Grace looked across the room at Lucien, and wondered who, save Arkwright, had been loyal to him.
“In the past, Everdene’s vote could always be counted to do whatever was necessary to maintain order in the kingdom. Why, the rabble feared him as much as his father. It will be so again. We must put an end to this upheaval the Chartists and Irish scum are stirring up or there will be revolution here as there is in France.”
“As I understand it,” Grace observed, “the Chartists wish to have some say in parliament, a vote regarding labor conditions, and the Irish food for their children. It hardly seems unreasonable to consider?—”
“They should be grateful to be employed.” Pinchbeck made a scoffing sound. “As for the Irish, what would you have us do? Fling open the doors of the granaries?I say, let them work harder if they want their bread. Labor dictating working conditions? Of all the nonsensical ideas.”
“I would very much like to see the conditions myself,” Grace said, maneuvering the conversation as her mother might have done. “Perhaps you would give me a tour of your factory, Lord Pinchbeck?”
She disliked the nasty flicker in his eyes.
“I am sure my partner, Mr. Freyne, would be happy to meet with you and tell you anything you wish to know.”
Alice caught her breath and Grace felt Arkwright stiffen. She laid a hand on his arm.
No doubt, Pinchbeck meant to silence her by mentioning Neville’s name, but Grace was not so easily cowed. “I prefer to see conditions for myself,” she said. “You attempted to enlist my husband as an investor in your business ventures, and I imagine that process must be a trifle like courtship. You are unlikely to point out flaws.”
“My dear Lady Everdene,” he replied. “You do make one wonder at the comparison to courtship considering the fact that you are so lately wed. What flaws you may have hidden?—”
“Flaws?” Lucien, his eyes glinting steel, appeared out of nowhere. “My wife has no flaws save extending politeness to some who do not deserve it.”
Poor Alice took a step back. Her father guffawed. “Ah, Everdene, here is the happy groom at last! A bit of teasing is allowed in addressing a new bride, is it not? I was merely suggesting that a married man has a different perspective from a bachelor’s. When one has a wife, and the prospect of being blessed with children, civil unrest is doubly upsetting. Take your father for example. He knew how to protect his own. Send in the hussars and be done with it, like we did in Manchester in ’nineteen.”
“Suchcourage!” Grace said, wondering if Pinchbeck was even clever enough to note her sarcasm. Peterloo, the papers had called it, the carnage named after the battle of Waterloo.Sixty thousand English men, women and children had gathered to hear speeches about bettering their working conditions and gaining the vote…“As I understand it, all was completely peaceful until hussars charged into the panicked crowd with their sabers swinging,” Grace observed. “You must be so proud.”
“We are charged with keeping the peace,” Pinchbeck retorted. “Protecting the Crown and the interests of propertied men. The common herd will not be satisfied until they’re suckling at the Queen’s own teat.”
Lady Alice gasped, and her mother nearly choked herself, clutching the opals at her throat.
“I think,” Arkwright said, his jovial aura holding an edge, “that Prince Albert might object at such liberties.”
Pinchbeck rounded on him. “You know what I mean! This is what comes of nonsense like that village Everdene’s brother built. Coddling the rabble just makes them more discontented with their lot in life. Surely you don’t expectall landlords to empty their coffers like Harcourt did?”
Lady Downe approached the group with the instinctive skill of a hostess sensing trouble, but even her presence didn’t dissuade him from continuing to spout his point of view. “I’d wager, should you ask Everdene how his investment is doing now, he’d tell a different story.”
“Come, come Lord Pinchbeck,” Lady Downe said. “You must not plague our newlyweds with disagreeable subjects on their honeymoon. This is a time of celebration.”
“Indeed it is,” Lucien said, curving an arm about Grace’s waist, his expression unreadable as he addressed their hostess. “Your ladyship, perhaps you can persuade someone to play the piano forte. I feel the irrepressible need to dance with my bride.”
Lady Downe beamed. “Of course! You must lead the first waltz!” She bustled off in search of a musical guest.
Grace still simmered with outrage as Lucien guided her to the center of the floor. He swept her into his arms as the first notes rang out, cutting the tension that swirled in the air. He danced divinely, with athletic grace, his hand splayed on her back.
At the next turn, he pulled her just a little too close. “I think you made quite an impression tonight, Lady Everdene. Your mother’s tutelage was on fine display.”
“Sadly, she neglected to advise me in one particular area.”
“And what was that?”
“What to do when I want to fling ratafia in some pompous wretch’s face.”
Lucien’s brows rose. A grin spread across his handsome face, then he laughed. The rich, rare sound rang out across the room, guests craning their necks to stare, voices trailing off mid-conversation.
Grace couldn’t help herself. She laughed with him until tears stung her eyes.
“You are quite beautiful, you know,” he said, an unexpected tenderness softening his severe features. “And most convincing in your arguments. Perhaps it is easier to swallow a bitter truth if it is spoken by a beautiful woman.”
“I meant what I said about going to see the conditions in Pinchbeck’s factory. After all, he asked you to invest.”
