faintly and looked toward the door.

  Michael used the moment to glance at the low shelves beside the table. They didn’t appear to be used for anything, but something protruded from beneath them—the corner of a satchel, perhaps? Or a soft bag of some kind?

  “No,” he said. “You beat me as regularly as you could catch me.”

  “Did I? Well, boys will be boys, and you were a lot smaller, then. I wouldn’t like to try it now!”

  “Oddly, I wouldn’t object if you did. Now.”

  For the first time, a flash in Gayle’s eyes showed he understood more than he was pretending. “Now I’m a member of parliament and shouldn’t be seen in a public brawl?”

  “Shouldn’t you?” Michael asked innocently.

  Gayle’s lips stretched. He looked toward the door and back again. “Not bearing a grudge, are you, Hanson?”

  Michael smiled, for the coffee house door had just opened again. “Of course not.” He did not glance toward the door, but Gayle did and tossed some coins on the table.

  “Well, I look forward to reminiscing some more in London. Look me up,” he said, standing up. He made no effort to retrieve whatever was under the shelves, but then, considering who had just entered the coffee house, he wouldn’t. “Goodbye, Hanson!”

  “Goodbye.” Hanson watched him walk past Gideon Heath who had just come in. The two d
id not acknowledge each other in the slightest.

  But Heath was not as good an actor as Gayle. He looked thoroughly chagrined to see Hanson. And yet, he walked up to his table and sat down.

  “Do you mind if I join you?” Heath asked.

  “There are other tables available.”

  Heath sat anyway in Gayle’s vacated chair. “I think you and I got off on the wrong foot.”

  “Yes, we did. And we’re very unlikely to get off on the right one now. I know what you did.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Heath said grandly.

  “Ask your friends, the ones who—er—fell off their carriage.” Michael stood, dropped some coins into the waiter’s hand, and strolled out of the coffee house without saying goodbye.

  He didn’t go far, though, halting just to the right of the window, from where he quite clearly saw Heath edge the satchel out with his foot, then pick it up and prop it against his chair while the waiter poured him coffee. Heath was not a great conspirator.

  Looking around, Michael beckoned the urchin crouching on the corner across the road. The boy saw him at once and immediately abandoned the stones he’s been playing with to run across the street, dodging a passing cart and a curricle going at a fast clip. He tugged his forelock at Michael with a cheeky grin.

  Michael took a coin from his pocket. “Go to the King’s Head and ask for Mr. Betts. Tell him his problems will be solved if he comes to the coffee house now.”

  The boy nodded and would have taken off at once if Michael hadn’t asked him to repeat the message, which he did, word-perfect and at high speed with a hint of impatience. Michael let him go, leaned one shoulder against the wall, and waited.

  He half-expected Heath to come out almost immediately. After all, who would want to spend a lot of time in a public place with the contents of that satchel? Changing position, Michael saw that it was not a satchel but a tightly wrapped parcel not very much thicker than the one he had delivered to the art gallery. As though there were four or six little piles of pamphlets, perhaps stiffened by some backing, to disguise its contents.