by Merry Farmer
Lady Stanhope’s impish grin widened. “He’s unmarried, you know.”
Unaccountable joy burst in Marigold’s chest. She wasn’t so naïve that she couldn’t see what Lady Stanhope was getting at. Set your goals and pursue them with focus. Seek out a man to marry who could assist you in achieving those goals. Her gaze snapped back to Mr. Croydon. He stood tall and proud, speaking into a sea of grunts and objections from the other side without so much as a flutter. Marigold had the impression that the man could withstand a storm and come out singing.
“He’s a friend,” Lady Stanhope nodded, her eyes flashing with cunning. “And not one of my special friends either.” She paused to let that sink in, then added with feigned casualness. “I could introduce you once the debate is done.”
Tingles broke out along Marigold’s skin, and in some peculiar places that she only ever thought about when she was alone. “I think I’d enjoy that,” she said, pretending as much nonchalance as Lady Stanhope was.
“Really,” Lavinia laughed quietly by her side, shaking her head. “You’re as bad as mother.”
“And why shouldn’t I have Lady Stanhope introduce me to Mr. Croydon?” Marigold asked, as giddy as if she and Lavinia were in a schoolroom, mooning over the boys. “We should go after what we want.”
“If you say so.” Lavinia continued to giggle.
The remainder of the session passed as if being carried along by a snail moving through treacle. Marigold couldn’t pay attention to anything else that was said once the vote to table the bill for further discussion came up. After that, it was a war of attrition to keep still until the session was ended and both the ministers and observers rose to leave.
It was all Marigold could do not to sprint for the stairs, using her parasol to bat aside anyone who got in her way.
“Steady on, dear,” Lady Stanhope whispered in her ear as they shuffled slowly into the queue departing the gallery. “You’re an intelligent, well-placed heiress, not a bitch in heat.”
Lavinia gasped, bursting into nervous giggles. “Lady Stanhope, you say the most shocking things.”
“Of course I do, dear,” she said with a smile. “One doesn’t suffer widowhood without being able to say shocking things.”
At last, as Marigold’s heart pounded against her ribs, they made it to the stairs and down to St. Stephen’s Hall. The tall, echoing space was packed with men rushing about their business or standing in clusters to discuss the day’s business. Lady Stanhope took the lead as they started across the floor, gesturing for Marigold and Lavinia to follow her.
Marigold searched ahead for any sign of Mr. Croydon, and when she spotted him speaking to two other men at the far end of the hall, under a painting of King John agreeing to sign the Magna Carta, she went dizzy with expectation.
“Alex, there you are,” Lady Stanhope greeted him in the most casual way possible as they approached. “I’ve someone I’d like you to meet.”
The two men with Mr. Croydon said a final word and nodded before stepping away and going about their business. That left Mr. Croydon alone, like a lead actor on the stage, with no one to share the spotlight. He was even more handsome up close than he had been from the gallery. His eyes were blue, with enticing lines around them that indicated good humor. But there was also a feeling of gravitas about him, and, if Marigold wasn’t mistaken, a hint of wariness. Clearly, he was a man of experience, and not all of it good.
“Lady Stanhope.” He greeted Lady Stanhope as informally as she had him, taking her hand and drawing her close, then kissing her cheek when she raised it to him. Marigold was both shocked and fascinated by the intimate greeting, and more than a little envious. “How good it was to see you in the gallery today. And your charming friends.” He glanced to Marigold.
Their eyes met, and once again, Marigold had that fluttering feeling that the two of them were the only people in the world. It was a ridiculous, sentimental notion, one she would have laughed at if other ladies had described it to her, but she couldn’t deny how good it felt.
“Alex, I’d like to introduce you to Miss Marigold Bellowes,” Lady Stanhope said.
Mr. Croydon blinked, his brow lifting, and turned to Lady Stanhope. “Percy Bellowes’s daughter?”
A painful twist of disappointment hit Marigold’s heart. He knew who her father was. Which meant he knew her worth. Which made her feel suddenly worthless.
