He cleared his throat. “Your Grace, I am confident of the political equation. I’ll bolster up the borough votes first—they’ve been with me all along and will fall in line as soon as they see your support is assured. The Midland shires will benefit from the waterway and will therefore succumb to political pressure—it’s an election year and constituents will not take kindly to a vote against their interests. If Lord and Lady Spence can bring us back the evangelicals, we can make up the numbers. But it will take incentive.”
“What incentive?” Westmead asked. “It’s too late to rewrite the bill.”
“Not political incentive,” Constance said, meeting Apthorp’s eye with an approving nod, like she could read his mind. “Social incentive.”
He was impressed that she caught his meaning so easily. Once again he felt a pang of pleasure at being her ally. And an equal measure of loathing for enjoying it so much, given how poorly it reflected on his dignity. He needed to do a better job of remembering this was all pretend.
“Dare I ask what you have in mind?” Westmead drawled.
“An engagement ball, of course,” Constance said. “An evening so unforgettable that the entire city will live in fear of missing it. An invitation people will do whatever they must to secure.”
“Exactly,” Apthorp said. “We’ll host the ball the day after the vote and make it understood that anyone who does not count themselves among our allies will be unwelcome.”
Westmead looked at the two of them with an expression that bespoke either dyspepsia or grudging admiration. “You,” he said to his sister, “are a terror. And you,” he said to Apthorp, “should not encourage her.”
“I assume that means we have your support, Your Grace?” Apthorp asked.
“I will do what I can. But that still leaves the matter of this unpleasant chatter. We will need to uncover whoever is behind the rumors. Constance, excuse us. I need to speak to Apthorp privately.”
There was nothing Constance loathed more than being dismissed from a room so that a pair of men who lacked a fraction of the gifts she had for shaping public opinion could attempt to discuss the flow of news in private.
“I think I’ll stay,” she said. “Whatever you wish to discuss with Apthorp you can say in front of me. We’re to be married after all.”
Her brother gave her the driest stare imaginable, a look with all the humidity of a particularly arid day in the Sahara. “Go.”
“No,” she parried with equal precision.
“I’d prefer she stay,” Apthorp said, surprising her. “I have no secrets from my future wife, and even if I did, I would think it safe to venture she has as firm a grasp on London hearsay as the most committed journalist on Grub Street.”
She rewarded her dear, clever pretend beloved with a fond smile. “Thank you. It is so kind of you to notice my accomplishments.”
She returned her attention to her brother. “It is clear to Julian and I that the rumors were planted by a political enemy,” she said, before Archer could mount an argument. “I shall very discreetly make inquiries to see who might have ties to Saints & Satyrs and reason to oppose the waterways.”
Her poem could not have found its way to Henry Evesham’s circular by accident, after all. Nor, she suspected, had the rumors found their way to her by accident. Someone had told her about Apthorp’s nocturnal predilections deliberately, to use her. And she hated being used without gaining something in return.
“Is everything all right?” Hilary asked, startling all three of them by appearing in the door with Poppy at her side. “We heard quite a lot of shouting.”
“And what sounded rather like someone being thrown into a wall,” Poppy added, narrowing her eyes at her husband.
Constance remembered she was meant to be in the throes of infatuation and rose to her feet. “Everything is wonderful! Archer has given us his blessing. Julian and I will be married as soon as the season is over.”
“My darlings, what exciting news!” Hilary cried, rushing forward to draw Constance into a hug.
Constance made a show of twirling around in raptures, nearly knocking an ancient suit of Rosecroft armor over with her skirts. “I’m going to plan a ball to celebrate the engagement. It must be the most spectacular one yet. Poppy, will you help me with the flowers? I think lilies. Thousands of them.”
Poppy winced. “Lilies are quite heady. Thousands might cause your guests to suffocate.”
“Nonsense. And of course I will need entertainment. Perhaps I’ll hire the opera dancers again.”
“Please, not the opera dancers,” Hilary said weakly. “Anything but those opera dancers.”
Apthorp turned to her with a fond, shy smile, perfectly in pitch. “My bride shall have opera dancers if she wishes. Anything her heart desires.” He was proving a better actor than she’d thought.
Hilary smiled at him. “The spirit of a happy marriage if ever I heard it, cousin. Will you join Rosecroft for a brandy? He’s taking it on the terrace, given the warm night.”
“No, I must take my leave,” Apthorp said. “I need to write to my mother to inform her of the happy news. Thank you all for your kindness. I am humbled by your forgiveness.”
“I hope you will be very happy,” Hilary said.
“I have every confidence we shall,” Apthorp said, looking at Constance with a gaze that was warm enough to make beads of sweat bloom along the back of her neck.
Hilary shot Poppy a look, as if to say I told you so.
“I’ll see you out,” Constance said, offering Apthorp her arm.
“That went well,” she whispered as he led her toward the entry hall. She used the pretext of lowering her voice to draw even closer to him, because she was enjoying the newfound pleasure of brushing up against his side.
“Did it?” he sighed absently. She glanced up and his face was utterly devoid of the serene joy he’d displayed moments before. He looked depleted.
“Are you quite all right?” she asked.
He paused, massaging the stretch of skin around his temple. “I must say, I do not love the feeling of lying to my family, or to yours.”
The darkness of his tone should not have knocked the air out of her, but it did anyway.
Because she was being thick. He was not happy about what had just occurred. He had, of course, been pretending. And she had let herself get swept up in his fond smiles and sentimental speeches and his ardor in the closet, forgetting she’d written the script herself.
“It is unpleasant,” she said quickly. “But it’s necessary.”
“Yes,” he said in that weary voice, looking rather hollow about the eyes. “It is.”
“Well.” She straightened her spine, hoping to seem unreduced, even if she suddenly felt wilted. “Good evening.”
He nodded and walked out the door into the night.
And she, fool that she was, could not help but admire how elegantly the line of his coat fell as he descended the stairs to the street.
Chapter 6
“Good evening, my lord,” Winston, the Rosecrofts’ butler said when Apthorp returned the following day to join the party headed to the opera. “Lady Constance awaits you in the orangery.”