The aristocrats being addressed listened without interrupting. Was that because Philip and Rothcomb-Smedley had spoken rationally and with courtesy?
"The proposed tax will increase the present rate by just ten percent," Philip said. "I understand for those of us with extensive properties, a ten percent reduction of income is a great deal of money, but it takes vast amounts to man and equip a competitive navy and an army large enough to defeat the enemy on all fronts. We cannot be
as good as,
we must be
better than
."
"We have not the advantage of the French who are beefing up their ranks with soldiers from lands they've conquered," Rothcomb-Smedley added, bracing his palms on the long table Knolles headed, his intense gaze circling around those gathered. "And I give you my word that once we've won this bloody war, we will restore the tax rate to its current level."
"We will be victorious," Philip said, his voice firm.
The Lord Chancellor addressed Rothcomb-Smedley. "What is the sentiment in the House of Commons toward the tax bill?"
"It's too close to call."
"You must admit, the members in the House of Commons do not have as much to lose as those of us in the House of Lords," Lord Clapington said.
Philip stood tall, his expression serious, his eyes cold as they connected with each man there. "I should not have to remind you," Philip said, his voice deliberate, his eyes cold, "that our personal losses and gains should never motivate a member of the House of Lords. One concern and one concern only—what is best for Britain—should guide all our decisions."
"He sounds like a bloody Benthamite!" Lord Highsmith snapped.
"He's no more a Benthamite than he's a Tory or a Whig," Rothcomb-Smedley defended.
Lord Knolles' brows lowered. "Where, may I ask, your grace, is Lord Haverstock? Why did he not accompany you two here? I'm curious to see how he stands on the matter of increasing taxes."
"Yes," Lord Highsmith added, "We all appreciate the many contributions Haverstock has made to our country. Why does he not support your extravagant scheme?"
"My cousin does not make up his mind until he's apprised of all the facts," Rothcomb-Smedley said.
"But," Philip said, "my brother-in-law is presently studying it."
Highsmith regarded Philip with antagonism sparking in his mossy eyes, a sneer upon his lips. "Our chamber was better off when the Duke of Aldridge was making his way through Italy in the beds of married women."
Anger surged within Philip. He wanted to call the man out. The two men faced one another, the sharp opposition between them as palpable as a sword. How he wanted to throw down the gauntlet and take his satisfaction on Highsmith's body. But nothing could be gained by such an action, and much could be lost. His responsibilities had to take precedence over personal affront.
Rothcomb-Smedley whirled at Highsmith. "That was a bloody ungentlemanly thing to say!"
"He's right, Highsmith," the Lord Chancellor said in a calm voice. "I must ask that you beg his grace's pardon."
Philip's black eyes locked with Highsmith's smoldering gaze. The other man swallowed, then in a weak voice said, "Forgive me, your grace. My comments were unpardonable."
A firm nod in Highsmith's direction was Philip's only response.
Then he nodded to Lord Knolles, gratified that the Lord Chancellor would conduct himself nobly. Because of that, Philip knew there was hope, hope that he could change the silver-headed leader's opposition to the tax increase.
* * *
He had stayed at White's only long enough to lay the foundation for his war against opponents to the tax measure. Just as the war with France had not begun in a single day, its end would take time. Philip was prepared to wear down his opponents' resistance. He was prepared to hammer at their resistance day in and day out until he wore them down. He was prepared to compliment, mollify, and even bribe every last one of them to achieve his aim. He was even prepared to do something he'd never before done. He was prepared to humble himself.
It had been a tiring day, a tiring week. He had looked forward to this family night tonight. It was deuced good to see Clair again. Even if she spent no more time on her appearance than a scullery maid.
He hoped his wife was not asleep when he returned. It was good to have someone to tell about his ideals and others' resistance to those ideals. It was good to be wed to someone who was possessed of the same quest for noble purpose as he.
Neither Philip nor Elizabeth had entered this marriage with a commitment to love one another. He had certainly grown to admire her, even to crave being with her.
