Valor Under Siege (The Honorables) (19 page)

“Your humble writer,” Norman read aloud, “will spare your eyes, oh gentle reader, details of the misconduct perpetrated by these two malefactors.”

The paper advised readers “Be You Not Fooled!” into voting for an infamous London rogue. The writer concluded with a flourish, “Remember, dear reader: a Vote for Fay is a Vote for Fleck!”

Shock numbed his face. Cold skewered his heart. How could this happen? Who could have—?

No.
He shook his head against the obvious answer, not wanting to believe her capable of such a betrayal.
No, not Elsa. She wouldn’t have.

“Holy skipping Christ,” Alderly ground out. He balled up the paper and brandished it in his fist. “What are we going to do about this?” he demanded, then cast the scandal sheet into the gutter. Already, Fleckers were turning stunned expressions in their direction.

As the pair walked to the rail where their horses were tied, Norman neatly folded his copy of the paper and tucked it into his pocket, his mind still reeling. He stroked Apple’s nose before loosing the reins and mounting.

Norman met looks of speculation and scorn with a stiff smile and a touch of his hat brim.

When they were clear of the village proper, Alderly pulled back on his mount’s leads, forcing the animal to Apple’s plodding pace. “Fay did this,” the younger man fumed.

“Undoubtedly,” Norman agreed.

“How does he know we were screened?”

Norman shook his head, unwilling to voice the terrible suspicion.

Alderly did the unthinkable for him. “It had to have been Lady Fay.” He turned to regard Norman, a curl of his flaxen hair catching on the sharp point of his collar. “Besides ourselves, she’s the only person in Fleck who witnessed the Christmas revels. But then”—his brow furrowed—“how would
she
know we were screened? Did you call her as witness in your hearing?”

Norman’s voice rose in impatience. “No.” He slanted a frown at the younger man. “Look, Alderly, we have spoken of the screening in Sir Seymour’s home—who’s to say someone else, a servant or visitor, perhaps, did not overhear and spread the tale?” He was casting out wild suppositions now, angry at himself for not asking Elsa directly how she knew about his screening. He’d assumed she learned of it in a letter from Sheri—in which case, he would hunt down the loose-lipped dandy and shove the man’s quizzing glass down his throat—but did not wish to give Alderly any more reason to suspect Elsa. Not until he’d learned the truth of the matter for himself.

Was Elsa behind outing the truth of his screening to Fleck? The same woman who had been breathless with the ecstasy they’d shared? Her apology had been sincere, of that he had no doubt. She’d been shattered by the knowledge that she’d played a part in him being sent down from Gray’s. If—
if
—she’d shared that information with her cousin, it must have been done in innocence.

But ... But. Oliver Fay had come to Berrybrook Cottage the very morning following that apology, as well as the what-he’d-believed-to-be joking insinuation that her words were, in part, meant to sway Norman into quitting the campaign.

What if, having failed in persuading him, Elsa had put another plan into motion? What if she’d shared with her cousin the information about Norman’s screening, knowing that going public with it would sink Norman’s chances at winning? Was Elsa that desperate to see her late husband’s cousin in Commons? Was she capable of such duplicity?

Yes. He had to be honest. Clever and determined, Elsa was capable of damned near anything she set her mind to. But
would
she betray Norman in such a way? That was the question. Not being able to immediately answer that question in the negative troubled him deeply. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. Beneath him, Apple huffed a horsey sigh, echoing his master’s unrest.

“Gossipy bumpkins,” Alderly grumbled. “Well, what do you mean to do about it?”

Norman felt desolate. Even if Elsa was behind this, would Norman have the heart to strike back against her? He shrugged. “Nothing.”

Alderly’s eyes bugged; his face went nearly as livid as it had when his head was on fire. “Are you touched in the nob? Of course you must fight back! This is an outrage!”

“Why must I fight back? The story was sensationalized, but the premise is true. We
were
screened and excluded from the Hall. I’ve only myself to blame. I knew it wasn’t right to allow you and Sir Seymour to set me up as some political white knight, but I went along with it. This is no more than I deserve.” Easier to blame himself than the bewitching raven-haired beauty.

