Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
They arrived in London the day before Evie’s presentation.
The city provided a stark contrast to the pastoral charm of Chuddums. The streets were filled with noisy crowds, as well as hansom cabs, omnibuses, and carts vying to get ahead.
Opening the carriage window, James was assailed by the pungent mélange of coal smoke, roasting nuts, and sewage from the Thames.
The despair of the poorhouses was juxtaposed with the grandeur of the emerging Palace of Westminster, a Gothic masterpiece still under construction.
James thought that London represented the best and worst of everything.
Here in the metropolis, industry was pitted against nature’s order, progress against tradition.
Change was around every corner, even if that corner had been there since the first days of Londinium.
Many eked out a meager existence in the shadows of a privileged few.
Problems abounded, and one had the choice to be part of them or part of the solution.
James chose the latter. It exhilarated him to think that one day he might be part of this city’s vibrant history, making his mark in the newly rebuilt House of Commons.
The next morning, he decided to stop by his club while Evie prepared for her lecture this evening.
While he was glad that she’d persuaded Harkness to stay behind—to his surprise, the old bat hadn’t put up much of a protest—he did not like leaving his wife alone.
He made her promise not to leave the premises and instructed the staff to secure the house.
Only when he was satisfied that she was protected did he attend to his own affairs.
Located on Pall Mall, the Reform Club had been designed by famed architect Charles Barry and resembled a Renaissance palazzo with its pale stone, arched windows, and imposing entrance.
The interior was equally impressive, a showcase of modernity and progress.
The atrium’s glass roof flooded the space with natural light, and gaslight illuminated the darker corners.
The high-ceilinged rooms, redolent of coffee and cigar smoke, buzzed with talk about technological advancements, recent bills, and global affairs.
While James could have been a member of Brooks’s, the established Whig stronghold favored by his father and his father’s father, he’d chosen membership at the Reform instead.
He had a healthy respect for tradition—for the pedigree and port atmosphere of Brooks’s—but he felt more at home here amongst the intellectuals and radicals, in the often choppy but always exciting sea of change.
Immediately hailed by several peers, he took lunch with them in the dining room, which offered sweeping views of Pall Mall.
The meal featured some of the best French cuisine outside of Paris, yet James found his appetite waning.
As his cronies extolled his virtues and claimed that his victory was certain, the knot in his gut tightened.
Even as he tried to temper their expectations, they waxed on about the importance of his win…
and the dire consequences if he should fail.
After lunch, he was ready to take his leave.
As he passed through the smoking room, which was fashionably outfitted with walnut furnishings and burgundy upholstery, he saw a solitary figure slumped in a wingchair in a quiet corner.
Recognizing Henry Gosford, he hesitated, then decided that delaying the encounter would only make matters more awkward in the future.
As he approached, Gosford looked up. The fellow was only a few years older than James, but scandal had aged him.
New lines were carved into his distinguished countenance, and his sandy hair had gone grey at the temples.
His blue eyes were bloodshot, and when he put out his cigar and rose, his clothing hung loosely on his frame.
He was, James saw with some shock and concern, a shadow of his former self.
“Gosford, well met.”
James extended a hand, and the other shook it.
“I saw you sitting alone,” he went on when Gosford remained grim-faced and silent. “I hope I am not interrupting—”
“You are not. Please, have a seat.”
James could have made an excuse and declined, but the misery in Gosford’s eyes made him take the adjacent wingchair.
“Drink?” Gosford waved at the nearly empty decanter of whisky on the table beside him.
“No, thank you.” James wracked his brain for polite conversation. “I am surprised to see you here. I thought Brooks’s was more to your style.”
“It was. Until the scandal.” Downing the rest of his glass, Gosford refilled it. “As it turns out, the club is entirely less agreeable when other members avoid you like the plague for fear of contracting your disgrace.”
Right. No mincing words then.
“I am sorry about what happened,” James said.
“Are you?” Gosford’s gaze cut into him like a razor. “Are you indeed?”
“I would not wish such misfortune on anyone. Particularly not a man who I know has represented his constituents faithfully and to the best of his abilities.”
