May Mistakes (The Silver Foxes of Westminster Book 3)

by Merry Farmer

  “It’s been too long,” Alex said, more feeling in his voice than Basil was used to. Alex stepped back to introduce the woman with him. “This is my beautiful bride, Marigold.”

  “It is indeed a pleasure to meet you,” Basil greeted her with a formal bow.

  “Where did you find this wastrel?” another familiar voice asked.

  Basil rose from his bow to find Peter deVere approaching with a woman who must have been the wife Malcolm had told him about. Malcolm himself, along with Armand Pearson, accompanied them, talking to each other as they scanned the room.

  “Peter.” Basil greeted his friend with a smile and a handshake, bowing and greeting Lady Mariah, Peter’s wife, the same way he’d greeted Marigold. “I see marriage suits you.” He grinned at Peter, his mood improving by a fraction as his old friends surrounded him.

  “I’ve been happy,” Peter answered, beaming at his wife as though the world revolved around her.

  Basil lost his smile, his heart crying out for Elaine. It seemed shamefully wrong for him to be there, with his friends and the women they loved, without her. It seemed wrong to breathe without her or to put one foot in front of another when she wasn’t there.

  “So, have you run into Lady Royston yet?” Malcolm asked as he joined their circle.

  Basil pushed himself to stand straighter and think of the event as what it was, a business meeting. “No. But it’s early still.”

  “Malcolm,” Alex said, shaking his head. “Basil’s just returned from exile. We haven’t heard a thing about what he’s been doing all this time, and you’re putting him to work? Chasing after Lady Royston, no less.”

  “He was frittering away his good sense and intelligence, selling books in some forgotten town in Cumbria,” Malcolm answered. “We can relax and engage in idle chatter once the election is over.”

  “Cumbria, you say?” Peter ignored Malcolm, his mouth twitching with mirth as he glanced to his wife. “Selling books?”

  “The poetry of Walt Whitman, perhaps?” Mariah looked back at Peter, and it was clear the pair was on the verge of laughing over some private joke.

  “Don’t listen to Malcolm,” Armand said. “Or these two love-addled fools.” He nodded both to Peter and Alex. “I, for one, am eager to hear what you’ve been up to.”

  “I was selling books, just as Malcolm said,” Basil told him, the ache in his heart where Elaine should have been somehow stronger. “It was quiet, peaceful.”

  “Unlike this mess.” The last of Basil’s inner circle of friends, Katya Marlow, Lady Stanhope, swept her way into the conversation. She wore a dress of deep, wine red, cut in a style that flattered her exceptional figure while still giving her the gravity that a woman of her age, and a countess, no less, was expected to have. She extended a gloved hand to Basil, who took it and kissed it with a strange sense of relief. It wasn’t until that moment that he realized why Elaine’s social boldness and unconventionality had felt so familiar from the start. “It’s good to see you, Basil.”

  “And you, Katya,” he answered with the best smile he could manage, letting her hand go.

  Katya’s expression quickly fell from her usual mischievous grin to something close to pity. “Malcolm,” she snapped. “What did you do to him?”

  “Me?” Malcolm balked, glaring at Katya. “I didn’t do anything to him. I simply reminded him that he had a life here in London, and with it, a duty to his country.”

  Katya sent a peevish look Malcolm’s way. “Blind as usual.” She shook her head.

  In spite of himself, Basil grinned. Some things hadn’t changed at all. Malcolm and Katya were still at loggerheads.

  “So you plan to coddle this coward, then?” Malcolm glared at Katya. “Do you plan to congratulate him for running out on his friends and his country?”

  “Are you going to punish him because your feelings were hurt?” Katya asked in return.

  Malcolm pressed his lips together so fast and so tight that Basil winced. “I’m sorry.” He nodded to Malcolm. “I didn’t realize you prized our friendship enough to be hurt by my leaving.”

  “Of course I prized our friendship,” Malcolm began, a rare pinch of emotion in his expression. He shook it off and returned to his usual, bastard self in no time. “But I didn’t sniff you out and bring you back to soothe my ego. I brought you back because you have skills none of the rest of us possess.”