“The very same,” Lady Stanhope went on, still smiling. “But who gives a fig about her father? Miss Bellowes here was particularly interested in your debate. She has a brilliant mind and inquisitiveness to boot.”
“Does she?” Mr. Croydon glanced to Marigold again, and for once, for once in her entire life, Marigold knew a man was looking at her not for the contents of her father’s bank account, but for her own merits.
“How do you do, Mr. Croydon?” She offered her hand, doing her best to imitate Lady Stanhope’s cool, superior demeanor as she did.
“I’m quite well,” he answered, taking her hand and bowing over it.
A zip of electricity shot up Marigold’s arm. It was so delicious that remaining calm and letting go of his hand to turn to Lavinia took every ounce of her effort. “May I introduce my dearest friend, Lady Lavinia Prior?”
“Lady Lavinia.” Mr. Croydon repeated the motions of taking Lavinia’s hand and bowing over it. “I hope you enjoyed today’s debate.”
“It was fascinating,” Lavinia said, her smile broad and as teasing as Lavinia was capable of. “But Marigold is the one who knows more about these things.”
Mr. Croydon glanced back to her. It was so ridiculously obvious that both Lady Stanhope and Lavinia were pushing her in front of him that they might as well have carried signs. Strangely, though, Marigold couldn’t bring herself to mind.
“I was particularly impressed with—”
“Croydon!”
An angry, male voice cut Marigold off, and all four of them turned to see a glowering man in a disheveled suit with enormous muttonchops framing his face marching toward them. Lady Stanhope made a noise somewhere between frustration and disgust, and Mr. Croydon’s expressions snapped closed, his eyes narrowing.
Marigold held her breath, the feeling that she’d walked into the middle of a drama shivering down her spine.
Chapter 2
“Turpin.” Alex clenched his jaw, irritated beyond measure at the man barging into what was turning out to be the most pleasant introduction he’d had in a long time. He pulled himself to his full height and glared down at his rival. “What can I do for you?”
Stocky, red-faced, and irritable, Daniel Turpin marched up to him, giving the ladies only a cursory frown before ignoring them. “You’re a damn fool, Croydon,” he growled.
Lady Lavinia squeaked, her eyes going round with shock. Lady Stanhope had the opposite reaction. She smirked and rested one hand on her hip, staring at Turpin. Miss Bellowes merely arched an eyebrow, glancing to him in question.
Alex glowered at his rival, highly aware of Miss Bellowes’s scrutiny. “I beg your pardon, sir. There are ladies present.”
“Bugger all ladies,” Turpin snorted. Lady Lavinia looked as though she might faint, but Turpin pressed on. “They shouldn’t be here in the first place. Politics is a man’s game. Women should keep to their place in the home. Which is exactly why you’re a damn fool.”
If they had been at a club, or even in the street, Alex would have throttled Turpin for his appalling manners. As it was, he had to restrain his impulse to punch the man’s bulbous nose. “We no longer live in the Dark Ages,” he said, narrowing his eyes in distaste. “Our entire culture has made great strides, both in technology and society. Women attend university now, hold professional positions.”
“They shouldn’t,” Turpin interjected.
“Our own queen is a woman.”
“She is not a woman, she is a monarch. And as for the rest of them, the whole lot are good for just one thing. Two if they know how to cook.”
&nbs
p; Lady Stanhope made a disgusted noise and shook her head. Turpin turned on her.
“You, madam, are the worst of the lot,” Turpin sneered.
“Why, thank you, Mr. Turpin,” Lady Stanhope smiled. “I don’t believe I’ve ever received such a glowing compliment.”
Miss Bellowes made a strangled sound and pressed her hand to her mouth, but her eyes sparkled with mirth. The sight sent a jolt of need through Alex that was as inconvenient as it was surprising.
But Turpin wasn’t done yet.
“If you and your cronies have your way, all hell will break loose, and the natural order of things will be upended,” he went on. “Your proposals are a disgrace to mankind and a complete abdication of your God-given duty to master the fairer sex. You will be stopped.”
