Page 19 of One Night of Scandal
“Not for certain—I don’t know the person’s identity at all. I am trying to find out, though.”
Father’s brow creased and his mouth settled into a deep frown. “You must be careful, Jack. If it is a Tory, they have power right now, and you’ll only make trouble for yourself if you dig into things. But what if it isn’t a Tory? Doesn’t it make as much sense that a sympathetic MP could be trying to aid the radicals?”
“What would attacking the Prince actually gain them? No, it has to be a Tory.”
Father chuckled softly. “You’re assuming this MP is as cunning as you are. Many of them are not.”
Wasn’t that the truth? Sir Humphrey came to mind. His idiocy was almost canceled out by his good friend Caldwell’s clever deviousness. Almost.
“How did you hear of this?” Father asked.
“It’s gossip for now.” At his father’s dark look, Jack waved him off. “Don’t give me that expression. I am hunting down the truth. Hodges heard it, and he’s trustworthy.”
“Yes, but he’s also starting to go deaf, though he covers for it very well,” Father said wryly. “While I understand your desire to find the truth of the matter, aren’t your energies better spent elsewhere? You’ve built a good career for yourself over the past four and a half years, and as far as I can tell, you could spend the next several decades representing Middlesex.” A small smile crept across his father’s lips. “Unless you’re elevated to the peerage, of course. Then you’ll still represent us, just in a different place.”
Jack nearly groaned. That was Father’s goal for him. “I am quite content in the House of Commons, and will be honored to represent Middlesex for as long as they will have me.”
“Perhaps you should consider taking a wife.”
The whisky Jack had just sipped nearly shot straight out of his mouth. Instead, Jack choked on it, the fiery liquid burning his throat. When he was finished sputtering, he stared at his father. “I beg your pardon?”
His father’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “You heard me.”
“I’m afraid I did. Why on earth would you suggest that? You just said I’m doing well, and you know I’m only thirty.”
“Yes, you’re thirty, and I know you’ve stated you won’t wed until you’re thirty-five because that’s what your grandfather and I did. We are not role models in this sense.”
Jack couldn’t have disagreed more. “You and Grandfather are the best role models—in every sense.”
Father sipped his whisky and stared into the fireplace for a moment. When he looked back to Jack, his smile was sad, his gaze weary. “I regret waiting so long. I actually met your mother just after I became a barrister. I was twenty-two years old and full of vigor—and arrogance. It was clear that we suited. I loved her, but not as much as my ambition. The next part you know: she married someone else and after he died, we wed.” Father inched forward in his chair, his eyes intense. “I lost over a decade with her. When I think of that time and the other children we could have had…”
The fact that his father had rejected his mother sat in Jack’s gut like a stone. “I haven’t met anyone like Mother,” he said quietly. “What I mean to say is that I haven’t met anyone I would like to wed.”
An image of Lady Viola sprang forth in his mind. Why should he think of her? Because he enjoyed her company and found her attractive. Regardless, he absolutely hadn’t considered marrying her and had no intention to.
“You also aren’t open to the idea.” Father sat back in his chair, cradling his whisky glass between his hands. “I’m merely suggesting you consider the possibility. Don’t live your life by an arbitrary timeline, and don’t let your career override everything.” His mouth tilted sardonically. “It won’t keep you warm at night.”
The discomfort swirling in Jack’s belly grew until he knew he had to change the topic. He was saved from having to do so by the arrival of Michaelson announcing dinner.
They finished their whisky and stood from their chairs. Father clapped Jack on the shoulder. “I’m proud of you, son. You know I’ll support you, no matter what. Just promise me you’ll be careful with this attack business. I hope you’ll take my advice and steer far clear of it. Trouble has a way of finding us. There’s no need to go looking for it.”
Father set his glass on the sideboard and quit the library. Jack followed suit, his mind churning with what he’d just learned and his father’s counsel. Perhaps he should let this investigation go.
But that would mean leaving Lady Viola to continue on her own, and that wasn’t safe either. If it was dangerous for Jack, it was especially so for her. If this really was a Tory plot, they’d have no compunction about harming someone like her—or Tavistock, in this case—not after they’d already attacked the bloody Prince Regent.
It was time to sit down with her and have a frank discussion about what she intended to do if they learned the truth—and whether they should walk away now, while they still could.
The traffic in the park was terrible. Viola suspected Grandmama’s barouche had moved approximately ten feet in the past quarter hour. The day was overcast but fair, and so everyone was out, or so it seemed. Of course, they’d move more quickly if they weren’t constantly waylaid by Grandmama’s friends and acquaintances. Everyone—well, noteveryone—sought the dowager’s favor.
At last, Grandmama waved off whomever she’d been chatting with, and the barouche moved forward. Viola must have made some sound of relief, as Grandmama gave her a pointed stare.
“Are you bored?” she asked.
“Yes, actually.” Viola saw no point in prevaricating. “Perhaps I’ll get out for a walk. I see Felicity.”
“Before you go, I want to speak with you about the ball tonight.”
Viola kept herself from visibly cringing. Tonight was the Goodrick ball, and Viola wished she could beg off. Or come down with malaria. Perhaps she could sprain her foot descending from the barouche.