  “He is right about that,” Alex admitted. “This election means everything to our cause. We need the May Flowers and all of their influence on our side. If the Liberals don’t win a majority, the advancement of women and the working class will be halted to almost a crawl. Turpin has already declared war on everything we’re doing, and he has Disraeli’s ear now, in spite of the scandal last year.”

  “What scandal?” Basil asked.

  “Something delicate that involved an unfortunate maid,” Katya cut in with a warning look for the men and a glance around them, hinting that anyone could be listening in. “Shayles was involved.”

  A burst of anger flared through Basil. Lord Theodore Shayles had been his chief opponent in the House of Lords. The two had butted heads on more than on occasion. Shayles’s activities outside of Parliament, particularly his despicable Black Strap Club, were Malcolm’s chief targets in opposing the man, but Basil had been the one to lead the charge against Shayles’s damaging efforts within government itself.

  As if thoughts of the man summoned him, Basil caught sight of Shayles and his friends several yards away in the ballroom. Shayles hadn’t changed at all. He stood at the center of his group, like a king in his own right, an arrogant half-smile pulling at his thin lips. His wife was nowhere to be seen, but Lady Bentinck, in her too-tight bodice, with her rouged lips, stood by his side. Turpin was with them, apparently telling some story and laughing as he did. Shayles’s toady, Lord Gatwick, lurked on the other side, surveying the ballroom with distaste. It was Gatwick who noticed Basil watching and who leaned toward Shayles to whisper something to him.

  Shayles glanced in Basil’s direction, and when their eyes met, Shayles’s narrowing, he nodded. Basil nodded back, a warning as much as an acknowledgement. Every bit of malice that had dripped off of Shayles before was still there. Perhaps Malcolm was right. Perhaps the time had come for him to return to London politics. If men like Shayles gained more control of the country, it wouldn’t be fit for man or beast to live in. Perhaps it was time to set the field for battle.

  “Lord Waltham, what a surprise.” Basil turned to find Lady Sarah Creswell in all her voluptuous beauty, approaching. Her hazel eyes were filled with mischief, and sure enough, she had an apple blossom pinned to her ample bosom. “I was told you’d returned and that you were offering dances to all your old friends.”

  Basil prayed the floor would open and swallow him. “Lady Creswell.” He took Sarah’s gloved hand and raised it to his lips. In the process, he remembered too late the trick Sarah had of holding her hand low, forcing him to bow, and inching closer to a man just as his face was at the level of her breasts. His nose brushed against the fragrant swell of bosom pushing above her neckline.

  “Whoops,” Sarah giggled, refusing to let go of Basil’s hand. “Lord Waltham, what a rogue you are.”

  “Lady Creswell,” Basil said, his voice rough with embarrassment as he straightened. “You haven’t changed one bit.”

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth when a flash of movement to the side caught his attention. “Lady Stanhope, Lady Stanhope. I simply must introduce you to my new friend.”

  Basil turned to see who had spoken, and his heart stopped entirely. The woman in sunflower yellow. It was Elaine. And she looked livid.

  “So who should I speak to first?” Elaine asked Aunt Abigail as they entered the grand ballroom at Margate House. The house was magnificent, and the ballroom decorated in a style that was more sophisticated than anything she’d ever seen. Huntingdon Hall and Burton Manor seemed like weak imitations compared with the splendor around
her.

  “Mr. Turpin would like you to begin by making the acquaintance of Lady Tavistock’s friend, Lady Denbigh, if we can find her,” Aunt Abigail said. Her expression, curled lip and all, showed just what she thought of the scheme.

  “Don’t worry, Aunt Abigail,” Elaine reassured her, assuming a posture she thought would be perfect to both dazzle the May Flowers and convince them that she was the fount of knowledge in all things political, even though she didn’t know a Tory from a tortoise or where in London the Palace of Westminster was located. “I shall earn my keep and do Uncle Daniel proud tonight.”

  At least until she discovered whether Basil was at the ball. According to her uncle, everyone who had anything to do with politics would be there, so it stood to reason that Basil would be as well. But the room was a crush of people, almost all of whom were taller than her, and if she didn’t at least make an attempt to fulfill her end of the deal with her uncle, she could find herself on the next train back to Brynthwaite.