Alex clenched his jaw as rage welled up in him. He knew too well what men like Turpin meant by man’s duty to master women. He’d watched his father “master” his mother with a balled fist on too many occasions. And he’d rescued Violetta from a sadistic manager who ruled her life with the same iron force. It cut him to the core to know that both women had met miserable and untimely ends, and that Violetta’s death had been his fault.
The sudden, painful memory set him off-balance, and he felt his edge in the argument slipping away. “More and more men believe as I do every day, Turpin. I may be the representative for this bill, but I am not its only champion. The rights of women will advance, whether your backward-thinking lot want them to or not.”
Turpin laughed, his lip curled in a sneer. “You think so? Do you forget that you and your friends are not in power?”
“Perhaps not at this time, but we all know that this government is coming to an end. Change is in the air.”
“Even if there is an election,” Turpin went on, his eyes narrowing, “the Conservatives still hold the majority. And we will continue to do so.”
“But for how long?” Alex swayed toward him, growing hot with anger. “Disraeli can barely clap together a vote about the most basic things. The balance is shifting, and as it does, women and the working class will rise. Mark my words.”
“I mark nothing,” Turpin spat. “If it’s the last thing I do, I will move heaven and earth to ensure that your foolish and destructive bill never receives a vote, let alone a favorable one. Women are weak and must be kept in the home, subject to their husbands.”
“And what if we don’t have husbands, Mr. Turpin?” Lady Stanhope asked. Alex had nearly forgotten the ladies were there, and was pleased to see Lady Stanhope with her arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. Better still, Miss Bellowes had adopted a similar posture, gazing at Turpin with such disdain that Alex was surprised the man didn’t incinerate on the spot.
Turpin turned to Lady Stanhope and barked, “You should rot in hell,” then turned sharply and stormed off.
A gaping silence followed in his wake. Alex was sure he should have apologized, but he didn’t want Turpin’s foul behavior to be forgiven. Instead, he said, “That man is a thorn in the side of progress and modernity.”
Lady Stanhope hummed in bitter agreement. “Pity there are so many others just like him.”
“Not for long,” Miss Bellowes said. Alex glanced to her with a surprised lift of his brow. She met his eyes with a clever glint in hers. “It is as you said, Mr. Croydon. Times are changing. We live in an exceptionally modern world. Women are capable of so many things nowadays, and the laws of the land and society must evolve to catch up with them.”
Alex didn’t know which to admire more, Miss Bellowes’s words or the manner in which she delivered them. She was clearly intelligent and well-spoken, and he would have to be blind not to see that she was a first-rate beauty as well. Her hair was the color of the first kiss of a summer sunset, and her complexion was as clear and soft as rose-petals. And he wasn’t usually inclined toward such frivolous descriptions of feminine beauty. Violetta had been a beauty, before age and illness dulled her spark, but Miss Bellowes was a natural. That, combined with her father’s business empire, made him wonder how on earth she remained unmarried.
“I’m terribly sorry that our introduction went awry,” he said, shifting to face her fully and returning to the important business at hand. “I was about to say that any friend of Lady Stanhope is a friend of mine.” He made certain to nod to the startled and pale Lady Lavinia so that it wasn’t blatantly obvious where his interests lay. Although it was likely obvious anyhow.
“And I was about to compliment you on your speech,” Miss Bellowes said with a growing smile that did wonderful things for her eyes. “But now I feel as though I should complement you for the way you handled that dreadful man.”
Alex frowned, blowing out an impatient breath. “Turpin is our chief opposition in Commons,” he said, clasping his hands behind his back and glaring down the hall to where the man had joined some of his more odious cronies. “We’ve been dealing with the complications and blocks he’s thrown in our way where the advancement of women’s rights is concerned for years.”
“I’m impressed that you’ve been seeking our advancement that long,” Miss Bellowes said.
He turned back to her. “But of course. There have been men who are dedicated to supporting the rights of all people for ages.”
“Really?” Lady Lavinia blinked. “I’ve never heard of any.”
Alex sent her a kind smile. “Our voices are often not heard over the clamor of what some see as more pressing issues.”
“You can say that again,” Lady Stanhope drawled.
