The Darcys: The Ruling Passion by Linda Berdoll

Author:Linda Berdoll [Berdoll, Linda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2001-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 51

Alistair Steps Up

Having cast caution (and a good bit of her pride) to the wayside, Juliette had nothing to do but to wait and see if Darcy would come to her rescue. Howgrave still insisted she accompany him to his political rallies and, as she was beside herself with apprehension and anticipation, they became evermore unbearable.

When she was the darling of the political ring, she found it all quite diverting. Now, the tedious arguments over the gold standard and ecclesiastical appointments left her bored senseless. It was her dearest hope that one disputant would slap the other’s face and demand a duel. Any violence would be preferable to her than the endless rhetoric. As malcontents became more frustrated, their speeches inflamed others. At last, fomentation was at hand.

“Our voices must be reinstated!” screamed one red-faced man.

His eyes bulged dangerously and Juliette silently prayed apoplexy would strike him—and all his political cronies—dead. That was not to be. Someone insisted that calm be restored and she was once again desperate to escape the tedium.

Smoke choked the air and made her eyes red. When she dared, she fled the dais holding her handkerchief to her lips. The small antechamber behind the hall was bathed in a haze of smoke, but it was not half as stifling as in front. Only a few men stood about. All, save one, wore work caps. The man in the silk hat was tall and quite distinguished-looking. He was well-dressed by most standards, but stood toe to toe and mired in conversation with the others. After a moment, the gaggle of what looked to be jobbers and packmen, left. They paused by the door only long enough for each to pick up a club from the dozen or so standing against the wall.

The man wearing the tall hat was puffing hard on his cigar. In a lady’s presence, that was uncivil. It would be a test of his manners whether or not he disposed of it when he saw her (as she knew he would). As soon as the door closed behind the others, he threw his cigar on the floor and then mashed it out with the toe his boot. She was both surprised and delighted that a man within the boundaries of political doings subscribed to any part of gallantry. Her husband’s associates were heathens.

The gentleman spoke first, observing, “I see you could no longer listen to the oration of that boss-eyed nincompoop, Mr. Harvey.”

As they had not been introduced, she turned her head haughtily in the opposite direction. Behind her, the gentleman bowed low.

“I do beg your pardon,” he said, doffing his hat. “I am your husband’s secretary, Mr. Alistair Thomas. We met but three days ago... in the vestibule of your home.”

Had she been any other lady, she might have been a bit embarrassed to have mistakenly issued a cut. As the gentleman before her was far superior to any other in Howgrave’s enclave, she decided to be amused.

“Of course,” she chirped.

With singular agility, she altered the conversation.

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