Vivianna could not help but wonder, as she did every time she saw him, how Helen could have married such a man. Love had much to answer for!
And yet, Vivianna knew how tempting a handsome smile could be. She should not pretend she was any more high and mighty than Helen, she thought bleakly. Not when she herself was moving nearer and nearer to the edge of that same precipice.
“I must get on, Uncle Toby, please excuse me.”
“Of course, of course. Things to do, eh?”
Vivianna hurried past him and up the stairs, but she could feel his eyes on her all the way. Lil was waiting for her at the entrance to her bedchamber.
“I heard you come in, miss, but I didn’t come down. That Mr. Toby likes to touch maids in places he’s got no right to.”
“If he is a danger to you, you must tell me so, and I will put a stop to it. I do not like him any more than you.”
“He’s no danger,” Lil replied scornfully. “More a bloomin’ nuisance. Don’t worry, I can handle meself all right, miss.”
Vivianna knew she was right. Lil had seen the seamier side of life, and no doubt had handled many Toby Russells. Still, she did not like to think of Lil being under siege. Perhaps when she took Oliver to Candlewood he would have an epiphany, and she and Lil could go home, as unlikely as that seemed.
And then you will never see him again.
Vivianna stilled, overcome by the realization that that wasn’t what she wanted. It wasn’t what she wanted at all.
Oliver ran up the steps to White’s and entered the club, tossing his hat and cane to the doorman. The dining room was crowded, waiters in starched shirts hurrying about, diners chatting with each other across linen tablecloths. Oliver swept his gaze over the room, searching for, and finding, Lord Lawson.
Tall, with graying side-whiskers and an exuberant mane of salt-and-pepper hair, Lawson was in his fifties and looked every bit the important man in Sir Robert Peel’s Tory party. He was to be the next prime minister, if gossip could be believed, despite the fact that Peel had been tipped for the job—the thing was, the queen did not like Peel and she did like Lawson. She said she found Sir Robert too reticent, whereas Lord Lawson was a man she could talk to.
Of course, Lord Melbourne had to be got rid of first, but going by his present showing in the House that would not take long. The queen had been very much influenced by Melbourne in her youth, just as her mother, the Duchess of Kent, had been influenced by her comptroller of the household, the debonair and power-hungry Sir John Conroy. Although Victoria would not have thanked anyone for drawing comparisons. She hated Sir John Conroy with a passion bordering on mania—whisperers had it that when she was a child, she had come upon him and her mother in a very compromising position.
Lord Lawson had made a public speech of support last year when the queen had been embroiled in a scandal concerning Sir John and one of her ladies-in-waiting. The queen had come out of it badly—the lady was not pregnant with Sir John’s child at all, but suffering from a terminal growth, and the public had turned nasty, booing the queen and calling her “Mrs. Melbourne.”
Lawson’s vocal support had pleased Her Majesty greatly, and the Tory party were beginning to see him as their answer to Lord Melbourne. Only a matter of time, then, before his star shone bright.
Oliver’s hand clenched at his side. Not if I can help it….
As if sensing his gaze, Lawson looked up. Those famous ice-blue eyes narrowed, and he leaned over to say something to his dining companion before making his way through the crowded room toward Oliver.
Oliver waited, leaning against a chair back as though he were weary. Or half drunk. He blinked at Lawson and returned his bow casually, his gaze wandering past the older man as if he didn’t quite know where he was.
“Oliver.” Lord Lawson eyed him with thinly disguised disgust. “I haven’t seen you about for weeks. Been out of town?”
“Have I?” Oliver blinked. “I don’t think so, Lawson, but you might be right. The days seem to blur into each other. Sometimes I sleep right through them—saves confusion.”
Lawson smiled, but there was no humor in it. Oliver knew the other man thought him a wastrel and a nuisance—someone going from bad to worse through his own lack of backbone. Lawson was a great believer in backbone, according to Anthony.
“Your aunt, Lady Marsh, must despair of you, Oliver. Hasn’t she tried to talk you ’round? You are her heir, aren’t you?”
“My aunt is a most forbearing woman.”
“She must be.”
Oliver gave him another vacant and unthreatening smile. Lawson shifted impatiently, his gaze also skimming the room, or perhaps he was just checking to see who was within earshot and whether their presence mattered to him. He waited until a waiter circled them with a steaming plate.
“I believe you are selling Candlewood, Oliver.”
“That’s right. It’s a monstrosity, always was, and it’s falling down.”
Lawson frowned. “Your brother was very fond of that house.”
“Yes. He died in it.”