Chapter 2 #2
“That is both true and untrue,” she said. “The new Lord Radcliffe inherited the title from my late husband and is indeed ailing. From what I understand, it is rare for him to leave his bed. But this estate—and the management of the borough—lies with me.”
Mr. Yorke’s arrested gaze fixed on hers.
She was accustomed to such reactions. It was a highly irregular situation, after all, and she never failed to find it awkward to explain.
“Please,” she said, coming around the writing desk and indicating a sofa, “do have a seat.”
Eyes still fixed on her, he moved absently to sit. “Do you mean to say that this estate did not pass to the new Lord Radcliffe?”
“My late husband held the estate in fee simple,” she explained. “He and his uncle did not…see eye to eye, so Richard left Trevenna Court to me. It is a singular situation.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Yorke said, awe in his voice. He shifted in his seat, switching the gift he had brought from one hand to the other.
The question of why Mr. Yorke had come—with a gift, no less—had still not been answered.
He seemed to take note of her focus. “Oh.” He gave a small laugh as he looked at the box. “That is…a mistake, I fear. Not the only one I have made today, evidently.”
Caroline smiled, intrigued more than ever. “A gift could never be a mistake, Mr. Yorke.”
“I hesitate to contradict you, my lady, but in this case, it most certainly is. I was under the impression I was paying a call to an elderly Lord and Lady Radcliffe, not”—his gaze met hers, then ran over her person, making her pulse quicken—“well…not someone like you.”
“Well, I am the Dowager Lady Radcliffe,” she said, her curiosity burning brighter than ever.
What sort of gift had he brought? And why bring a gift at all given how little he knew of the recipient?
“In name, perhaps,” he said, “but believe me, my lady—not a person on God’s green earth would see you and assume you could be a dowager.”
“You flatter me, Mr. Yorke.”
“Better that than showering mud upon you as I did this morning,” he replied ruefully.
“True,” she said, smiling at the memory. “Perhaps you should give me that kind gift you brought, after all.” She reached for it, but he pulled it away.
“I will bring you a gift, my lady,” he said, revealing the smile that had been in her mind since leaving the village. “But one that will please rather than insult you, I trust.”
Insult her? What in heaven’s name could he have brought?
The door opened, and their heads came around.
Oswald stopped on the threshold, his gaze sweeping from Caroline to Mr. Yorke, at which point, recognition lit in his eyes.
Mr. Yorke and Caroline both rose.
“Oswald,” she said, wondering at his impeccable sense of timing for the second time that day. “Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Yorke. Mr. Yorke, this is Mr. Oswald.”
Mr. Yorke bowed, but his eyes met hers, a small question in them.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Yorke,” Oswald said with a responsive bow.
He was taller, thinner, and lighter in coloring than Mr. Yorke, holding himself with a more staid energy than the latter’s easy confidence.
“Forgive the interruption, Lady Radcliffe, but I came as soon as I received word.”
Caroline’s gaze flicked to the letter in his hand, then back up.
“Westvale has died,” Oswald said.
“He has?” Mr. Yorke exclaimed.
Caroline’s head came around, as did Oswald’s.
Mr. Yorke cleared his throat, as though remembering himself. “Forgive me.”
“Are you friends with Lord Westvale?” Caroline asked, though his response had not been the chagrined surprise of someone who has just learned of the death of a friend.
“No,” he replied. “I…was aware that he had taken ill, however.”
Oswald turned more fully toward him. “Indeed? And what is your business in Trelowen, Mr. Yorke?”
“Oswald,” Caroline said in surprise, for his tone was sharper than necessary. While she appreciated his readiness to defend her and Trelowen, Mr. Yorke’s reasons for being there were hardly his affair. Though, she was admittedly curious to know, as well….
“Forgive me, my lady,” Oswald said, his eyes trained on Mr. Yorke, “but I suspect I know the reason for Mr. Yorke’s appearance here at this auspicious moment.”
Caroline stared at her friend for a moment as his meaning took shape. There was only one thing he could mean.
She looked at Mr. Yorke, trusting he would dispel Oswald’s suspicions.
Mr. Yorke looked between them for a moment, a hint of discomfort in his expression. “With news of Lord Westvale’s death so fresh, I hardly think this the proper moment—”
“Lord Westvale’s death happened many days ago,” Caroline said, her voice light, though her gaze was not. “That is what it means to live in Cornwall, sir—the only news is old news. Pray, tell us what has brought you to our small, obscure borough at this precise time.”
Mr. Yorke regarded her a moment. “Very well. While I certainly had no notion Lord Westvale would succumb to his illness at this particular moment—”
“Several days since,” Caroline amended, feeling her blood begin to simmer.
“—I came to Trelowen with the intention of putting myself forward as the most suitable candidate to replace Mr. Brightmoor in representing this borough in the House of Commons.”
The silence crackled, and Caroline’s quickened pulse steadied as though the simmering blood in her veins had been injected with water from the cold stream next to Trevenna.
This gentleman thought he could waltz into Trelowen—a borough to which he had no connection whatsoever—and use it to his political and personal advantage. He had even brought a gift for the people he thought the key to his plan—people he knew nothing of.
All the charm Caroline had found in him disintegrated like sea foam on the sand. Perhaps it was anger—or perchance a sense of betrayal—that pushed her to do what she did next.
