Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
The upper rooms of Etridge’s Royal Hotel smelled of ink, candle wax, and the unmistakable whiff of too many men who had been arguing since tea time.
High ceilings, tall windows overlooking Blake Street, and a growing tension made the Whig club feel more like a battleground than a meeting room.
The results of Race Week’s lower than usual turn out, the Duke of Sussex refusing to attend their party’s supper, and other disappointing losses for their members, had all of them looking for someone to blame.
Lyness entered behind Roman, still shaken from the abbey. Emily’s retreat haunted him. The way she had stepped away…as though the sight of him pained her. He could still feel the echo of it, like a hand pressed hard against his chest.
Roman, by contrast, looked carved from granite—anger contained so tightly it might crack.
Several men turned at once.
“Ah! Hartwell!” Archibald Kettleburn called. “Come to tell us you have unearthed the villain who meant to poison you with opium?”
Roman removed his gloves with clipped control. “No. That individual remains unfound.”
Lyness sat beside him at the table, quiet. His mind kept showing him the image of Emily’s pale face, rehearsing for him the trembling in her voice. He forced himself to focus.
Phineas Nelson lounged near the fire. “If someone tried to make a fool of you during Race Week, he is either fearless or stupid.”
“Or very sure of his protection from prosecution,” Christopher Holly said from his seat nearer the window.
“That narrows it to half of York,” Mr. Cooke muttered.
Roman ignored them all, looking over the lists and maps covering the table—the city’s wards, voters, patrons. His jaw flexed. “What are we discussing here?”
“Reports on profits and losses from businesses during Race Week. Holly had it in his mind to see if the shops Whigs owned had more losses or similar to the rest,” Sir George said as he read one of the reports, making notes.
He looked up at Kettleburn. “You could help us go through these. They are most interesting.”
“Dashed lot of paperwork.” Kettleburn shrugged. “I am more interested in Hartwell’s troubles.”
With a put upon sigh, Sir George lowered the papers to the table.
“We do not even know if the person who tampered with his glass did so because of his politics. It could have been a jealous suitor, or someone who lost money to him gambling, or any number of things. Club matters should remain restricted to the things that have a direct correlation to our political work.”
Tapping his glass, Kettleburn did not even look at the older gentleman. “If a servant handed you the drink directly, he belongs to someone wealthy enough to hire carelessly. Or maliciously.”
Roman’s voice was controlled steel. “I have considered every possibility.” He picked up one of the papers Sir George handed to him, scowling at it.
Leaning forward, Phineas shared a crooked grin with Lyness. “One of my cousins bid me to offer congratulations to you, Eastwood, on your engagement. But he was confused, as a few weeks ago, he thought it was Hartwell he saw driving Lady Emily through town.”
The room went quiet, and Lyness felt his pulse jolt painfully. Not now, he wanted to say. Not when he felt Emily slipping away from him.
Usually left out of the more social aspects of the club’s members, Sir George blinked up at Lyness. “ You are engaged, Eastwood?”
Holly smiled as though he had made the arrangements himself. “To Mr. John Sterling’s sister. The Earl of Benwaith’s daughter.”
Roman’s expression barely shifted, but a shadow crossed his eyes.
“Yes,” Lyness said, steady even as his heart twisted. “We are engaged.”
“Excellent!” Sir George exclaimed. “A love match, is it?”
Avoiding the baronet’s gaze, Lyness tried to smile. “S-something of the s-sort.” Lyness felt heat rise under his collar. How foolish he must sound, how transparent.
Roman’s gaze flickered to him—not cold, not angry, but troubled. He said nothing of it. Duty reclaimed him before brotherhood could.
“We are not here to discuss marriages,” Roman said. “We are here to discuss the future of our party at a time when blame for everything that goes wrong in this city is put squarely on our shoulders.”
At that moment, the older of the Nelson brothers entered the room. Thaddeus Nelson, their father’s heir, and the more outspoken of the two. “What goes on here? What riotous gossip have I missed?” He looked at all the maps. “Is this how we will find Hartwell’s poisoner?”
With a grumble, Sir George sank deeper into his chair, holding the paper he now examined in front of his face.
“No.” Roman rubbed at his forehead. “We are looking at something related to our political goals, Mr. Nelson.”
“Oh, good. Because I would hate to make all the efforts here useless, since I think I have information on the poisoning front.” Thaddeus crossed his arms and swept the room with a bold grin on his face.
