Sweet Enemy (34 page)

“Stratford.” Northumb was a small man, given his great influence. Indeed, standing next to the man, Geoffrey estimated Northumb to be shorter than Liliana, who was admittedly tall for a woman. Yet his voice boomed, as many great orators’ did. “Nice shooting this morning. Had my doubts, hearing like I did that you’d let a woman unman you on the practice field.” Northumb chuckled. “Say it isn’t so, man.”

Geoffrey winced inwardly. He didn’t need to give the notoriously fickle Lord Northumb anything to distract him from the important matters at hand. “In truth, it was Lord Aveline who outshot me, though Miss Claremont did certainly give the man an advantage.”

Northumb humphed. “Never tangle with a headstrong woman, son. Better to surround yourself with well-behaved ones. Like my Jane.”

“Yes,” Geoffrey said. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Northumb had never before actually mentioned
Lady’s Jane’s name in connection to him. He had always been more subtle than that. “Your daughter is a lovely girl, a great compliment to you.”

Northumb eyed him, then nodded. “She is. Interesting ideas you presented this morning.”

“I am gratified you found them so,” Geoffrey said, relieved the conversation was moving to politics. Yet he had the feeling the subject of Northumb’s daughter wasn’t closed…He only hoped the two wouldn’t prove to be entwined. “I’d value your further opinion. Yours, as well, Wakefield,” Geoffrey added in deference to the beefy gentleman accompanying them. “Perhaps over a drink later? At your convenience, of course.”

Northumb pushed out his lips, his eyes narrowing in contemplation. His expression brought to mind the image of a wizened old cod, one well accustomed to swimming through the rough waters of Parliament. Geoffrey knew firsthand that politics could be a vicious pond, full of big fish and small, most angling for their own inclinations with wicked hooks and barbs. The reforms this country so desperately needed, the ones Geoffrey was committed to seeing through, would not always endear him to his peers. He’d do well to learn what he could from Northumb on how to survive it all with most of his scales intact.

“Now’s as good a time as any,” Northumb said.

Minutes later, the men settled themselves in the library. When all three had cut-glass snifters of expensive liquor in their hands, Northumb went straight to the point.

“You could have a real future in the party,” Northumb said, propping his ankle on the opposite knee and negligently resting his brandy on the arm of the chair. “I wasn’t so certain last year, when you came up like a green pup, but I can see you learn from your mistakes. Liverpool was right to assign this task to you.”

Geoffrey leaned forward, setting his glass on the side table. “It’s not my future I’m concerned with, but Britain’s.
Yes, this bill starts with employing the men I care most about, but it extends beyond that. More jobs mean less criminals. More industry equates to stronger economic—”

“So you’ve said,” Northumb interrupted. “I am unconvinced. And three quarters of a million pounds is a lot of money that could be used elsewhere. Don’t you agree, Wakefield?”

“I do,” came the matter-of-fact reply from Northumb’s companion.

Geoffrey sat back in his chair smoothly, picking up his snifter along the way. He held Northumb’s gaze as he took a sip, yet the tips of Geoffrey’s ears burned with anger. He shouldn’t be surprised that Liverpool had shared the details of the bill—Northumb was a powerful man. But Northumb would also then know that the prime minister supported the bill, which should have been enough to ensure Northumb’s support as well. This hesitation was pure politics.

“I care about the country, too,” Northumb said, “but do you know what I care more for?” Northumb glanced over at Wakefield. “Family. A man’s family is what truly matters in this world. And the alliance between strong families is the pillar that holds our nation together.”

He’s trying to use my passion for the Poor Employment Act to force my hand in marriage to his daughter.
Geoffrey kept his expression purposefully blank. Well, as blank as he could while clenching his teeth together. Hell and damnation, the man was no better than Geoffrey’s own mother.

