Page 17 of The Marquess of Secrets

Here we go.

“Doctor Samuel Kenward, we attended Cambridge together.”

“Indeed? I do not recall a family with the name of Kenward.”

Meaning amongst the aristocrats.

It was a struggle to keep his distaste from showing outwardly. “I do not doubt it.”

He bowed again, hoping to make his escape, but the detestable woman latched onto his arm.

“I was always of the opinion that the lower classes should know their place, even in these enlightened times.” She gave Harrison a cruel smile.

An insult. A direct hit on Sam.

God, he despised his own class.

Her husband, the viscount, cleared his throat and said, “Quite right.”

“‘Are there no prisons? Are there no workhouses?’ I am paraphrasing the author, Charles Dickens, in case you were not aware,” Harrison replied in a curt tone.

A woman standing next to the countess tsked. “That reprehensible man. His scandalous stories have ruined modern literature. Subversive claptrap.”

“While his books are compelling,” Harrison stated, ignoring the comment, “It is the moral lessons in his tales that resonate. He championed reform with regard to economic and social issues. I admired him for it.”

“If Dickens had his way, there would be no lines between the classes. The very fabric of English life would unravel,” the viscount retorted.

Well, he would not find any contributors to his charity clinic in this arrogant crowd. Blasted snobs.

“I agree with the late author,” Harrison intoned. “There is a need for further reform, and it is up to us, the wealthy and privileged, to lead by example and exhibit a greater understanding and humanitarianism toward the disadvantaged and vulnerable.”

A few people standing nearby shifted uncomfortably at his statement. The rich did not like to be reminded that outside of these gilded walls, people suffered and struggled with life.

“Oh, come now, my lord,” Lady Roland said. “There are lines between the classes for a reason. For example, allowing them into a social event such as this will spread filth and disease. Of course, I am not speaking of your Cambridge companion.”

Again, the countess gave him a smirk befitting a loathsome character in a Dickens novel. “Also, one should not marry into the lower classes either, weakens the blood. Tarnishes the line. Do you not agree, my dear marquess?”

A slam toward his brothers. His entire family.

Harrison’s anger flared, and by the startled and fearful reaction of Miss Westbank, his face must look thunderous.

“I welcome and approve of my brothers’ choices of a bride, as do my parents, the Duke and Duchess of Gransford. It seems to me many bloodlines amongst the peers have been overbred, producing frail simpletons with aggressive tendencies. But then, I am not speaking of anyone here.” Harrison brushed off Lady Roland’s hand and bowed. “If you will excuse me.”

He turned on his heel and marched away, with Lady Roland’s words, “How dare he?” hanging in the air.

Enough of this dog and pony show.

With a quick visual sweep of the ballroom, he located Sam talking to a young woman on the opposite side of the room.

This event, with its stifling heat and even more stifling company, had lost all interest for him.

His gaze fell upon Lord Shaftesbury sitting in an overstuffed chair. Good lord, the man was in his eighties; why venture out?

The earl was a particular hero of Harrison’s, a reformist and a true progressive. Throughout the past decades, the earl oversaw child labor, factory reform, as well as education. He should leave the man in peace, but Harrison refused to leave this miserable ball without speaking to at least one peer of worth.

“Good evening, my lord. Harrison Hornsby, Marquess of Tennington. Do you mind if I sit?”

The earl peered over the top of his spectacles. “Gransford’s heir? Take a seat, my lad. I have great respect for your father and his good works. We need more like him in the House of Lords. I must say I am pleased you follow in his footsteps. I quite enjoyed your grand speech on medical reform last autumn. Well done.”