Page 26 of Touched By a Traitor
Andrew paused, as if considering. “Perhaps. While I have no immediate plans to wed, I can see the potential for an advantageous union.”
The words tasted like ash, but they served their purpose. Wilson’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction, temporarily distracted from his machinations.
As they sat in loaded silence, Andrew reminded himself that this was just another business negotiation. But the hollow feeling in his chest suggested that this particular dance might cost him more than he was prepared to pay.
The Soiree
23 November 1836—London
David’s expression wasone of pure, unadulterated glee as he maneuvered around his master on his crutch, his keen eyes examining every detail of his sartorial handiwork. With a deft touch, he plucked an invisible fiber from Andrew’s shoulder, his fingers as delicate as a surgeon’s. Stepping back, he clapped his hands in unabashed admiration, his face alight with pride and satisfaction.
Andrew, however, was less than thrilled by the attention. “Are you quite satisfied?” he asked impatiently.
“You look absolutely marvelous, my lord,” David exclaimed.
“I shall have to take your word for it.” Andrew glanced down at his attire and a crease appeared between his brows. “David, is this large sapphire truly necessary?”
David merely waved a dismissive hand. “It might serve to soften your rough exterior, make you less… dour.”
Under the weight of Andrew’s withering gaze, David merely puckered his lips. “I did save your life, if you recall.”
Andrew rolled his eyes. “And I thought I had repaid that debt with a lifetime of friendship, wealth, your own personal tailor, and fabric shipped from the far corners of the world. I wasn’t aware I was also expected to dress for your amusement.”
But even as the words left his lips, Andrew felt a flicker of fondness for his impertinent valet. David had been by hisside through thick and thin, a constant source of support and companionship in a world that often felt cold and unforgiving.
“You did promise…” his valet said softly.
Andrew’s shoulders slumped. “Why are you in my employ again? Surely you have better things to do with your wealth?”
David’s face lit up with a smile that was equal parts adoration and mischief. “Nothing gives me more pleasure than to dress you, my lord. Your physique is a masterpiece. Oh, I do have a floral cravat—”
“No!” Andrew cut him off before David could suggest more embellishments, marching toward the door.
An hour later, Andrew disembarked from the carriage and strode into Lord Wilson’s recently acquired townhouse—a purchase made possible by profits from Andrew’s own company. The irony wasn’t lost on him. After handing his effects to the butler, he suppressed a frown at the parlor’s decor. The fabrics matched his waistcoat so perfectly he might blend into the furniture.
“Carlisle, you’re as pretty as a spring flower,” Rogers called out over the pianoforte.
“You’re not to my taste, Rogers,” Andrew said flatly.
“Indeed, you would make a fine nest for mama birds,” Wilson added, his laughter echoing.
Andrew growled, his patience thinning.
Collins interjected. “Shall we conduct business before supper? I’d prefer clear heads for our discussions.”
Andrew followed Wilson to his study with the other investors, accepting a measure of brandy before turning to face them with a steely gaze. “State your grievances, gentlemen. The no-nonsense version, if you please.”
Collins cleared his throat. “It’s straightforward, Carlisle. The Whigs tread carefully around the Tories since this Reform business. The Duke of Chatham sneaking a woman into the barhas already enraged them. If you hire her for legal services, you declare revolt against the Tories. We need their support for our port development.”
Andrew nodded. “Gentlemen, I agree on every point. However, I have family matters to consider. If I cannot locate a barrister to represent my sister, I may have no choice but to turn to Miss Morton.” He looked pointedly at Wilson. “Should you wish to assign a barrister to my sister’s case, I’d happily relinquish any professional association with the lady.”
Wilson shifted uncomfortably. “I’m afraid I cannot force anyone’s hand. Not with my tenure being only weeks old.”
Andrew knew he walked a delicate line, balancing business, family, and politics. Taking a deep swig of brandy, he met their gazes. “Very well. I have no intention of jeopardizing our gains, but I will not abandon my sister. However, there may be opportunity here—one that could make the Tories grateful.”
The men waited expectantly.
With a sigh, he muttered, “I shall become familiar with her first. Her work ethics, habits, methods.”