“I like you, Stratford. You’re bright, you’re forward thinking, you’re loyal and you’re a patriot.” Northumb stood, downed the remainder of his brandy and set the glass on the wooden table with a clink. Wakefield rose as well, bringing Geoffrey to his feet. “Think about what I’ve said. Family sticks together.” Northumb pinned Geoffrey with a cool gray stare. “Family votes together, too.”

Geoffrey remained standing long after the other men departed, a sick feeling twisting his gut. Faces flashed before him, of his men, gaunt and hungry. Of Tom Richards, when Geoffrey had found him several months ago, begging on the street. Of women and children whom he knew would be helped if this bill passed.

Maybe he could get the bill passed without Northumb’s support. The group of gentlemen he’d spoken with this morning had seemed convinced. Yet, only weeks remained before the vote. There might not be time to sway enough others, particularly if Northumb came out against it. And if the bill didn’t pass, it would be at least another year before Geoffrey could try again. What would become of his soldiers and their families then?

Geoffrey rolled his neck, pushing back his shoulders to release the tension and lengthening his spine, as Liliana had shown him. He noticed only a twinge of discomfort. Normally, after such a jarring hunt, he’d be in agony.

In only a few days of listening to Liliana, the quality of his life had improved immensely, in more ways than one. And she was quickly becoming the only person truly on his side, the only person who wanted nothing from him but himself. He longed to talk to her, even about this unusual situation, certain that she would understand. When had she become his safe haven?

“Congratulations are in order, I hear.”

Geoffrey’s head snapped around to look over his shoulder. His mother stood in the entrance to his study, where she must have been concealing herself. If the bookshelf-door had been open even a crack, she’d have had no trouble hearing the entire conversation, and judging from the triumphant smile on her face, she had.

“You’ll have to ask the girl, of course, but it’s clear her father has already given his blessing. I know her mother has.” The countess brought her hands together. “As do I, not that you care. Lady Jane is an excellent choice, everything you could hope for in a wife, and you’ll be guaranteeing the passage of your bill, to boot.”

Marry Lady Jane and achieve his goal. It seemed so simple. And so damned manipulative it turned his stomach. God, how he abhorred when people tried to force his hand.

And what of Liliana? This morning, when he should have been entirely focused on securing votes for the bill, instead he’d felt her absence like a deep well within him. He could no longer fail to acknowledge that when he was with her, he felt full. Whole.

He hadn’t felt that way in years.

Nor did he wish to give that feeling up.

But could he sacrifice the well-being of so many others by refusing Northumb’s “offer”?

Mother paced past him in short, quick strides. “Let’s see…We’ve selected St. George’s for the ceremony. I can have the London house ready for a proper wedding breakfast in only a few weeks. And—”

“We’ve?” Geoffrey’s jaw tightened as Mother’s face went pale. She wouldn’t have…He closed his eyes. She would. “What did you have to do with this?” Geoffrey barked.

“What do you mean?”

“Mother,” he growled.

The countess rolled her eyes with an exasperated huff. “I only gave Lady Northumb a bit of intelligence.”

“Who then, in turn, told her husband how exactly to put me over a barrel,” Geoffrey muttered.

“That was rather crass,” Mother admonished. “All we did was help you to make the best decision for you, and now you will be—”

“I’ll not marry Lady Jane,” Geoffrey said, the weight of the past few minutes floating off of his chest and pulling the corners of his lips up as it rose past his face.

The countess whipped around, narrowing her sharp gaze. “What? Don’t be a fool. What will you tell Lord Northumb?”

“I’ll tell him that if he loves his country, as he says he does, then he’ll support the bill on its merit alone, and
that if he chooses not to, then he’ll face me again next season.” Geoffrey advanced upon the countess, actually taking glee in what he was about to say.

“And I’ll tell him I’ve already chosen a wife.”

“Who?” The countess’ chin lowered and a perplexed frown crossed her face a moment before her eyes widened and her nostrils flared. “Geoffrey! You—you—can’t be serious,” his mother sputtered.