“It’s a dirty trick,” Alderly protested. “And you can’t tell me there’s nothing else to do. What if ... what if we explained that it wasn’t our fault? That we were swept up in circumstances—”

“Damn you, I said no!” Norman roared. Alderly flinched; his horse sidestepped. Norman lifted a trembling hand to his brow, unsettled by his own sudden flare of temper. But what Alderly suggested came perilously close to pulling Elsa into this mess. Damn him, too, for still wanting to protect her.

“We shall carry on as we have done,” he said, his words clipped but more reasonable in volume. “Speak on the issues, try to assure constituents that they can trust me with their seat in Commons.”

Cursing under his breath, Alderly drove his heels into his horse’s flanks, urging the animal to a canter, and then a full run.

By the time Norman arrived at the Beaufort home, Sir Seymour was already appraised of the situation and in a fine fettle. “Those damned Fays!” he bellowed, stomping around his gallery. “They knew their influence in the district was on the wane, and instead of taking their decline gracefully, they have resorted to underhanded measures.”

Alderly stood to the side, arms crossed, nodding his agreement. “Just what I said, Sir Seymour.”

Sir Seymour lifted his hand, finger pointed. “This cannot stand!”

“This
will not
stand,” Alderly echoed.

“If I may,” Norman interjected, his hands neatly clasped behind his back, “I would remind you that it is my candidacy imperiled by this revelation, and I do not wish to retaliate in any way. Can this not be the end of it?”

The squire looked appalled. “Now see here, Wynford-Scott. It may be your name on the ballot, but it’s
my
name that brought you here, that gave you a campaign and opened doors in this community.”

Norman bowed his head. “I’m well aware, Sir Seymour. It pains me that everything you’ve done on my behalf may end with this ignominious gossip, but you cannot be entirely surprised by this turn of events. Our censure becoming common knowledge was always a risk in this contest, one you weighed at the outset.”

Sir Seymour sighed. “I know I did,” he said in a defeated tone. “I was just so bloody
sure
that we could finally break the Fays’ hold on this borough and seat someone willing to fight for progress and reform, instead of another government toady like the Fays have championed for the past generation.”

The gentleman’s lips twisted in a bitter smile. From the beginning, Norman had appreciated that Sir Seymour was a man of true conviction, not just a spoiler with a grudge against the established powers. And though he did not say it, Sir Seymour must, too, have worried about how this scandal would affect him and Lady Beaufort. After all, they were the sponsors of the “charlatan” Whig candidate. Whatever standing they had in Fleck might also be swept away by the flood of public outcry.

“We have run this campaign on a vision of how a government can better serve the people it represents. I mean to carry on that way until the end,” Norman said.

After a moment, Sir Seymour extended his hand. Norman clasped his forearm. “A vision of a brighter future,” Sir Seymour agreed. “Until the end.”

That night, Norman arranged to meet Elsa at the boathouse where the previous MP, Ben Jonson, had met his mortal fate. The structure was a pragmatic choice, secluded as it was from nearby dwellings, and Norman meant to get to the bottom of the paper her cousin had printed.

She had already arrived when he entered, and her eyes, restlessly scanning the dark water of the lake, reflected stars dancing across the surface. At the sound of his approach, she turned and flung herself into his arms. His hands slipped around her waist, savoring the feeling of her soft curves pressed against him even as his heart limped along, painfully aware that he may be holding his betrayer.

“Norman, I’m so sorry. I told him not to do it. I thought I’d convinced him not to. I didn’t know—”

Rearing back, he stared into her face, weighing her words and the pleading writ plain in her eyes. “How did he know? How did you know?”

“The day of the picnic,” she answered at once, not pretending to misunderstand. “When your people were there with flowers and singing, Oliver and I came over to ...” Even in the shadows, he saw her face darken with color. Was she blushing? “We overheard Mr. Alderly make reference to your screening. I knew what that meant. I knew I had to have been the reason for it. It’s why I asked you to come that night, so I could apologize.” Shaking her head, she went on, “I didn’t know Oliver had heard, until the next morning.”

“When he came to your house.”