“Well.” Gosford held his glass in a mocking toast. “At least I was faithful at something.”
James stood. “If you would rather be alone—”
“No, sit. I’m in a devil of a mood and you’re a convenient target, though you’ve done little to deserve it. In fact, you are one of the few fellows with the decency to acknowledge my existence—to treat me as something other than persona non grata.”
Taking that for the apology that it was, James returned to his seat.
“It will pass,” he said. “Gossip will soon find a fresh victim, and all will be forgotten.”
“Forgotten but forever changed. I have lost the respect of my peers and constituents. And my wife…well, let us say that the climate of my marriage makes the Outer Hebrides seem tropical in comparison.”
“That sounds…”—James searched for a tactful adjective—“unpleasant.”
“That is one way to describe it. Take my advice, Manderly, and don’t invite dishonor into your life. It is a disagreeable houseguest who will destroy everything you hold dear and never leave. However bad you think it may be, the reality is a hundred times worse.”
James found himself torn between pity and stirring unease.
Gosford was a gentleman in his prime, who’d been at the pinnacle of his career.
Even so, he had suffered the greatest of falls.
True, his weakness when it came to women had led him to make choices James never would, but his was a cautionary tale.
Evie’s past crept into James’s head. Although he’d done his best to reassure her, she was still terrified that the business with Wilmington could ruin him.
He didn’t blame her for any of it—she, not that bastard, was the victim—but, if he was completely honest, a small part of him shared her concern.
Could her secret destroy everything he’d worked for and hoped to achieve?
He kept his doubts to himself. He wanted to carry his wife’s burdens, not add to them. He would focus on catching the villain and having him thrown behind bars. No one would believe the word of a criminal—one who’d preyed upon a lady, no less.
Gosford took another drink. “Enough about me and my woes. How is the campaign going?”
James cleared his throat. “Passably well, given the circumstances.”
“The circumstances being that I left the party high and dry, mere months before the General Election, and now that opportunist Ryerson is contesting my seat.” Gosford raised a brow. “Have I missed anything?”
“That sums it up.”
“I still have a few connections, and they inform me that your campaign has been gathering momentum. Preparing for a hustings, are you?”
“Yes. It will take place in Chudleigh Bottoms.”
“Chuddums?” Gosford grimaced. “Why in blazes would you want to host the event in the county’s armpit? Well, that’s your business. I like you, Manderly. Always thought you were a decent, reasonable chap—though a bit high-minded, if you don’t mind my saying.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Sensible fellow, like I said. It is because I like you that I wish to give you some advice.” Gosford leaned forward, bracing his arms on his thighs. “Principles are all well and good, but people don’t vote for principles.”
James frowned. “Surely that is untrue—”
“Allow me to finish. They believe they are voting in accordance with their conscience, but it is the man delivering the message and how he does so that has the greatest influence on their decisions. Take me, for instance. I am neither an intellectual nor a devoted reformer, yet I held that seat for five consecutive terms. Do you know why?”
“People like you.”
“Bull’s eye. Because they like me, they gave me credit for being a better man than I am. Now take you, Manderly. You are, objectively speaking, a better man than me, but are you as well liked?”
“Popularity has never been my concern,” James said indifferently.
“And that”—Gosford stabbed a finger at him—“is your problem. Lofty ideals alone will not win you the seat. Ordinary folk want to feel as if they know the man behind the politician. I portrayed myself as a devoted husband and father—which worked well until it didn’t.
My point is, when you are out there, don’t merely speak about policy.
Hold babies, pat children on the head, compliment ladies on their needlework.
Voters appreciate the personal touch. And don’t forget to use your lady. ”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your countess—she is an asset. Her quiet charm has a way of drawing people in. More importantly, she has stars in her eyes when she looks at you—as if you stood on a pedestal and could do no wrong. You want people to share her opinion.”
“I am not sure that is her opinion.” Reminded of how Evie had compared him to an aloof god, he felt vaguely uncomfortable. “But I am grateful for my wife’s support.”
Gosford stared glumly into his empty glass. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
James planned to be deserving of Evie until death did them part.