Especially in bed, he thought a little breathlessly.
After dropping off Rothcomb-Smedley, Philip's coach drew up in front of his house on Berkeley Square as he disembarked, his gaze lifting to Elizabeth's windows. His spirits buoyed when he saw light filling the tall casements. She had waited up for him.
When he entered her bedchamber a moment later, she smiled. "Allow me to get you a glass of brandy, dearest, and then you must tell me all about your night."
After they settled back on her settee near the fire, he told her why he had felt compelled to leave Haverstock House immediately after dinner, told her of the confrontation with the aging lords. "Rothcomb-Smedley was a rock. I think we shall work well together."
He took his wife's hand and nibbled upon the flesh between her thumb and index finger. "You forgive me for leaving?"
"You and I have always insisted that duty comes first."
"It seems I've my own Lady Wickshire."
"Indeed you do. Now, dearest, I have something to ask of you."
He continued nibbling at her hand, his brows hiked. "What, love?"
"I have been bursting to tell you of my scheme, which only came to me today and which Richie has already agreed to champion in the House of Commons."
Just when he was beginning to see that damned cousin of hers in a more agreeable light, Philip was reminded of the man's annoying closeness to his wife. "I shall be offended."
Her lovely pale brown brows lowered. "Why?"
"You've chosen to inform your cousin of your scheme before you told your husband. I daresay Lady Wickshire would never have done something like that." He strove for levity, but there was nothing humorous about the painful truth of his words.
"I beg your forgiveness that I've not conducted myself as would Lady Wickshire." Playfulness rang in her voice. "You must believe me when I tell you the only reason Richie was the first to hear of my scheme was because it only popped into my head as we were riding in the park."
"What is this scheme which has my duchess so excited?" He tipped his glass and took a long swig.
"I implore you to champion legislation that would provide a nice pension for the widows of soldiers who died for our country."
He nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I can see why Rothcomb-Smedley would favor such a plan. It's appalling that something like this hasn't been done before."
Her pale eyes shimmered with delight. "Then you will help in this endeavor?"
He sighed. "How can I not? The pity of it is that those opposed to any hike in taxes will brand me as a spendthrift with others' money. Their faulty logic will not take into account that as the third-largest land owner in Great Britain, I pay more taxes than any of the men who serve with me in Parliament."
"I know, love."
"I can see I'm going to have to start twisting arms."
"Oh, Lord Wickshire, you've made your lady most proud!"
He chuckled. Seeing her milky exposed shoulders shiver, he tenderly draped her Kashmir shawl around her more tightly.
"Did anything interesting occur after your cousin and I left?" he asked.
"The wind went out of our sails once you left our little gathering."
"It was beastly good to see Clair, but can you not do something about her appearance? I am incapable of knowing the slightest thing about ladies' fashions, but I do know her hair is not at all the thing. She could look a great deal better with just a bit of effort put into it."
His wife nodded. "I have told her nothing can keep us from going to the dressmaker's tomorrow. And you are right about her hair. A woman needs a bit of fluff about her face in order to distinguish her from males."
"That's it! She pulls her hair tightly back into that dull bun. By God, you've hit the nail upon the head! Her lackadaisical disregard for appearance has the effect of making her look like a lad!"
She didn't really look like a male. A dainty slenderness characterized her, and her voice was utterly feminine. "I shall do my best to try to talk her into getting that straight hair of hers shorn. That is the latest fashion rage."
"Yes, I find that look most becoming in a young woman." His voice lowered, and he moved closer to speak in a husky whisper. "But not as becoming as pale gold hair artfully swept away from a lovely face." His fingers sifted through his wife's golden curls. "Tell me what occurred with Trent Square today."
"We now have located all but one family—which is a very good thing since there is but one bedchamber unclaimed."
"And the footman I selected? Do you think he can repel would-be cutthroats?"
"But of course. Abraham is ever so tall and appears excessively strong. Then there's that menacing sword you insisted he strap on." She lovingly peered up at him and spoke softly. "It was very thoughtful of you, and I will own I do feel safer now when we are crisscrossing the more unsavory neighborhoods."