“And you brought a gift in pursuit of that goal.” Caroline reached for the small wooden box on the floor before Mr. Yorke could prevent her. “How very thoughtful.”
Mr. Yorke’s hand shot out, his mouth open but wordless. After a moment, he let it drop, as though accepting his fate. In fact, a hint of resigned humor crept in his eyes as he put out his other hand, inviting her to open the box.
Caroline took out the first item. “Ah.” She lifted a snuff box, which bore a painting of a hunting scene. It looked as though it might have belonged to someone who had lived over a century ago. She lifted the lid, then sniffed and gave a cough.
“That was meant for…your husband,” Mr. Yorke said.
“Her husband has been gone these three years,” Oswald said.
“A woman can never have too many opportunities to smell like her grandfather.” Caroline closed the box and inspected the outdated design. “Or great grandfather.” No doubt Mr. Yorke had thought an old Cornish baron would not be sufficiently familiar with snuff box fashions to care.
“Let us see what else we have.” She set the snuff box aside and removed a piece of lace fabric, which she discovered to be a cap, much like the one her grandmother had worn.
She put a hand to her mouth to stifle her smile.
“Simply stunning. I shall keep it next to my spectacles and embroidery frame.”
She removed the last item—a small sachet full of elderflower lozenges. “For my declining constitution. These certainly complete the set. I am quite ready to transform into my Aunt Agatha.”
“Do you think it quite wise, your ladyship,” Oswald said in a low voice, “to be accepting gifts from unknown gentlemen?”
Caroline’s eyes fixed on Mr. Yorke’s. She had hoped to mortify him with the display of the gifts, but on the contrary, he seemed amused.
“When such great thought has gone into the gift,” Caroline said, “it would be a shame to reject it, I think.”
“May I count on your support, then, my lady?” Mr. Yorke asked.
She kept a smile on her face with sheer force of will. “I fear not, Mr. Yorke, for Trelowen already has its suitable candidate, as you so aptly phrased it.”
His brows went up. “You do?”
Oswald took a step forward. “I shall stand for election, Mr. Yorke. I am intimately familiar with the borough’s residents, affairs, and needs.”
“Intimately,” Mr. Yorke repeated, an eyebrow raised ever so slightly as his gaze flitted to Caroline.
Her pulse fluttered, and she was suddenly and keenly aware of just how near to her Oswald was standing.
“Well,” Mr. Yorke said, “I am certain we can all agree that Trelowen is best served when there is a choice between suitable candidates.”
“Forgive me,” Oswald said, “but I find it difficult to ascribe the word suitable to a man who was so unfamiliar with the borough he seeks to represent that he mistook its patron. If you were truly acquainted with Trelowen, sir, you would also realize that a candidate who does not carry Lady Radcliffe’s approval stands no chance at all of gaining the desired seat.
Your time is better spent in other pursuits. ”
Mr. Yorke smiled at Oswald. “Very good of you to be concerned about the value of my time, Mr. Oswald. But I maintain—and with no disrespect to yourself, good sir—that I am the best candidate to stand for Trelowen. And, since we are evidently issuing warnings, allow me to say this: I am not easily deterred.” His eyes fixed on Caroline’s for a moment, full of challenge and a flash of mischief, before he bowed. “I bid both of you good day.”
Mr. Yorke strode from the room, his pride bearing no evidence of injury from an interaction that would have sent most men running for home with their tail between their legs.
Oswald gave a breathy chuckle after the door had closed. “What a fellow.”
“Indeed,” Caroline replied, her eyes fixed on the door.
No doubt it should have occurred to her that some gentlemen from London would wish to seize the opportunity of Brightmoor’s coming into a title as their chance for entry into Parliament.
It had not occurred to her, though. Perhaps that was because, as Oswald had said, such a feat required her support—support she was bound and determined not to give any scheming gentleman.
The realization that Mr. Yorke—a man whose smile had caught her mind all morning—had proven to be just such a man was a disappointment more significant than she cared to admit.
“We need not concern ourselves with him,” Oswald said. “I am far more concerned for you.”
Caroline’s gaze flicked to him. “For me?”
He nodded. “You bear a great burden, my lady, and you must know I have no greater wish than to share it—to see you properly cared for.”
“And so you will,” Caroline said, forcing herself to ignore the implication in his words. “Having an MP who can represent Trelowen’s interests is what I have long wished for, as you know.”
“And I am ready and willing, as you know. But while an MP may carry the borough’s burdens, who shall carry yours?”
“With the right man in the Commons, I think you shall find me plenty capable of managing my own affairs,” she said amiably.
“I have just finished a letter to Lord Warren to ensure the writ can be issued as soon as possible. With any luck, you will be seated within a fortnight of its return. Until then, our focus must be on the election.”
It was a flimsy excuse. Given that the outcome of the by-election was all but settled, there was little that needed doing.
Oswald searched her face, then nodded.
She breathed an inward sigh of relief that he had not pursued a subject she was unprepared to discuss.
Movement caught her attention from the corner of her eye, and she looked through the window of the library just as Mr. Yorke rode his horse past. Their eyes met, and he gave her a wink and a tip of his hat, eliciting a flutter she disliked immensely.
Whether she would marry Oswald or not, Caroline did not know. She was determined, however, that Mr. Yorke’s aims, however difficult he might be to deter, would come to naught.