Chapter 22 #3
There are gentlemen for whom the ordinary obligations of rank become insufficient occupation.
Lord Hartwell, having lately distinguished himself by an ardent concern for the unwarranted political grievances of His Majesty’s Catholic subjects, and by an uncommon sympathy with certain Irish gentlemen whose complaints find ready audience at Westminster, has now discovered another oppressed population nearer home.
The merchants and tradesmen of York may congratulate themselves upon acquiring so fashionable a champion—except that it is not their concerns, but the worries of a lump of stone that tugs Lord Hartwell’s heartstrings.
Whether his lordship’s attention will prove as lasting as it is enthusiastic remains to be seen; but a young peer possessed of so generous a quantity of principle must surely be grateful for every fresh opportunity upon which to display it.
By the end, Tamsin was frowning. She read it again—and found the second reading left her more frustrated than the first. “Patchett?”
“Almost certainly.”
She looked back at the article and reread one section again.
Those less dazzled by such expansive benevolence might wonder whether the duties already attached to Lord Hartwell’s name provide so little employment—or interest—that he must continually seek new ones.
Roman pushed his chair away from the desk. Athena lifted her head to watch, alert to their movements. “Hargrove is going to print it and wants to know whether I mean to answer it.”
“Do you?” Tamsin knew the answer before he spoke.
“Of course.” He stood and paced away, turning to catch her staring with a frown. Roman raised his brows. “Have you something to say?”
Something twisted in her stomach. “No. Nothing.”
“That expression upon your lovely face is plainly not nothing.”
She felt a touch of pleasure at the compliment, but focused instead on the paper again. “This is the man who tried to drug you, according to Lyness and Lady Emily’s story.”
That made him stiffen. He was still furious someone else had been harmed.
“At the assembly,” she continued, the story coming back to the forefront of her mind, “he wanted you to behave foolishly, where everyone could see it. To discredit you, Lyness said.”
He folded his arms and studied her. “I remember, Tamsin. The repercussions from that evening are still part of our concern for Lyness and Emily’s wedding.”
Which was useful to know. “And when that failed, he tried to make you angry.”
Roman’s gaze shifted to the article as she laid it on the desk.
Tamsin tapped it lightly with one finger. “Is this so different? He does not merely disagree with you.” She read one cutting sentence again. “He enjoys provoking you.”
His gaze was blazing. “I am aware of that.”
“Then why give him what he wants?”
A soft scoff parted her husband’s lips. “You think I should allow this to stand unanswered?”
“I do not know.”
That, apparently, he had not expected. His stance softened.
Tamsin shrugged. “I do not know enough about newspapers or politics to tell you what you ought to do. Perhaps there are things here which must be corrected.”
“There are.”
“But I think he means for you to answer more than those things.”
Roman held out his hand and Tamsin returned the paper.
He read several lines again. “He questions whether I have neglected my duties in Parliament. He suggests my interest in Catholic relief is little more than fashionable posturing.” He shook the paper to emphasize his distress.
“And apparently I have now descended upon York in search of another grievance to champion.” This time, his tone had Apollo lifting his head too.
Both dogs watching him, waiting for a command.
“That appears to be the argument he has made,” she agreed.
Roman’s jaw tightened and she slowly shook her head, the movement gaining a quick frown from him.
“He means to make you angry, Roman.”
“I am angry.”
“Yes. I noticed.”
Roman gave her a dry look.
“And now,” Tamsin said patiently, “he expects you to do something rash while you are angry.”
That startled him. Roman looked down at the paper once more. After a moment, he sat in one of the chairs before the fire. “Curse him.”
Tamsin bit her lip and rose to join him by the fire, coming to stand next to his chair. The dogs were still waiting for their call to action, distinctly aware of their master’s agitation. “And if you write your response while feeling this way?”
Roman met her gaze. “That is precisely the response he hopes for. Something ill-thought out because I am acting on emotion rather than reason.” A laugh escaped him, sounding exceedingly ill-humored. “There are still factual claims I cannot leave unanswered.”
“Then answer those.” She wanted to reach out and lay a hand on his shoulder, but let it rest upon the back of the chair instead. Though they touched each other in little ways, this moment felt different.
“And ignore the insults?”
“Would you answer a man who called you ugly?”
Roman stared at her.
Tamsin gave him a small smile. “I am trying to establish the rules.”
Her husband snorted. “I should hope not.”
“Then perhaps you need not answer every insult merely because Mr. Patchett has paid to put it into print.”
Roman leaned back in his chair, studying her now rather than the paper. “You are very good at this.”
Which was not what she expected. “At being insulted?”
“At knowing when someone wants a reaction from you.”
Tamsin’s amusement faded. She had considerable experience in that, and Roman had not intended the observation to wound. “I suppose I am rather used to anticipating such things.”
Roman’s expression softened. He reached up to take her hand from the back of the chair and hold it gently against his chest, right over his heart. “I am glad you knocked.”
Warmth unfurled beneath her ribs. “So am I.”
His thumb moved once across her knuckles before he looked at the paper again. “I should send this to Holly before it gets any later. Having my solicitor look at it would be the prudent thing to do.”
“Yes.” She was staring at her hand on his chest. With only the thin cotton of his shirt between her skin and his, she could feel the warmth beneath.
“And Hargrove will need an answer.”
Tamsin nodded absently, unable to formulate words.
Roman grunted inelegantly as he stood, but he did not release her hand immediately, keeping it in his as he lowered it. “I think you’re right,” he said finally. “At least about Patchett. If I answer him tonight, I will answer the man rather than the argument.”
“Then perhaps tonight is not the time to answer him.”
“No.” Roman exhaled. “It likely is not.” He finally let go of her and walked back to his desk, seating himself and picking up a pen.
Tamsin remained where she was while her husband wrote several lines, watching him.
After a moment, he looked up. “Was there anything you needed, Tamsin?”
“No.” She had wanted to see him, and so she had.
They had spent considerable time together.
She had even helped. But she had not come downstairs to solve his difficulty with Patchett, nor did she need anything done.
She had come because she wanted to sit beside him, she had missed him.
Instead of saying any of that, she smiled. “No. Nothing at all.”
Roman smiled back, evidently reassured. “I will try not to be much longer, but you ought not wait on me to seek your rest.”
“All right.” Tamsin took a step toward the door, but Roman came around the desk before she took another.
He caught her hand and brought it gently to his lips. “Thank you.”
She squeezed his fingers before withdrawing hers, trying to ignore the sudden skip of her pulse. “Good night, Roman.”
“Good night.”
Tamsin left the study and closed the door quietly behind her.
She had gone only a few steps before she slowed.
He had not asked her to leave. That was the irritating part.
If she had said, I would like to stay, she rather thought Roman would have looked surprised, moved her chair closer to his, and let her remain beside him for as long as she pleased.
She had told him there was nothing else she wanted. That morning, she had told him there was nothing at home requiring his attention.
Both statements had been true.
Neither, Tamsin knew, had been what she meant.