Chapter 10
The club bustled with the most important men in England. A great deal of work had already been done at Parliament for the day, and the lords had retired to their clubs to either lick their wounds, boast of their accomplishments, or to re-strategize.
It was incredibly important in English politics to never give up, because one never knew which way the tide would turn.
All one had to do was study the War of the Roses to know that.
Or the political chaos that occurred almost every century at some point or other. One should never give up or surrender.
One simply had to stick it out.
And in some ways, at present, that was exactly how Perseus felt.
He simply had to stick it out with the truly lovely Miss Mitchell.
He could tell she was uncertain about the best way to move forward.
She wanted to trust him. She wanted to take a chance, but she had spent her entire life being the good daughter of a good knight and a good lady in a small world where no one put their toe out of line.
Not really, and certainly not in the ways that Briarwoods did.
The Duke of Westleigh poured himself out a brandy, eyed it, and then blew out a harsh breath. He then plunked the glass down on a table and summoned a porter to bring him tea. “I’m too bloody mad to drink brandy. It will just make me rage.”
It had been a particularly hard day in Parliament. Lately, harder days had been coming more and more often. So many of the reformations that seemed as if they were going to take great hold in the last ten years had begun to slip away and disappear from their grasp.
It was an incredibly annoying thing when the entire family had launched themselves into the political belief system of improving the lives of everyday English people.
But with the advent of the machines that now did so much of the work that regular people used to do, and the replacement of artisans by those machines, London was awash with people who had no work, or work that paid them next to nothing.
And children were working more now than ever in many of those factories.
His Uncle Leander, the Duke of Westleigh, could not let himself relax. He worked relentlessly hour after hour with the many people who had married into their family, who agreed with him, to try to turn the great ship of England in its course.
Much to his credit, his Uncle Leander did everything he could to reach out to those fools who felt certain it was the destiny of poor people to live poor and die poor, and that it was no responsibility of the wealthy classes to assist them.
In some ways, his uncle would have been much happier as a feudal lord a long time ago, where at least his word was law and he could unilaterally protect people. And he, if the other lords of the land did not, could be certain that the people he took care of were safe.
But Leander would never settle for such a thing. He wanted a good life for all. Not just those on his lands.
Yes, his darling, dear uncle could not allow the people of England to suffer, and so his uncle suffered.
But at least his uncle had his family, who gave him relief from the ever-pressing sense that he was failing against an unyielding tide that wanted to crush everyone who was not wealthy beyond measure.
They all passed out brandy, save Leander.
Hector, Ajax, and even his father, Zephyr, took glasses.
Lord Zephyr, Perseus’s father, usually looked quite depressed in January and February, though time on the Isle of Wight helped.
The great-hearted man suffered from serious melancholia in the winter months, but there was a sort of merry look to his face now, which did not go in line with Leander’s.
No, Zephyr looked as if the sun was shining and that suddenly all would be well.
“Papa,” Perseus ventured, “are you quite all right? Have you already been at the brandy?”
Zephyr’s eyes danced merrily. “I have not touched a drop, my boy. What I feel is far better than the effects of imbibing. I have realized that you are about to join the family in marital bliss.”
Perseus let out a laugh.
His father stared back at him, grinning.
“You’re serious,” Perseus said.
Zephyr lifted his brows.
Hector and Ajax coughed, turned, and drank surreptitiously from their snifters.
“Oh, I see,” Perseus began. “Those two troublemakers have been telling you my secrets.”
“How I wish I had been at the theater last night with you, my boy,” his father crowed, undeterred, but then his father cleared his throat. “But your mother and I wished to spend some quality time together and—”
“Yes, Papa, yes,” Perseus cut in.
He loved the fact that his mother and father adored each other still, so many years after they had fallen in love and married.
His mother also loved the theater and attending it, but Perseus did not need to be reminded just how much they loved each other and why that might prevent them from attending a play.
“Well, all I want is for my child to be happy,” his father declared.
Hector and Ajax eyed each other, lips twitching.
“Oh, he’s going to be happy,” said Ajax.
“Very happy,” added Hector.
Leander lifted his cup of tea, added three spoonfuls of sugar, then took a long drink. “Thank God one of us is.”
