Chapter 9
CAROLINE
The main hall at Trevenna Court, which normally felt tall and grand, was brimming with people, laughter, and conversation. Caroline looked on, feeling Oswald’s shoulder press against hers as they spoke to a small group of people with drinks in hand.
She resisted the urge to move a step away. Oswald had been next to her for the past hour and a half, and she was beginning to feel suffocated with all of the people and noise in what was normally a quiet, open space in her home.
She remained in place, however, for the entire purpose of this gathering was to show her support for Oswald. It was only natural that he stay by her side, and yet, she hadn’t been able to help feeling a bit stifled by the constant proximity.
Her gaze veered once again to the corridor that led to the front door. It was natural for a hostess to be on the watch for newcomers, but Caroline was too honest with herself to pretend this was the reason for her interest.
She was watching for Mr. Yorke.
He had said he would come, and he had made her promise him a dance, yet he was nowhere to be seen.
Perhaps he would not come, after all.
It seemed strange, for she would have staked good money on his attendance—he could not seem to resist doing whatever was most provoking, especially when it came to Oswald.
Perhaps she did not know him as well as she had thought.
She spotted an unfamiliar face and leaned toward Oswald. “Who is that man with the silver waistcoat?”
Oswald searched until he identified the gentleman in question. “Mr. Hannaford. He is a solicitor in Truro and will be overseeing the by-election. Forgive me—I thought I had mentioned that I sent him an invitation. It seemed wise to befriend him.”
“Oh,” she said, watching the man for a moment. “Of course.”
A footman with a silver platter came by, offering its contents to her. There were tarts and fairings.
She took a fairing and bit into it, remembering those moments in the garden with Mr. Yorke as treacle and ginger mixed on her tongue.
She forced herself to swallow with composure. It was ridiculous that a simple biscuit would make her think of Mr. Yorke.
“I understand there is someone else intending to challenge you,” Lord Penrosset said, pulling her from her thoughts. He was a tall, imposing man with a head of steely gray hair and a look of self-importance.
Oswald gave a low chuckle. “Challenge is a generous way of putting it. I do not regard it thus, I assure you.”
“I heard someone say Yorke’s brother is a duke,” Mr. Curnow said. “Is it true?”
Lord Penrosset’s brows shot up. “Yorke, is it? It would be Rockwood’s brother, then. The youngest.”
“You know him?” Caroline asked.
The man nodded. “I have met him a few times in London and seen him far more than that in the gallery in the Lords. Before Rockwood came into the title—quite unexpectedly, mind you—the Yorkes were hardly swimming in wealth. I confess surprise that young Yorke meets the requirements to stand for election—I had not thought him possessed of much in the way of property. Though, I suppose his brother could easily remedy any deficiency there.”
“Mr. Yorke has been firm in stating he will accept nothing from his brother,” Caroline said.
Oswald looked at her a bit strangely.
And for good reason. Why in the world was she coming to Mr. Yorke’s defense?
Perhaps it was an innate sense of justice. She might wish Mr. Yorke would surrender his efforts at being elected, and she might not understand what made him persist in them despite common sense demanding otherwise, but she could also not help admiring his determination and perseverance just a bit.
In fact, if he were here, she rather thought he would be amused by what was being said. No doubt he would wear that little ghost of a smile before making a response that would be as nonchalant as it was dismissive of their subtle insults.
“Refusing to use the resources available to him?” Lord Penrosset looked torn between admiration and skepticism. “I suppose you had better be glad for that, Oswald.” He chuckled.
Oswald’s responsive laugh was more polite than genuine. “I fancy I am capable of holding my own against Mr. Yorke. He may have a duke for a brother, but I have something even more valuable.” He turned to look at Caroline.
Her eyes widened slightly as she met his gaze, for the implication in his words—and the warmth in his eyes—could easily be interpreted as more than political.
He turned his gaze back to the others, who were watching—Lord Penrosset with a brow raised ever so slightly. “The support of Trelowen’s patron.”
A subtle but collective shift ran over the group, as though they had almost expected a different sort of announcement entirely.
Caroline let out a laugh, pleased that it sounded earnest rather than uneasy. “Perhaps he shall be less grateful when he realizes what his patron expects him to accomplish in the Commons.”
“Ah, yes.” Mr. Pascoe, who lived in the neighboring borough, seemed to have caught the last snippets of the conversation and had shifted to join the group. “You are a proponent of reform, are you not, my lady?”
