Page 13 of Romancing the Rifleman
Beside her, Thorpe was smiling genially.“I honestly don’t mind.”
From off to her left, Diana heard a titter.“She’s throwing him over,” a feminine voice whispered.
“Honestly,” another woman said, “who would want to dance withhim?”
Diana sighed.Unlike most of the men in the room, Thorpe was in trade, running the iron forge founded by his grandfather.The fact that he was absurdly rich and could have bought and sold almost every man in that room ten times over only made his “betters” resent him that much more.
Diana knew that Thorpe didn’t care.He had managed to marry Diana’s particular friend, Izzie, whom he had adored from afar for years.So long as he had Izzie’s regard, what anyone else thought of him was immaterial.
Nonetheless, Diana was unwilling to expose him to ridicule.Izzie had informed her husband how much Diana hated balls because she was besieged by fortune hunters at every turn.Thorpe made it a point to ask her to dance, and their set was always a welcome respite.
She therefore said in a voice that carried, “I should like nothing better than to dance with you, Mr.Nettlethorpe-Ogilvy.”
As she accepted his arm, she turned and met the eyes of the gossips.Jane Churchill and Charlotte Rawlings.Diana looked at them steadily, and Charlotte flinched.
Clever girl.Diana would deal with them both.
Later.
As she swept past Harrington Astley, she gave him a pointed look.She wanted to hear how his conversation with Lord Kinwood had gone.
He winked at her, and her heart tripped in her chest.
As she and Thorpe found their places in the set, Diana resolved that she would speak to Harrington Astley, one way or the other.
Chapter6
The following morning, Harrington rose at half six.
After staying out late at the ball, he’d only managed a scant four hours of rest.Nevertheless, he awoke at his customary time and was unable to fall asleep again.It appeared that the army had ruined him for a life of sloth.Well, no matter—he was expected down at the army’s central command, Horse Guards, in a few short hours, anyway.
A housemaid he passed in the hall recoiled in surprise as he came around the corner.And no wonder—it used to be a running joke in his family that he never rose before noon.
He was the first one down to breakfast.A footman poured him a cup of coffee and promised that his preferred meal, poached eggs and kippers, would be prepared at once.Harrington took a seat and reached for the morning paper.He supposed now that he was an M.P., he was going to have to start reading the damn thing.
After breakfast, he made the short ride to Horse Guards and presented himself at the front desk.The clerk rose and bowed.“Lieutenant Astley, thank you for coming so soon.If you will excuse me, I will let the secretary know you have arrived.”
He disappeared into the offices, leaving Harrington to wonder which secretary he would be meeting.Probably the assistant to some general or another.
The clerk returned moments later and led him upstairs to a well-appointed chamber with pale green walls and a large, circular desk in the center of the room.Harrington blanched because he recognized the balding, grey-haired man standing behind it—William Windham, the Secretary of State for War and the Colonies.
He accepted Mr.Windham’s proffered hand, resisting the impulse to tug at the stock around his neck, which suddenly felt unaccountably tight.What on earth had he done to draw the attention of the Secretary of State?
Mr.Windham gestured for him to take the solitary chair on the far side of the desk.The whole situation was reminiscent of the many times he’d been summoned before the headmaster at Eton.He tried to sit straight and still as he braced himself for what he assumed was going to be a dressing down.
“So, Lieutenant,” Mr.Windham began, “I was surprised to hear about your recent election to Parliament.”
Harrington bit back the words,not half as surprised as I was.
The Secretary of State continued, “May I ask why you did not inform your commanding officer that you were standing for office?”
“Oh, err…” Harrington grappled for a plausible excuse.“It seemed unlikely that I would win the election, considering I wasn’t around to canvass for votes.I did not wish to raise false hopes, sir.”
The Secretary of State regarded him for a beat, then nodded.“It happens that the timing of your return is fortuitous.”He placed his fingertips on some papers lying atop the desk and pushed them toward Harrington.“There are a pair of Acts coming up for a vote next week that I think will be of interest to you.”
Harrington accepted the stack of papers and read the words at the top of the page—Pensions to Soldiers Act.
He read in silence for around five minutes.After last night, he was wary, all too aware that people would be trying to trick him into supporting things he didn’t properly understand.
