Chapter 16
Chapter
Sixteen
Strategies and Secrets
Lord Redmayne arrived just after one, bringing with him a gust of cool May air and the faint scent of cigar smoke clinging to his coat. “Your Grace,” he said, inclining his head.
“Redmayne,” I replied, stepping forward and offering my hand. “I am glad you could make the time.”
His gaze swept the room, lingering on the piles of papers arranged with deliberate order across my desk. “Mayhaps I should have brought reinforcements.” A touch of humor colored his voice.
Men who’d recently acquired a title tended to be either toplofty or wary of making a mistake. Good to know he possessed a sense of humor.
I laughed. “We do have our work cut out for us. I can offer you brandy or whiskey from my private reserve.”
“It’s a bit early in the day.”
“Then I’ll ring for tea.”
Redmayne’s face took on a look of horror. “Heaven forbid. I meant it as a joke.”
“Ah.” I shook my head, faintly amused. “You give nothing away. I should remember that, if I ever find myself across a card table from you.”
I turned toward the sideboard and poured two modest tots of whiskey, passing one to Redmayne before taking the other for myself.
He accepted the glass with a brief nod of thanks, though his attention did not linger on the whiskey. His gaze remained on me, alert, measuring, as I gestured toward the chair set opposite the desk.
“Please,” I said. “Sit.”
He did so, settling forward rather than back, his posture suggesting a man accustomed to listening for the moment when talk turned consequential.
“Have you had occasion to read the Manchester reports?” I asked, taking the seat behind my desk.
“I have,” he replied at once. His mouth tightened. “They make for grim reading.”
“Injuries catalogued with appalling regularity. Deaths attributed to causes that would be avoidable with the most modest of safeguards. They are hard pills to swallow. My goal is to enact legislation to minimize those tragedies.”
He exhaled slowly. “Some of the committee members will fight you every inch of the way.”
“I expect nothing less.” I took a measured sip of whiskey, then set the glass aside. “Which is why we must be convincing with our arguments. We require seven votes in favor to move the measure to the full House of Lords. By my reckoning, we are three short.”
He braced his forearms against his knees. “And who, precisely, do you count as secure?”
“I can rely upon four without hesitation,” I said. “My own. Harcourt’s. Wickham’s.” I paused a fraction, then added, “And yours—if I may.”
“You may,” he said without hesitation. “But Harcourt and Wickham?” A note of curiosity entered his voice. “I would not have placed them so firmly in your camp.”
“Harcourt’s opposition to industrial magnates borders on the personal,” I replied. “He has never forgiven them for treating Parliament as an inconvenience rather than an authority. As for Wickham—” I shook my head. “He does not forget the mill fire. Nor the testimony that followed.”
I leaned back, my gaze briefly unfocusing as memory supplied what the papers could not. “A fire occurred two winters ago at a cotton mill outside Oldham. A blocked stairwell. A single iron door that opened inward. When the machinery overheated, the blaze spread faster than anyone could outrun it.”
Redmayne stilled.
“Fourteen were killed,” I continued. “Most of them women. Three children.” I paused. “More than twice that number were injured—burns, crushed limbs, lungs ruined by smoke. Wickham attended the inquest. He was meant to observe. Instead, he listened.”
“To whom?” Redmayne asked quietly.
“To a widower who had lost his wife and eldest daughter in the same quarter-hour,” I said. “To a boy of twelve who survived only because he leapt from a second-floor window and shattered his leg. Wickham knew the family. Had hunted with the father years earlier. Had dined at their table.”
Redmayne’s jaw tightened.
“The mill owner blamed chance,” I went on. “An unfortunate accident, he claimed. But Wickham heard the truth instead—about locked exits, ignored warnings, and the cost of installing proper safeguards.” I met Redmayne’s gaze. “He has not forgiven the men who called it inevitable.”
Silence settled between us, heavier than before.
“That,” I said at last, “is why his vote is secure.”
Redmayne nodded slowly. “Memory can be a powerful ally.”
“So can outrage,” I said. “When it is properly directed.”
“So who’s against it?” Redmayne asked. “I imagine Weatherby would be one.”
“And Denholm is another.” I tapped the edge of the desk. “Pennington is lost as well. He will not cross his brother-in-law, who owns several factories. His income depends upon precisely the abuses we are attempting to curb.”
Redmayne’s lip curled with disgust. “The sort of man that would rather see children maimed than dividends diminished.”
“Exactly.” I leaned back, folding my hands. “Which leaves us with the undecided.”
Redmayne considered for a moment. “Cheswick, Fenner. Mallory, Hartwell.”
“Four men,” I said, “with four different vulnerabilities.”
Redmayne did not speak at once. Instead, he settled back in his chair, attentive now, waiting for me to continue.