“Oh, but I am.” It was probably a sin against God, how much satisfaction Geoffrey took saying those four little words, what with the whole “honor thy parents” dictate. Yet months of purgatory, perhaps even hell, would be worth it for the look upon his mother’s face. It would certainly be worth it for the lifetime of heaven that awaited him in Liliana’s arms. “Liliana Claremont is exactly what I want in a wife. She’s intelligent, compassionate and completely honest. In fact, I’d wager she doesn’t have a deceitful, manipulative bone in her body, and to me, that is the only qualification that matters.”

Geoffrey left his mother standing in the library, his step light and relatively pain free. This afternoon, he’d seek out Lord Northumb and make his position clear.

Then tonight, when Liliana joined him in the library, he’d ask her to be his wife.

It was in here. She knew it. The connection between her father and the Wentworth family lay somewhere buried in these dingy, dust-covered trunks. She’d felt it when she’d entered the unused room—a tingle that danced down her spine like the fat brown spider gliding across its gossamer web in the unswept corner.

There was no doubt these were Edmund Wentworth’s belongings. In addition to being precisely where Geoffrey had said they were, there was an ornate EW inscribed on the brass key plate of the largest trunk. Liliana traced her finger over the initials, much as she had the seal on the letters that had brought her to Somerton Park.

Rather than the excitement she’d expected to feel at
this moment, a great sadness weighed upon her. There was nothing to be done but to finish her search. Liliana pushed up her sleeves and surveyed the stacks of boxes and trunks. From the amount of dust and cobwebs covering them, she could well believe they had been up here for thirteen years. Liliana swiped her hand across the top of a nondescript wooden box, brushing clean a swath the width of her palm.

She used her hand to clear the rest of the lid and frowned. There were pry marks on the edges, and the lid lifted easily, the lock broken.

The box was stuffed with papers that were yellowed with age. They were also quite disarranged, as though they had been thrown in without care. Or, given the pry marks, searched through hastily. She pulled a handful. There were receipts, bills and descriptions for what seemed to be normal personal items. Liliana took a few moments to scan through them but saw nothing to draw her attention. She did the same through the rest of the box before placing the lid back on it and moving it to the side.

She chose a medium-sized trunk next. It came open with no effort, the lock also broken. Someone had definitely searched through Edmund Wentworth’s things before her. Liliana peered inside, only to find more papers. She sorted through a few to sample their contents.

Her hand began to shake as she came upon a packet of folded vellum tied with a burgundy ribbon. She untied the knot, her fingers fumbling. When she opened the packet, letters written and signed by Edmund Wentworth, late Earl of Stratford, stared up at her. She closed her eyes. The handwriting on the pages was the same as that on the letters she’d found in her father’s study.

Somehow, she’d always known it would be, but actually seeing it with her own two eyes pierced her. The same elaborate
E
’s, the same flourish on the
S
’s and
O
’s.

Liliana scanned the letter quickly, her heartbeat pounding in her ear. It was a missive written to the curator
of the British Museum, agreeing to provide funds for the renovation of an exhibit. She was sure that had nothing to do with her father, who to her knowledge had no interest in antiquities, but that wasn’t what made the letter valuable.

Tears burned her eyes, her nose, the back of her throat. She finally had a tangible, concrete link between the late Earl of Stratford and her father’s death. She carefully folded the letter with the incriminating handwriting and placed it in the pocket of her dress.

Now all that was left was to see if her father’s return correspondence might be somewhere in this dusty graveyard of papers, the last record of a man’s life.

Liliana resumed delving through the trunks. She found Edmund Wentworth’s certificate of membership into the Society of Antiquaries, dated 1782. She found more papers, journals detailing descriptions of architectural discoveries, all in the earl’s hand. She found bills of lading for ships importing crates from Greece, Egypt and India, amongst other exotic places. It all looked quite aboveboard, as far as Liliana could tell. Nothing suspicious. Nothing that spoke of treason. Nothing that mentioned Charles Claremont directly or in passing. Nothing that told her anything more than what she already knew.