Rival to Resist (Chronicle of Misadventures #4)

Chapter 1

FREDERICK

Never had Frederick Yorke looked upon the prospect of death with such anticipation.

Not his own death. That was an event he trusted lay far in the future.

It was a stranger’s death he awaited.

It was wrong to await a man’s demise, of course, be he stranger or no. Frederick harbored Lord Westvale no ill-will. It was merely that Westvale was all that stood between him and the goal he had been pursuing for the last six years: becoming a Member of Parliament.

When Frederick had left London, everyone said Westvale had only weeks—perhaps days—left in this world, which meant that Westvale’s nephew would inherit his title and vacate his seat in the House of Commons. A seat Frederick planned to win.

He craned his neck in an attempt to see ahead. The tree boughs, heavy with vibrant green summer foliage, obscured everything but the top of a squared church tower—a most welcome sight after days on end in the saddle.

He had known the journey to Cornwall would be long and difficult, but he had severely underestimated just how remote it was—and the abysmal state of the roads.

His horse, Flint, tripped, and Frederick leaned forward to rub the beast’s damp neck. “Almost there, old boy. Plenty of water and food ahead.” At least, he assumed Cornwall was civilized enough to have places to feed his horse.

As the pocked road sloped downward, the full stone church came into view, but it was not that which pulled Frederick’s gaze as the trees thinned on either side of him.

His eyes fixed on a dazzling blue. No—a dozen different blues.

Azure, teal, sapphire, midnight. All sparkling, even under a clouded sky.

He had seen the sea, of course, but this sight was nothing like bustling Brighton. It was vivid. Verdant. Captivating.

People had warned him about Cornwall.

Provincial. Rustic. Backward. Rugged. Vulgar—all words that had been bandied about when he had stated his intent to come to the borough of Trelowen. He had brushed off such descriptors, for what did it matter so long as he attained his goal of becoming an MP?

Trelowen was a means to an end. A seat in Parliament was a seat in Parliament, so he cared little for how tonish it was.

Not in all the talk of Cornwall, however, had anyone mentioned its beauty.

Flint stumbled again, and Frederick swore under his breath, nearly unseated thanks to his distraction.

He refocused his gaze on the small fishing village rising up before him and noted the dingy, hanging sign on a whitewashed building up ahead: The Silver Pilchard.

It was a world away from the inns he had frequented in the past, both in location and presentation, but after the eternal journey from London, he simply required a place to lay his head and to feed and water his horse.

A small boy hurried out to take charge of Flint, and Frederick swung down from the saddle, his legs and back aching fit to break.

A portly woman with shocks of gray near her temples emerged from the inn door, drying her hands on a well-worn apron. “Good day to ‘ee, sir.” The welcoming words were heavy with Cornish twang, and her gaze ran over him with unapologetic scrutiny—and a bit of wonder. “’ow can I help ‘ee?”

“Good afternoon,” Freddie replied. “I require food and water for both my horse and myself. And a room. For the foreseeable future.”

Her brow went up. “Do ‘ee now?”

“Yes,” Freddie replied, his tone dampening. Apparently, Trelowen was not in the habit of welcoming callers for more than a night or two. “That is, unless you are unable to accommodate me, in which case—”

“We can accommodate ‘ee perfectly well, sir.” There was a hint of affront in her voice as she turned to the boy who had the reins in hand. “Take the horse back, Jory, then bring the master’s belongings upstairs.” She turned back to Frederick. “Follow me, if ‘ee please, sir.”

The Silver Pilchard was small and its furnishings sturdy but well-worn, the scent of hearth smoke and ale strong in the air.

It was certainly not in the same league as The White Hart where he had spent the first night of the journey, but there was a distinct warmth to the place, and it was clean, at least.

The room he was shown to was large enough—the finest at the establishment, he guessed—and the sheets dry. A thick, warped sash window overlooked the small harbor, where a few boats sat on the pebbly beach, a tangle of fishing nets filling their otherwise empty hulls.

With no small effort, Frederick forced the warped sash open, letting in a salty breeze and the sound of gulls.

The innkeeper—one Mrs. Tonkin, as he discovered—informed him she would have a meal ready for him in one and a half hour’s time.

Her demeanor toward him was at once wary and curious, as though she mistrusted her guest but had no wish for him to take his patronage elsewhere—if, indeed, there was another inn nearby, which he very much doubted.

Frederick took advantage of the time before dinner to lie on the bed and rest his weary, saddle-sore body.