She gazed into the fire. "Caroline has really taken Trent Square to heart and has collected donations from half the families she knows to buy additional beds and coal."
"I am surprised something besides Almack's holds her attention."
"You will be very proud of her. She says, 'Every child should have his own bed.'"
His brows lowered. "Is it actually possible to crowd a half a dozen beds into a single bedchamber?"
She shrugged. "Some of them are small. Child-sized. I will own, there is very little room to move around once a chamber fills with all those beds, but there are many common areas in the house for them to gather for activities."
"Like Clair's school?"
"Yes. Oh, Caroline, bless her soul, bought a pianoforte for Trent Square, and Margaret has volunteered to begin instructing the children on the instrument. You cannot believe how popular such an activity is! The children are fighting over who gets to sit upon the bench with Lady Margaret."
"I'm proud of all of you."
"We are grateful to you for giving us the house."
He drew her to him and murmured. "Everything I have is yours, Elizabeth."
"We are as one," she whispered.
His lips greedily lowered to hers.
* * *
On Thursday night Philip and his wife dined at Holland House in Kensington. He'd been hearing about these gatherings for years but was still unprepared for the vast scale of these dinners. This night, he counted thirty-eight at the long, seemingly never-ending table. Males considerably outnumbered females, and to his dissatisfaction, it was Rothcomb-Smedley who was seated next to
his
wife—on the opposite end of the table from him.
Though he would have preferred to have Elizabeth close, he was pleased that she hadn't been cast into a sea of strangers—the fear of which she had revealed earlier that night during their coach ride there. By nature, Elizabeth had difficulty putting herself forward in these kinds of situations. Not like him. Perhaps because he had held the rank of duke since he was a fairly young man, he was accustomed to the ease with which others deferred to him in matters ranging from food preferences to comments about the magnificence of Glenmont Hall, which it seemed everyone had seen during its public days.
He supposed he should be honored that he was seated next to their hostess, but the didactic woman was excessively annoying. As the only child of an exceedingly wealthy sugar planter, she had been raised with the expectation that she could secure anything her heart desired, whether it be a piece of property or dissolving one marriage in order to embark on another with the young man she had fallen passionately in love with. That young man she had so adored now submitted to her every command.
Philip would have preferred to sit next to jolly Lord Holland, who at present was talking to Elizabeth, who as the highest ranking woman at the table, sat beside their host. Philip's chief aim in coming to this dinner was to begin laying the foundations for approval of the tax bill. Lord Knolles was not there, nor were any of the men who had been at White's the previous night. But there were other men whose support he sought.
One of them, Lord Herkness, was seated across the table from him. "I had an interesting conversation about the tax bill last night at White's with some of our colleagues," Philip began.
"Indeed?" Herkness said.
"I have made no secret that I support the increase," Philip said.
Lord Herkness raised a brow. "And our Lord Chancellor has made no secret that he opposes it."
"Napoleon keeps swelling his armies with the conquered. To prevail over them, we must come up with the money to equip a larger army and to purchase more ships to maintain our domination of the seas."
Lord Herkness made not a single comment.
Good lord, is he simply going to ignore me?
Then the silent man across from him nodded.
"Your grace," Lady Holland said to Philip, "I beg that you not discuss this wretched war at my table. You must know how tattered my emotions are over it. I cannot deny that I have been exceedingly close to Napoleon, and simply cannot bear to defeat the dear man. He gave me his portrait, you know. I must show it to you after dinner."
It was all Philip could do not to leap to his feet, curse the woman's traitorous words, and storm from this house. But Philip must remember his single priority: passage of the tax bill. Besides, if he had any hope of the bill being approved, he would need help from Lord Holland, who was easily one of the most popular men in Parliament. "In your home, my lady, I shall respect your wishes, but I cannot help but to lament that your personal feelings are in opposition to what's best for the country your husband so faithfully serves."