“Yes.” Elsa took his hands, squeezing his fingers as though trying to press belief into them. “He wanted to use the information against you, but I said he mustn’t. I would never do that to you.” She kissed one hand and then the other.

Norman felt the weight of doubt slip from his shoulders, allowing his heart to soar. Elsa had not betrayed him. He pulled her close and gripped one hand in her hair, holding her tight to his chest.

“I’ve already told Oliver I will no longer work on his behalf.” Elsa still bristled with consternation at Oliver’s perfidy, not understanding that Norman didn’t care anymore. So long as she had not meant him harm, Norman could confront whatever Oliver Fay cared to throw at him. “In fact,” she declared, “I’ve a mind to come out in support of you. Goodness knows you’re the better candidate, and I’ve always had a secret reformer streak—”

He cut her off with a kiss, sealing his mouth to hers.

Her generous offer caused his heart to flop at her feet and wag its tail in adoration, but he could not allow her to do that. Nothing good would come of it. Norman would lose the by-election anyway, and Elsa risked alienating herself from the community she loved so well by aligning herself with a pariah. Fleck was good for her. She’d been restored to health and flourished here.

She’d tried to argue, but he stopped her every time with a kiss.

From that moment, they didn’t speak another word about the election in the boathouse. They met there for the next three nights, speaking of everything else under the sun—when they spoke at all. Mostly, they had sex. Lots and lots of spine-tingling, earth-shattering sex. If either of them had misgivings about carrying on an assignation in the same place where a fellow had died, neither of them voiced it.

Night after night, Norman lost himself in the tight heat of Elsa’s body and found himself again when she cried out his name. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known he’d been missing out on something wonderful during his prolonged virginity, but every time he joined with Elsa, he was astonished all over again by just how bloody marvelous it was.

He expressed as much one night. Elsa laughed. “You could have been doing this for years,” she chided. “You can’t convince me no maid ever offered herself to you. And I can think of a good six or seven lonely widows and wives in Town who would be delighted to have such a strapping young man at their beck and call.”

“Perhaps,” he demurred. “But I cannot think of a single one at whose beck and call I would wish to be. I’d rather be your strapping young man now than any other woman’s a decade ago.”

There was plenty of such talk, compliments and sweet nothings, but never did they broach what would come after the by-election. Elsa spoke little of her late husband, but Norman had the distinct impression it had not been a happy marriage. He could not fault her for shying away from the topic of matrimony. She may never be prepared to bind herself to another man again.

But for himself, Norman knew this was it. For the first and only time, he was in love. Elsa was the woman for him, her spirited intelligence the perfect foil to his more reserved nature. They were both interested in matters of public service, and he felt certain that she would sparkle once more as a political hostess in London when she was ready to return to Town. He’d keep her in his life in whatever capacity she allowed him, for as long as possible. Forever sounded about right.

• • •

Two days before the election, Norman rose at nine o’clock, hours later than his customary time. Thoughts of Elsa in mind, as they so often were these days, Norman stepped off the stairs and sauntered into the breakfast room, where he found Sir Seymour and Lady Beaufort lingering over their tea. The squire was ensconced behind the morning paper, while her ladyship read through her post. It was an affecting little tableau of domestic tranquility; Norman couldn’t help but place himself and Elsa in the scene.

“Good morning, Lady Beaufort. Sir Seymour.” His hosts returned his greeting. “Alderly’s not yet about?”

“He was up and out quite early this morning, in fact,” Sir Seymour answered, setting aside his paper and reaching for a triangle of toast. “Had an errand in Ipswich.”

“Hmm. He went there but two days past. Why the need to return so soon, I wonder?” Norman mused.

“Perhaps a fitting,” Lady Beaufort suggested. “Believe it or no, Mr. Wynford-Scott, but we here in Suffolk are not without refinement. A gentleman of fashion will find plenty to suit his tastes right here in the county, no need to hare off to London.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” he agreed amiably. “There are no campaign events this morning, I believe? Do remind me if I’m neglecting something.”

Sir Seymour crunched his toast and shook his head. “Nothing until tea this afternoon with the Ladies’ Auxiliary at the vicarage.”

“Very well. I shall spend the morning working on my hustings speech.”