Page 8 of Rival to Resist
“Forgive me, my lady,” Oswald said, his eyes trained on Mr. Yorke, “but I suspect I know the reason for Mr. Yorke’s appearance here at this auspicious moment.”
Caroline stared at her friend for a moment as his meaning took shape. There was only one thing hecouldmean.
She looked at Mr. Yorke, trusting he would dispel Oswald’s suspicions.
Mr. Yorke looked between them for a moment, a hint of discomfort in his expression. “With news of Lord Westvale’s death so fresh, I hardly think this the proper moment?—”
“Lord Westvale’s death happened many days ago,” Caroline said, her voice light, though her gaze was not. “That is what it means to live in Cornwall, sir—the only news is old news. Pray, tell us what has brought you to our small, obscure borough at this precise time.”
Mr. Yorke regarded her a moment. “Very well. While I certainly had no notion Lord Westvale would succumb to his illness at this particular moment?—”
“Several days since,” Caroline amended, feeling her blood begin to simmer.
“—I came to Trelowen with the intention of putting myself forward as the most suitable candidate to replace Mr. Brightmoor in representing this borough in the House of Commons.”
The silence crackled, and Caroline’s quickened pulse steadied as though the simmering blood in her veins had been injected with water from the cold stream next to Trevenna.
This gentleman thought he could waltz into Trelowen—a borough to which he had no connection whatsoever—and use it to his political and personal advantage. He had even brought a gift for the people he thought the key to his plan—people he knew nothing of.
All the charm Caroline had found in him disintegrated like sea foam on the sand. Perhaps it was anger—or perchance a sense of betrayal—that pushed her to do what she did next.
“And you brought a gift in pursuit of that goal.” Caroline reached for the small wooden box on the floor before Mr. Yorke could prevent her. “How very thoughtful.”
Mr. Yorke’s hand shot out, his mouth open but wordless.After a moment, he let it drop, as though accepting his fate. In fact, a hint of resigned humor crept in his eyes as he put out his other hand, inviting her to open the box.
Caroline took out the first item. “Ah.” She lifted a snuff box, which bore a painting of a hunting scene. It looked as though it might have belonged to someone who had lived over a century ago. She lifted the lid, then sniffed and gave a cough.
“That was meant for…your husband,” Mr. Yorke said.
“Her husband has been gone these three years,” Oswald said.
“A woman can never have too many opportunities to smell like her grandfather.” Caroline closed the box and inspected the outdated design. “Or great grandfather.” No doubt Mr. Yorke had thought an old Cornish baron would not be sufficiently familiar with snuff box fashions to care.
“Let us see what else we have.” She set the snuff box aside and removed a piece of lace fabric, which she discovered to be a cap, much like the one her grandmother had worn. She put a hand to her mouth to stifle her smile. “Simply stunning. I shall keep it next to my spectacles and embroidery frame.”
She removed the last item—a small sachet full of elderflower lozenges. “For my declining constitution. These certainly complete the set. I am quite ready to transform into my Aunt Agatha.”
“Do you think it quite wise, your ladyship,” Oswald said in a low voice, “to be accepting gifts from unknown gentlemen?”
Caroline’s eyes fixed on Mr. Yorke’s. She had hoped to mortify him with the display of the gifts, but on the contrary, he seemed amused.
“When such great thought has gone into the gift,” Caroline said, “it would be a shame to reject it, I think.”
“May I count on your support, then, my lady?” Mr. Yorke asked.
She kept a smile on her face with sheer force of will. “I fear not, Mr. Yorke, for Trelowen already has itssuitable candidate, as you so aptly phrased it.”
His brows went up. “You do?”
Oswald took a step forward. “Ishall stand for election, Mr. Yorke. I am intimately familiar with the borough’s residents, affairs, and needs.”
“Intimately,” Mr. Yorke repeated, an eyebrow raised ever so slightly as his gaze flitted to Caroline.
Her pulse fluttered, and she was suddenly and keenly aware of just how near to her Oswald was standing.
“Well,” Mr. Yorke said, “I am certain we can all agree that Trelowen is best served when there is a choice between suitable candidates.”
“Forgive me,” Oswald said, “but I find it difficult to ascribe the wordsuitableto a man who was so unfamiliar with the borough he seeks to represent that he mistook its patron. If you were truly acquainted with Trelowen, sir, you would also realize that a candidate who does not carry Lady Radcliffe’s approval stands no chance at all of gaining the desired seat. Your time is better spent in other pursuits.”