  Because if there was one thing she’d learned about her uncle in the past twenty-four hours, it was that he didn’t care one bit what she wanted or what her aims for being in London were. Rose had been right in ways that Elaine was discovering with each new hour that passed. She would have to tread lightly and go along with Uncle Daniel for now.

  Her new gown—finished a mere hour before the ball was to begin—was dreadfully uncomfortable as she walked through the noisy throng of guests. The stiff corset pinched her and made it difficult to breathe. Although she was fascinated with the way it thrust her breasts up against the neckline in a perfectly scandalous manner. Basil would most definitely have something to say about it. She could just imagine the look in his eyes as they feasted on her copious amount of exposed flesh. Just imagining it brought a distinct ache to her core…and a miserable twinge to her heart.

  Mercifully, she didn’t have time to dwell on it.

  “Lady Denbigh.” Aunt Abigail put on a brittle smile as she escorted Elaine to a group of impeccably dressed women who looked about her own age. They each had apple blossoms pinned to their bodices.

  “Mrs. Turpin. How delightful to see you,” the young but formidable Lady Denbigh greeted Aunt Abigail, then glanced curiously to Elaine.

  “Lady Denbigh, I’d like to introduce you to my niece, Miss Elaine Bond.”

  “How do you do?” Elaine greeted Lady Denbigh with what she supposed was a grandiose bow. When she straightened, Lady Denbigh was staring at her with the same startled, teasing look Elaine was use to getting while dressed in her artistic clothes. It wasn’t at all like the acceptance Lady Tavistock had shown her.

  “I am most well, Miss Bond.” Lady Denbigh nodded to her, then shared an amused look with her friends. “Allow me to introduce Lady Montagu, Lady Herbert, and Miss Finch-Hatton.”

  The three women with Lady Denbigh each made modest curtsies to Elaine, showing her at once the etiquette mistake she’d made. She’d greeted Lady Denbigh as though being introduced to the queen.

  Aunt Abigail wore a look that said the plan for the evening would never work. “My niece shares an interest of yours, Lady Denbigh,” she said.

  “Oh?” Lady Denbigh glanced at Elaine as if curious to know what that could possibly be.

  “Politics,” Aunt Abigail said, her voice flat. “She, too, is interested in the current election.”

  “Are you?” Lady Denbigh tilted up her chin in challenge. Definitely not like Lady Tavistock.

  “Yes,” Elaine answered, attempting to discreetly scan the assembly for Lady Tavistock. “I’m particularly excited about the issues my uncle, Mr. Turpin, is dedicated to supporting, should he be reelected.”

  “Do excuse me,” Aunt Abigail suddenly said. Before Elaine could ask what the matter was, she’d turned and strode off, joining a group of women her own age, by all appearance.

  Elaine stared after her, mouth opening but nothing coming out. She’d been abandoned, dropped in the middle of a cluster of May Flowers who clearly thought they were miles above her. She turned back to Lady Denbigh with as friendly a smile as she could manage. Well, it wasn’t as though there was anything new about the situation. She should be used to being abandoned by now.

  “As I was saying,” she resumed her mission, imitating the stance and posture of the other women, “my uncle is a fine, innovative politician who is eager to be reelected.”

  “Yes, his eagerness is well known,” Lady Montagu said, sending her friends a look that warned Elaine she was making a fool of herself.

  She couldn’t give up without a fight, though. Not when so much was riding on her staying in Uncle Daniel’s good graces.

  “Don’t you believe that politics are important to us all?” she asked, making sure to meet each woman’s eyes.

  “Yes, of course,” Miss Finch-Hatton said, brushing her fingers across the apple blossom on her bodice and tilting her chin up.

  She seemed a fraction more open to the discussion than the titled ladies, so Elaine focused her efforts there. “Our rights as women hang in the balance at this very moment,” she said, full of passion. “Not to mention the rights of the working man. God created us all equally, so shouldn’t the laws of man reflect that?”

  Lady Herbert giggled, then slapped a hand to her mouth. Elaine sent her a puzzled look.

  Lady Denbigh cleared her throat and said, “The rights of women are important, Miss Bond. But I’m surprised to hear you say that.”

  Elaine blinked in surprise. “Surely there can be no surprise. I have spent my life concerned about the advancement of women in society. Why, we have as much of a right to education and opportunity as men have.”

  “Certainly, we do,” Lady Denbigh agreed, looking down her nose.