“On behalf of womankind, Mr. Croydon, I thank you,” Miss Bellowes said, her smile as fetching as it was mischievous.
Alex was caught up in the charm of it and made an overelaborate, good-humored bow. “You are quite welcome, Miss Bellowes. My sincerest hope is that we can continue to fight for the cause until backward-thinkers like Mr. Turpin are eliminated.” A pinch of frustration hit him as he spoke. “I only wish it were easier to root men like him out.”
“Is there no way to sway his like to your side?” Miss Bellowes asked.
Alex winced. “I’m afraid it would be easier to carve a tunnel through Mt. Aetna with a hairpin. Men like Turpin are so deeply set in their ways.” He glanced down the hall again, disheartened at how many men he could pick out who were opposed to everything he and his friends were working for. Turpin was the worst of them, but not the only one. “If there was only some way to remove Turpin from the picture,” he sighed, thinking aloud. “He’s the lynchpin in Commons.”
“Just as Shayles in in Lords,” Lady Stanhope added.
Alex glanced back to her with a grim look. “Indeed. Each of them is as bad as the other.”
“I won’t argue with you there.”
“Is there a way to take men like that out of the parliamentary picture?” Miss Bellowes asked.
Alex shrugged slightly, wishing he had a better answer for her. “The only certain way would be if men like Turpin were defeated in a general election.”
“But you said an election is just around the corner,” Miss Bellowes said.
Alex nodded. “It’s very likely. But even so, men like Turpin have their seats virtually guaranteed, due to, well, not precisely rotten boroughs, like the old days, but close enough.”
“So it would take something extraordinary to prevent people from voting for him, should there be an election.”
“Precisely.”
“Well, then,” Lady Stanhope said, cunning and calculation in her eyes. “It looks as though I have my work cut out for me.”
“You, Lady Stanhope?” Lady Lavinia asked, blinking at Lady Stanhope in awe.
Lady Stanhope’s grin grew to diabolical proportions. “I have my ways,” she said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Alex met her steely gaze with a smile of his own. He was damned lucky to count Katya Marlowe as a friend. Not for the first time, he felt as though he needed to send Lord Malcolm Campbell a bottle of the finest scotch as thanks for introducing them all those years ag
o. How Malcolm could have let the woman go was beyond his comprehension.
The conversation hit a slight lull, but before any of them could find a way to continue it the rumble of male conversation was split by a piercing cry of, “Lavinia?”
Alex turned to find a matronly woman storming up the length of the hall, a wide-brimmed hat decorated with too many feathers on her head. Lady Lavinia blushed scarlet and buried her face in her hands.
“Lavinia, there you are.” The woman marched right up to them, stopping with the precision of a general as she reached their group. She sent Lady Stanhope a sharp glare, then tilted her chin up and turned away from her. Alex glanced anxiously around to find several of his peers looking on with amused expressions, but the matron seemed oblivious. “Young lady, I told you that I would only allow you to attend this ridiculous event if you promised to return home immediately after it was finished.”
“But mother, it only just finished a few moments ago,” Lady Lavinia sighed, her shoulders wilting.
“Moments ago is not immediately,” her mother informed her. “I never should have let you come in the first place. Men do not care for women who are too politically informed,” she glanced sideways at Lady Stanhope, “and there are certainly no eligible bachelors in the Palace of Westminster.”
Miss Bellowes cleared her throat, although Alex suspected the sound was intended to hide a laugh. “Lady Prior,” she said. “May I introduce you to Mr. Alexander Croydon, who has just given a powerful speech to Commons about the rights of women?”
Lady Prior tilted up her nose and raked Alex with a glance. He felt in an instant that he came up wanting, but could only muster amusement for the woman’s censure.
“A pleasure, sir,” she said, entirely unconvincingly, then turned back to her daughter. “Come along now. Your painting lesson is in half an hour.”
Lady Lavinia sighed. “Mama, you know I’m hopeless at painting.”
“Refined young women should know how to paint,” Lady Prior snapped back.
“Fifty years ago, perhaps,” Lady Lavinia mumbled. She straightened her gloves and turned to go, glancing to Miss Bellowes for help.