“We are happy,” Ajax, Hector, and Zephyr said together, the three of them so accustomed to each other that they often thought as one.
“Good, fine,” Leander replied, clearly heading into one of his darker moods that were legend.
Perhaps they could turn it. Perhaps there was still time.
“You invited the Mitchell boy, didn’t you?” Hector asked carefully.
“I did,” Leander returned. “I think we best pull him into all of this and let him know that we’re not about to ruin his whole family.”
“We’ve never ruined anybody,” Hector protested.
“Well,” Ajax mused, turning his snifter to the dim light slipping through the windows. “That’s not exactly true. We’ve slightly ruined people and then rectified the situation.”
Hector nodded. “I suppose that’s true.”
Zephyr smiled. “We love to rectify things.”
Leander sighed. “Look, Mr. Mitchell and his family are not accustomed to the doings of people like in our family, and I don’t want—”
“What is it you don’t want, Your Grace?” a young, tall, and surprisingly big man called.
Ajax’s blond brows rose, for the young man was as Herculean as him.
There were not many young men who were as big as Ajax.
Perseus felt a single moment’s apprehension. Was Mitchell going to pound him into the carpet?
He certainly looked like he could make the attempt.
“Well, hello there, lad,” said Lord Hector. “Welcome to the fray.”
“Is it a battle then?” the young man said.
“You must be Cassius Mitchell,” said Leander.
“Indeed, I am,” Cassius said with the inclination of his head, sandy-hued hair teasing over his brow. “The butler brought me in, and I have to confess that I’m rather surprised by the invitation.”
“Why?” Leander asked, swigging his sugar-laced tea again.
“We are well beneath your notice, Your Grace.”
“Apparently not,” the duke drawled. “Your sister has gained the notice of my nephew and, therefore, the notice of us all.”
“I see.” Cassius’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And what sort of notice has she gained? My mother is thrilled to bits, of course,” he added. “She and my sisters came home from the ball last night positively chattering about the number of times they danced with aristocrats above their usual notice.”
“The Mitchells are an old family,” Leander replied, fanning out the long tails of his rich black frock coat lined with crimson silk as he lowered himself into a leather chair lined with brass studs. “Your station is just fine.”
“You can say that, Your Grace,” Cassius countered, “but you know that’s not entirely the truth.”
Leander arched a dark brow, balancing his saucer on his palm. “I don’t like the truth. Sometimes it’s far better to live in a fantasy.”
“It’s not true, boy. Don’t believe him,” Hector put in. “He lives in the truth more than most of us. He’s just a bit bitter about the present state of it all right now.”
Leander growled, “It’s true. Perhaps you can be a bright spot in my rather rotten day.”
“I’m sorry to hear it’s rotten, Your Grace,” Cassius said, folding his hands behind his back. “I did hear about what happened in Parliament.”
“Did you?” Leander asked in a tone that was light but masked his anger. “And what did you think of it?”
Cassius drew in a breath, looked to each man, then apparently chose boldness. “I think that the upper classes have no idea what they’re doing, and that they’re going to destroy this country if they’re not careful.”
Leander’s brows shot up. “Well said.”
“Have a glass of bandy,” Zephyr said, pouring out a snifter and handing it to him.
Leander’s eyes danced with a sort of intensity they all knew. He studied his uncle, wondering if the man was about to pop off down a familiar but sometimes dangerous road. They all knew what to do when he did, and they loved the man through those rough days.
But he was at least welcoming Mr. Cassius Mitchell into their midst, and they were going to have to do everything they could to assuage any concerns the young man had.
“I’m Perseus Briarwood,” he said, extending his hand, even though he knew that was a bit crass.
Mitchell eyed the hand, then carefully took it. “Yes, I’ve heard about you.”
“Have you?” Perseus asked.
“Yes, my sister Muriel says you’re quite the Shakespeare scholar.”
Perseus drew his hand back and said simply, “I am. Almost everybody in the family is, though some of us are more passionate than others. Uncle Hector and his daughters are most dedicated.”
Cassius tilted his sandy-haired head to the side and looked to Hector. “I’ve heard about the work you do in the East End and some of the poor parts of cities to the north.”
“And?” Leander prompted.