To his surprise, he found it more comfortable than his bed in London.

He would need the rest, for tomorrow, he would take the first step in his plan and call upon the elderly baron and baroness who had the power to see him elected as MP for Trelowen.

He trusted it would not be too tall an order. Thanks to his Aunt Eugenia, Frederick had acquired no small bit of experience making himself agreeable to the elderly. Lord and Lady Radcliffe could not possibly be more difficult to please than Aunt Eugenia; they lived in Cornwall, after all.

He was just dropping off to sleep when a yell jolted him awake.

“Fine combs and pretty beads! Soaps and spices! Aye, all here!”

Frederick rose and went to the window. In the cobbled street below, a peddler led a donkey, laden with a large pack on its back. A few dirt-stained children ran out of nearby houses and swarmed him.

“Goods from upcountry!” the man called as he offered them sweets.

Frederick considered for a moment, then took his purse and went downstairs. He had debated whether to bring a gift for the Radcliffes but had been put off the idea by the lack of space. Had he come by carriage, he certainly would have brought something, but travel by horseback was another matter.

If this peddler had goods from London, perhaps Frederick would not be obliged to call upon the Radcliffes empty-handed.

“Where are ‘ee going, sir?” Mrs. Tonkin asked, a hint of anxiety in her voice, as though she feared he meant to seek accommodation elsewhere.

“There is a peddler outside,” Frederick explained. “I was hoping to purchase something.”

“Were ‘ee?” Mrs. Tonkin asked curiously.

Frederick smiled slightly. There was something almost charming in the woman’s unabashed prying and her mistrust of him. “Do you advise against it?”

“That depends on what ‘ee want to buy, sir.”

Frederick considered for a moment. Mrs. Tonkin’s knowledge of the Radcliffes necessarily exceeded his own. Perhaps she would be able to give him counsel.

He took a few strides closer to her. “I intend to call upon the Radcliffes tomorrow and do not wish to go with empty hands.”

Her brows drew together. “To Trevenna Court, ‘ee mean?”

Frederick nodded, the name of the estate ringing a faint bell in his mind.

Lord Radcliffe was a baron, but despite Frederick’s knowledge of the ton, he had never met the fellow.

The fact that he was old and lived in the far reaches of the southwest explained that quite easily.

“Have you any counsel on what his lordship and her ladyship might appreciate?”

Mrs. Tonkin watched him for a few moments before responding, her expression difficult to read.

“Something to increase their comfort, perhaps,” Frederick suggested. “Or a little trinket. The elderly seem to enjoy such trifles.”

Mrs. Tonkin’s mouth twitched. “Aye, sir. ’Tis thoughtful of ‘ee. Perhaps I can be of ’elp if I come with ‘ee.”

Frederick readily agreed to this.

The wares the peddler possessed were a hodgepodge, and a quarter of an hour later, he was possessed of a lace cap—not the finest lace, certainly, but well enough for an old Cornish woman—a snuff box, and some elderflower lozenges.

“Thank you kindly, Mrs. Tonkin,” Frederick said as they returned to The Silver Pilchard.

“’Twas my pleasure, sir. I only wish I could be there when ‘ee call tomorrow. Best close that window, though.” She nodded at the darkening sky. “’Tis a fine storm on its way.”

Frederick sat down to dine three quarters of an hour later with apprehension. He was not accustomed to dining on fish pie or barley bread. Not a crumb was left on his plate, however, when he returned to his room for the evening, for despite its poor presentation, the meal was very tasty.

As Mrs. Tonkin had warned, the rain and wind pounded the windows all night, but by morning, the sun was shining, and the only evidence of the storm was the puddles that shone in the pocked road. Thanks to the early activities of the shouting fishermen, Frederick was up betimes.

He donned his finest tailcoat, waistcoat, and boots, and took extra care in the tying of his cravat.

These were all new pieces he had bought in preparation for his arrival in Trelowen—and things he could ill afford.

He needed the Radcliffes to believe him the best possible representative for their borough—someone accustomed to interacting with the finest MPs in all of England.

He scribbled off a letter to his brother Silas and one to his friend Fairchild to inform them he had arrived safely in Trelowen.

Even after he had breakfasted, however, it was still too early for his call upon the Radcliffes.

The elderly and infirm were unlikely to take kindly to an early call from a stranger.

Feeling impatient, he went out for a stroll. After so long in the saddle, his legs were grateful for such exercise.