  Confusion gripped Elaine, but she pushed on. “We must support those men in our government who seek to elevate the status of women. And who knows, perhaps in time, those men will pass laws which will allow women to vote as well. It seems inconceivable, but this world of ours is turning faster and faster every day. Perhaps we ourselves might head to the polls to make our voices heard before our time on earth is done. And in the meantime, we can put out strength behind those who would—why are you laughing at me?” She cut short her speech, coming close to stomping her foot in frustration.

  All four of the other ladies were trying their best to hide their peals of laughter, but all of them were failing. They exchanged looks, brimming with mirth.

  “What have I said wrong?” Elaine demanded. She wanted to cross her arms, but in the restrictive corset she wore, it would have been far too painful.

  “You’ve said nothing wrong,” Lady Denbigh laughed. “We agree with everything you’re saying.”

  “Your uncle, on the other hand,” Lady Montagu started, then shook her head, pressing her fingertips to her mouth.

  “My uncle is a great man and a champion for our cause,” Elaine insisted. “I wouldn’t be related to anyone who wasn’t.”

  “Wouldn’t you?” Lady Herbert asked, blinking rapidly.

  “Yes?” Elaine let her shoulders drop. “I mean no?” She was struck with the sudden, horrible idea that she’d leapt before she’d looked in several ways.

  “Henrietta was right about this one,” Lady Denbigh said. “She’s better than the circus.”

  All at once, Elaine’s hopes crashed. Had Lady Tavistock been kind to her because she was a kindred spirit, or because she’d been laughing? Laughing the same way everyone else did, only more genteelly? She’d been so convinced the important woman was friendly. Perhaps she was and the ladies in front of her were the cruel ones, twisting something Lady Tavistock had said. Either way, the sneers and giggles she was getting from the May Flowers in front of her stung like wasps hidden in the petals.

  She was within seconds of picking up her unnaturally bright skirts and fleeing the room and the party when she spotted Lavinia walking past with her mother.

  “Lady Lavinia,” she said, nearly gasping in relief as she reached o
ut to grab Lavinia’s arm. “I need your help.”

  “Oh,” Lavinia gasped. She glanced to her mother, as if uncertain what to do.

  Lady Prior took one look at Elaine, then glanced to Lady Denbigh and her friends. She must have decided Lavinia would be in good company. “Go on, my dear,” she said before walking on.

  Lavinia smiled as though she’d been given a treat and rushed to Elaine’s side. “Lady Denbigh,” she said, making a suitably modest curtsy to the higher-ranking woman. “Lady Montagu, Lady Herbert, Miss Finch-Hatton.”

  “Lady Lavinia,” Lady Denbigh greeted her on behalf of the group. She cast a pointed look to Lavinia’s bodice and its lack of an apple blossom, then sniffed.

  “What are we discussing?” Lavinia asked, all bright-eyed innocence.

  Lady Denbigh sent a private look of superiority to her friends. “We were just about to tell your friend, Miss Bond, that she’s on the wrong side.”

  “Oh?” Elaine glanced at the floor on either side of her, then around her immediate surroundings. Had she made another social faux pas?

  Lavinia’s cheeks colored as she glanced at Elaine with a combination of admiration and warning. “And what side is that?”

  “She claims to support the cause of women’s rights,” Miss Montagu explained.

  “I do.” Elaine nodded, holding her back straight and her head high. “Passionately.”

  “Then why the devil are you campaigning for Mr. Turpin?” Lady Herbert said through her giggles.

  Elaine was becoming vastly annoyed with those giggles. “Because my Uncle Daniel is a powerful voice in the fight for the advancement of women,” she said.

  Lavinia cleared her throat and reached out to touch Elaine’s hand. When Elaine peeked at her, Lavinia shook her head.

  “Lady Lavinia, perhaps you should take your new friend back to the schoolroom and apprise her of the situation as it truly is,” Lady Denbigh said, full of scorn. “But I have enjoyed this lovely jaunt through the looking glass.”

  Elaine didn’t understand the reference to Lewis Carroll’s popular work. She didn’t understand why Lady Denbigh and her friends slipped away without taking their leave, laughing outright. All she could do was stand there, baffled, knowing she’d just been snubbed.