The Governess Club: Sara

Jacob grimaced again. “I apologize, Sara, but with this development, I cannot spare the time.”

Sara nodded. “I understand. I am certain George will be willing to escort me. He is always keen to help me with the flower arrangements.”

His brows lowered. “George, the groom?” Disapproval laced his tone.

Sara looked at him, censure in her eyes. “George is from a home like those we will visit, Jacob,” she said quietly. “I highly doubt he will be judged.”

A throat cleared and Jacob turned his head to look at Mr. Clarke. “Pardon me, sir, but we must not delay.”

Jacob sighed and looked back at Sara. “Very well. But I will speak to George before you leave.”

She shook her head. “Thank you for your concern, but that is not necessary. He escorts me every Saturday and is more than capable of doing this.”

Jacob gave her a long, silent look before sighing again. “Simply promise me that you will not do anything you wouldn’t do with Mr. Pomeroy there. Nothing to risk your safety.”

Sara smiled, touched by his concern. “A few souls in need of charity and loving kindness are hardly a risk. I shall be fine with George. What can happen in Taft?”

. . . although we lost this vote, your help in campaigning against it was noted by the high and mighty bigwigs. I was astounded to hear of your sudden departure from London—without a word to me, I might add. Rumors abound at Westminster as to the reasons and I find myself at a loss to explain it away; why you would ever want to leave is beyond me. At the very least invite me out to your idyllic retreat—I can ask a few of our favorites from the theatre to accompany me and we’ll give their performances a standing ovation, pun intended.

Bloody hell, mate, where the devil are you? Sending your post through your man is bad form.

Stevenson.

Nathan stared at the words again; despite their current blurriness, he knew exactly what it said, for it was at least the tenth time he had read it. He reached for the decanter and poured the last drops of the brandy into his tumbler, wondering why he was even still bothering with the glass; the spirit no longer burned when it passed his gullet.

They had lost the vote.

It hadn’t been a hugely significant bill, just some amendment to a current law, adjusting it in favor of landowners. In truth, he had not given it much thought beyond voting the party line and would not have given it more notice beyond that if had not been for Lord Finchley.

Nathan crumpled the well-read letter and threw it toward the hearth, missing it altogether in a show of pathetic athleticism. Pulling himself out of the deep, overstuffed chair, he stumbled over to the library’s liquor cabinet and pulled out another bottle of brandy. Clasping it by the neck, he went back to his chair, walking into the sofa and side table as he did so.

He slumped into his chair, holding the bottle to his chest. He had been having a rather pleasant day before that blasted letter arrived. Sawyer had managed to not burn his eggs and toast this morning. Nathan had followed that with a walk into Taft, intending to fetch his post and lunch again at the pub; he had even taken the path through that forest maze and not gotten lost. The only thing that could have improved his morning was running into his Nymph again.

But the letter had arrived. And he skipped lunch to return to Windent Hall immediately, the folded paper burning his pocket the entire way.

They had lost the vote and Stevenson’s words brought back the very memory he was trying to forget.

Finchley’s visit had been expected; the man was known for persuading votes out of men, much as Nathan had been. The portly, middle-aged man came to Nathan’s home, which was unusual but not unheard of, a woman on his arm. His wife. They had spoken of the vote, traded the expected subtle and not-so-subtle barbs and discussed the price of Nathan’s political loyalty.

Nathan pulled the cork out of the bottle and drank from it, desperate to wash away the memory. Bribes were common enough in the halls of Westminster; he had paid them himself. Money, a horse, a house—men always had a price.

But when Nathan had refused any bribe, Finchley had indicated his young wife, pushing her forward toward him. A sennight he wouldn’t ever forget, the man promised, nights where he would experience the most exquisite ecstasy. All he had to do was deliver his vote and those of others. The wife had looked at him with dead eyes, giving him the impression that she was used to being a bargaining chip.