Roman’s head snapped up. “Out with it, then.”
“My sisters attended a gathering at the Powells’ home last evening. One of them overheard Mr. Patchett speaking with Mr. Powell, saying the attempt at humiliating ‘the baron’ had ‘failed spectacularly.’”
Lyness felt Roman go still beside him.
Patchett. Loud, wealthy, aggressively Tory.
The son of a magistrate, with family members in high positions throughout the county.
A man whose disdain for Roman’s reform efforts bordered on obsession.
But Emily had suffered because of it. That truth needled Lyness more sharply than any political slight
Though he looked as though he had been pulled into the conversation unwillingly, Sir George scoffed, “Patchett is a fool, but drugging a man—”
“I looked into it. That is why I was late today. He has recently elevated one of his footmen,” Thaddeus said cheerfully.
“A thing the other servants are gossiping over, as a more experienced footman was passed over for the job. If the elevated footman is the same one who handed Hartwell the drink, it will be an easy matter of knocking on the door to get a good look at him.”
A chill threaded through Lyness. He and Roman exchanged a look—Roman wanted to see the footman. He rose abruptly. “I must go.”
“To accuse Mr. Patchett?” Sir George sputtered.
“No,” Roman said. “To see the footman.”
Lyness stood as well. “I am coming.”
Something in Roman’s face eased slightly. A silent thank you he did not need to voice. They left the Royal Hotel on foot, walking to Davygate, and reached Patchett’s immaculate town house. The lion-faced knocker, painted gold, gleamed like a taunt.
Roman lifted it.
Before he struck, the door opened.
A footman stood there. Pale-haired. Sharp-featured. Lyness glanced at his brother but could not tell if Roman looked at the servant with any kind of recognition. But the footman had frozen.
Then he bowed his head slightly. “Mr. Patchett is not receiving today, and the rest of the family is not at home.”
“What a shame,” Roman said, tone even and eyes taking in the footman. “I suppose we will have to come again.” Then without warning he leaned closer and the servant went stiff as a statue. “Your face is familiar.”
The footman did not blink. “I have been in Mr. Patchett’s service only a fortnight.”
“I have never been here before, so I would have seen you elsewhere. Any thought as to where that might be?”
The other man’s jaw went tight a moment, but his eyes had widened too. “I do not think that is possible, sir—”
“Lord Hartwell,” Lyness supplied with the tiniest of smirks. “He is Lord Hartwell.”
“My lord,” the man corrected himself with a barely concealed cringe. “If you will leave your card—”
With no regard for proper distance between strangers, Roman stepped forward, voice like Apollo’s lowest growl. “You will tell your master that we know what occurred at the Assembly Rooms.”
The footman swallowed.
“And,” Roman added softly, “you will tell him this—if any harm comes to myself or someone I care about again, I will hold him personally accountable.”
This time, fear flickered visibly on the servant’s face.
“I will relay your message,” the man said.
“Good.” Roman turned sharply and strode away. Lyness followed, tension vibrating through him. Protecting Emily mattered more to him than any political rivalry, and he would rather keep his brother out of harm’s way, too.
At the corner of the street, Roman exhaled. “That was him.”
“Yes. I gathered that.”
“And Patchett hired him. Likely paid him to put that cup in my hand.” They walked in grim silence until Roman spoke again, his voice rough. “He meant to humiliate me,” he said. “He harmed Lady Emily instead.”
A quick study of his brother and Lyness knew the whole event had done something to change Roman. His brother would not tolerate harm coming to those he cared for. Lyness’s hands curled into fists. “Then we do not give him another opportunity.”
Roman cast him a long, assessing look. “No. We will not. Or rather, I will not. This is my responsibility, Lyness. You have taken enough on your shoulders over the years. But I swear to you, if I need your help, I will not hesitate to ask.”
That gave Lyness pause. “What do you mean?”
Roman gestured to the street. “Let us make our way back to the others, and I will tell you.” They crossed the street, dodging one slow moving carriage before Roman continued his thought.
“I have done a great deal of thinking since you announced your betrothal to Lady Emily. And you are right. You have taken on every responsibility I have handed you, and more besides, to the point that you are acting more as the baron than I have been. You manage all the estate affairs, all the tenant affairs, and have acted as steward since we turned out the embezzling fool.”
“Someone had to do it,” Lyness said with a shrug. “Someone you trusted. You cannot be everywhere and do everything all at once.”