Page 20 of Touched By a Traitor
Andrew’s eyes met Charlotte’s across the chamber. In that moment, their personal drama fell away. This was about something larger than both of them.
The vote, when it came, was crushing but not surprising. Andrew watched the numbers mount, each raised hand another nail in progress’s coffin. Lord Alford would step down immediately, and with him would go Charlotte’s strongest ally.
As Alford departed with quiet dignity, an uneasy silence settled over the chamber. Andrew felt it pressing down on his shoulders.
Lord Conrad broke the stillness, his victory making him bold. “Gentlemen, we must address the matter of appointing a new Master. Our reputation hangs by a thread.”
Andrew’s fingers tightened against his chair arm. The old snake wasn’t even trying to mask his triumph.
Lord Grady’s reedy voice cut through the chamber: “What of Dean Wilson from Cambridge Law? He’s been most vocal about preserving our traditions.”
Andrew’s stomach lurched as approval rippled through the room. Wilson. The same man who’d recently invested in his shipping company after circling like a vulture, whose eyes held calculated hunger when he’d first seen Charlotte six years ago. His appointment would be an executioner’s axe hanging over her career.
“Gentlemen,” Chatham spoke, “while Dean Wilson’s traditionalism is noteworthy, consider the broader view. The legal world watches us. We need leadership that can balance tradition with inevitable change.”
Lord Conrad’s gaze stabbed toward the duke. “And who would you suggest, Your Grace? Someone more sympathetic to your dalliance with Miss Morton?”
Andrew felt an unexpected surge of fury. How dare they reduce Charlotte’s achievements to a mere dalliance? But before he could speak, the Duke of Chatham’s voice cut through the chamber like a blade.
“Your mental faculties appear to be deteriorating as rapidly as your manners, Lord Conrad,” the duke’s tone could have frozen hell itself. “I trust you meant to say ‘alliance’—unless you’re suggesting impropriety, in which case I’d be delighted to discuss your insinuations privately. My cousin the king has always been most interested in matters of honor among his subjects.”
The threat hung in the air like a sword. Andrew watched Conrad’s face drain of color as the duke continued with silky menace.
“As for my suggestion, perhaps we need someone with the intellect to recognize merit regardless of its packaging—a quality that seems increasingly rare in this chamber. But pray, don’t let wisdom trouble your aged sensibilities.”
Andrew found himself both impressed and irritated by Chatham’s ruthless deployment of his royal connections. The man wielded his privilege like a weapon—birthright and royal connections deployed with surgical precision—while Andrew sat paralyzed by his own conflicted interests. Chatham fought with the very advantages Andrew had never possessed: noble blood, family influence, the casual arrogance of those born to power. Andrew had clawed his way up from the docks through wit and ruthlessness, but here, watching another man defend Charlotte with weapons Andrew could never wield, his self-made fortune felt like fool’s gold.
But even the duke’s formidable influence meant little to men fearing for their way of life. Wilson’s momentum grew like a gathering storm. Andrew watched faces turn one by one, seeing not just Charlotte’s future dimming, but something larger—the death of possibility itself. Chatham had fought magnificently for her, using every weapon at his disposal, while Andrew had offered nothing but hollow procedural arguments.
When Lord Conrad called the vote, the “ayes” thundered through the chamber. In his mind, Andrew’s silence felt louder than any protest he could have voiced. He watched triumph etch itself into Conrad’s ancient face while Chatham’s jaw tightened with barely contained rage.
As the meeting dissolved into self-congratulatory murmurs, Andrew remained seated, his world tilting on its axis. This wasn’t just about Charlotte anymore, or his confused feelingsfor her, or his resentment of the duke’s bold advocacy. This was about justice itself—merit versus privilege, progress versus comfortable tradition.
Charlotte appeared at his side, her voice pitched low but sharp enough to cut glass. “How fascinating to witness such passionate advocacy, Lord Carlisle. Your evasion of mentioning my name was positively thunderous.”
Andrew’s head snapped up to meet her gaze—cool, assessing, disappointed.
“One might almost think,” she continued with devastating politeness, “that you were weighing your principles against your portfolio. How fortunate that your investments emerged victorious. I do hope you look back on this day fondly.”
Andrew rose slowly, his jaw working as he struggled between justification and shame.
“You don’t understand—”
“Oh, but I do,” Charlotte interrupted softly. “I understand perfectly. The question is: do you?”
Protector
27 October 1836—London
Andrew watched asDavid clicked his tongue disapprovingly at the coarse jacket Andrew had chosen for his dock work. The garment was an affront to everything the valet held sacred in men’s fashion.
The rough wool hung shapeless on his master’s frame, while the trousers did nothing to flatter his lordship’s physique. Even the scuffed boots seemed to personally offend David’s refined sensibilities.
“This attire, my lord, does you a grave disservice. It renders you rather… drab,” David pronounced the last word as if it tasted bitter.
Andrew’s brow creased. “Drab? I cannot imagine a greater insult from your lips, David.”
The valet’s expression pinched with exasperation. “Why persist in wearing such garments, my lord?”