Caroline’s comment had been made in an effort to lighten the mood and change the direction of everyone’s minds. Instead, she had stepped into another mess.
The subject of voting reform was not a popular one amongst most MPs and lords.
The idea of extending the vote to more people posed too great a threat to those in power to be looked upon with favor.
Richard had been far from a supporter. In fact, some of his last words had been to caution her against using Trelowen in search of such a goal.
“I do believe reform is needed,” Caroline said, trying for truth without causing too great a stir.
“And you, Oswald?” Lord Penrosset asked. There was a hint of challenge in his voice, as though a great deal hinged on Oswald’s response.
Oswald cleared his throat with a smile. “My esteemed patron and I do not agree on everything, and reform happens to be an issue on which our views do diverge—”
“I should certainly hope so,” Lord Penrosset said.
“Women will ever be idealists.” Mr. Pascoe shot an impish smile at Caroline, as though she was an unruly child he was determined to indulge rather than an intelligent woman at the head of an entire borough.
She forced a responsive smile with great effort.
“Well,” Oswald said, “such differences of opinion are of little regard between two people of such experience and familiarity.”
Mr. Pascoe’s brow hitched, and Caroline managed to maintain a smile only with the greatest effort.
How did Oswald manage to sound yet again as though he was implying an understanding between them that went beyond the relationship of patron and candidate?
“I am relieved to hear you clarify your stance, Oswald,” Lord Penrosset said.
“What of Mr. Yorke?” Mr. Curnow asked. “Does he support reform?”
Lord Penrosset laughed off such a suggestion. “No man with an ounce of intelligence or self-interest would do so.”
Caroline stiffened.
“These youngest sons can be desperate folk,” Mr. Pascoe said. “You had better keep an eye on your esteemed patron, Oswald, or you may find Mr. Yorke the newest supporter of reform—and yourself patron-less.”
It was Oswald who stiffened now.
“I doubt I could manage to change Mr. Yorke’s opinion on any matter,” Caroline said, her voice a bit terse.
“He strikes me as a man who knows his own mind and is not afraid to speak it. Were he to become a supporter of reform, it would undoubtedly be due to the merits of the cause rather than the person advocating it.”
Oswald cleared his throat.
“You do yourself an injustice, my lady.”
Caroline froze.
Half-hoping she’d imagined the comment, she turned slowly. Her eyes found Mr. Yorke, who had arrived without her notice. Heaven only knew how much of the conversation he had heard.
Her cheeks heated as though he had heard the entirety.
His brown hair was brushed and pomaded, his tailored coat hugged his shoulders admirably, and his eye sparkled with something—mischief? Determination?
He looked every bit the London man, and she couldn’t help admiring him, even amidst her consternation.
The group seemed to shift with unease at his sudden appearance—and at such a moment.
“If anyone could lay out the merits of reform in a sensible and intelligent way that might convince me,” Mr. Yorke said, “I have no doubt it would be you.” He gave a bow to the group at large and acknowledged Lord Penrosset specifically.
“Forgive me, gentlemen. While I am quite riveted at the thought of hearing what conclusions about me you shall reach, they are forming a set, and I was promised a dance.”
His eyes met Caroline’s, and her heart thumped vigorously.
He had heard her defending him. Or had she been defending reform? Or trying to allay Oswald’s fears?
She hardly knew.
What Mr. Yorke said was true, though. She had been too preoccupied with the conversation to notice that an area for dancing had been cleared.
“And now you must forgive me, Mr. Yorke,” Oswald said. “Lady Radcliffe promised me the first set.” He put out his arm for Caroline to take.
Mr. Yorke hardly seemed to notice that he had been addressed. The only acknowledgment he gave was to hold Lady Radcliffe’s eyes for confirmation.
Some part deep within her wished to counter Oswald’s claim, true though it was, if only to reward Mr. Yorke for being the sole person not to disparage the topic of reform. Such a choice would leave the group speechless—until their jaws started wagging in speculation.
But Oswald…
To humiliate him at the party she was hosting in his honor? It would be unforgivable.
She might be mildly annoyed at him and grateful to Mr. Yorke for defending her—or had he been defending reform?—but that did not change the circumstances or who she supported in the election.
“It is true.” Caroline accepted Oswald’s arm. “I did promise him, and he is my candidate, after all.”