“Cheswick,” I continued. “He fears exposure. Not scandal precisely, but ridicule. The press unnerves him. He votes with public opinion when it grows loud enough.”
Redmayne quietly nodded.
“Fenner is simpler,” I went on. “He worships figures, precedent, and reports bound in calfskin. He will not be moved by sentiment, only by evidence so thorough he cannot dismiss it.”
“And Mallory?” Redmayne asked.
I hesitated a moment. “He values survival above all else. He watches the wind and adjusts his sails accordingly. Convince him the tide is turning, and he will follow.”
“What of Hartwell?” Redmayne asked.
“Hartwell,” I said, my voice flattening slightly, “is ruled by appetite.”
Redmayne glanced up. “Cards?”
“Among other diversions,” I replied. “He gambles beyond his means and exists in a constant state of needing ready coin. Every vote he casts is weighed not against principle, but against what it may cost him privately.”
“That makes him unpredictable,” Redmayne said.
“It makes him vulnerable,” I corrected. “He cannot afford principles that threaten his purse.”
Redmayne leaned back, studying me now with a different expression—less collegial, more alert. “You have thought this through.”
“I have had to,” I said. “Reform does not succeed on virtue alone. Appeals to conscience have failed. Which leaves persuasion of a different sort.”
He met my gaze steadily. “I wondered when we would arrive there.”
Silence followed, broken only by the faint tick of the clock upon the mantel. Outside, a carriage rattled past in Grosvenor Square. London continued on, indifferent to committee rooms, to crushed fingers, to men who voted one way or another and called it governance.
Redmayne frowned slightly, then tapped his temple. “Greystowe. We have not mentioned him. I had thought he might vote with us.”
“No,” I said at once.
“He will not?”
“We do not approach him,” I replied, choosing my words with care. “He is under considerable strain at present. A personal complication. I will not press him while his attention is divided.”
Redmayne inclined his head, accepting the boundary without probing further. “A wise restraint. Desperation produces unreliable allies.” He paused. “That leaves four men to be approached. We have little more than a week before the next committee sitting. We could divide the work.”
“That would serve our purpose best,” I said.
“Could you take on Fenner and Cheswick? With Cheswick lay the Manchester reports squarely before him.
Make certain he understands the moral weight of what we know—and the political cost of having opposed protective measures once the public learns the truth.
Fenner, however, will only respond to advantage. Show him the figures. Demonstrate that the adoption of safety equipment will yield far greater gains than any losses he imagines.”
“And you will talk to Mallory and Hartwell,” he said, already anticipating the answer.
“Precisely.”
“Hartwell will be the harder nut to crack.”
“I expect so.”
We spent the better part of an hour refining our approach—who required patience, who required pressure, and who might be persuaded simply by the knowledge that the ground beneath them was beginning to shift.
Once we were satisfied with our strategy, Redmayne inclined his head. “We have made good progress.”
“We have,” I agreed. “Let us speak again after we have each had our conversations.”
We rose and shook hands once more. Redmayne had nearly reached the door when I spoke again.
“One more thing.”
He paused and turned back.
“Have you heard of a place called the Venus Grotto?”
His reaction was immediate. Surprise flickered across his face, followed by guarded confusion.
“I have,” he said slowly. “But I fail to see how—” He stopped himself, then frowned. “You are not suggesting I champion such an establishment.”
“I am suggesting nothing of the kind,” I said evenly. “I want information.”
He exhaled, relief evident despite his effort to conceal it. “Then yes. I have heard the name. In whispers. A private house along the river. Discretion is its chief attraction.”
“Tell me exactly what you have heard.”
He hesitated for a moment. “The men talked about young women.” Another pause. “The implication was that agreement to participate in such activities was not always mutual.”
The words settled heavily between us. I felt the familiar coil of controlled anger tighten low in my chest, the kind that demanded action rather than speech. “I’ve heard the same.”
“If the rumors are true,” Redmayne continued, “then the Venus Grotto touches men of rank. Men who lecture about morality in daylight and behave quite differently after dark.”
A knock sounded at the door before either of us could say more. Milford entered, bearing a small silver tray upon which rested a folded note.
“A message for Your Grace.”
I recognized Rosalynd’s hand at once.
S,
I have learned more. Will explain later. There is one matter I must attend to first.
—R
The study seemed to draw inward around me, the walls closer, the air heavier. I folded the note carefully and pocketed it.
Redmayne watched me closely. “That is not parliamentary business, I gather.”
“No,” I said. “It is not.”
“I shall leave you to it then. I’ll be in touch.” And then he was gone.
She had learned something at Madame Delacroix’s. Of that, I had no doubt. And she would not wait. She never did.
I needed to find out where she’d gone. And there was only one way to obtain that information. Honeycutt would not welcome my inquiry. But that was of no consequence. I cared only for one thing.
Reaching Rosalynd before whatever lay in wait reached her first.