Valor Under Siege (The Honorables) (25 page)

Though women were not permitted to cast a ballot, they were highly involved in Regency politics. Political hostesses like Elsa played a vital role. Their parlors served as neutral territory for political adversaries to hammer out a compromise. Debates spilled over from the floor of Parliament into their dining rooms. And, of course, their own influence could push a waffling Lord or MP into voting the way she—or her politician—wished.

Women actively engaged in canvassing. Female family members of candidates were expected to take part in winning votes for their menfolk. Though giving gifts to constituents strikes modern readers as dodgy—if not downright corrupt—Regency voters expected to be treated, and treated well, in exchange for their votes. A candidate might write a letter of recommendation to help the son of a voter get a desired post or hire the carpenter to fix the leaky roof on another voter's house. Complimentary food and drink were par for the course, both during the campaign and at the election itself. Most anything short of outright buying a vote was fair game. Kissing voters during canvassing, as Elsa does, was another accepted practice. In the home, the vote was regarded as held in common. Father might be the one casting it, but you'd better believe Mother (and probably the children, too) made her opinion known. Families held their own debates to settle which way their vote would be cast.

The actual election was a bit of a holiday for the whole town. As depicted here, there was often first a “vote of approbation,” in which everyone, registered voter or no, could cheer for their favored candidate. If there was a clear preference, the loser conceded defeat, and that was that. If, however, there was not an obvious winner, one of the candidates would request a polling of electors. At that time, the registered voters would make their way to the hustings, swear an oath of allegiance, and state their vote. No secret ballots here; your vote was public knowledge. Realistically, the polls would stay open for days, allowing voters to come cast their ballots at their convenience. For the sake of the story, I've shortened the voting period here to one day.

As ever, I have endeavored to present accurate information in this novel. There's bound to be an error or two, and while I take ownership of any such mistakes, I do beg your indulgence. I hope you've enjoyed learning a little about Regency politics as much as I did in writing
Valor Under Siege
. Please let me know what you think! I love hearing from you.

Best Wishes,

Elizabeth

I wish to thank Rose Lerner for the wonderful class on Regency-era elections, and other members of the Beau Monde who answered my many questions. Even the stupid ones.
Especially
the stupid ones.

As ever, thank you to my brilliant editorial team at Crimson Romance: Tara Gelsomino, Julie Sturgeon, and Brianne Bardusch. Thanks to the magical art fairies who have, once more, graced my work with a beautiful cover.

To Jason and my three stupendously magnificent children, thank you for your unflagging love and support. Your willingness to overlook my deadline-induced funk and gently point me to the shower is greatly appreciated. Michelle and Sarah, thank you for always being the cheering squad I need.

For my readers, my deepest gratitude for your continued enthusiasm and kind words. Your lovely letters and reviews mean so much. Thank you for spending time in my world, and for allowing me to be part of your day. I hope I can give you a smile when you need one most.

Finally, my compliments and abject apologies to The Honourable Society of Gray's Inn. Sorry for burning your hall. It was a really good party?

Elizabeth Boyce's first taste of writing glory was when she won a gift basket in the local newspaper's Mother's Day “Why My Mom is the Best” essay competition at age eight. From that moment, she knew she was destined for bigger and better gift baskets. With visions of hard salamis and tiny crackers dancing in her head, she has authored seven Regency novels and novellas, resulting, thus far, in two gift baskets from adoring fans (AKA amazing friends).

Elizabeth lives in South Carolina and shares her artisanal cheeses with her husband and three children. She sneaks some to the cat when no one else is looking.

August 1817, London

Lord Sheridan Zouche was having trouble with his linen. A thin, damp fog wreaked havoc with his cravat, to say nothing of the sorry state of his collar. Grimacing, he plucked at the wilting material.

“Devil take it,” he muttered. “Anyone know if Dewhurst carries a looking glass in his bag?” he called out. “On second thought, no. Perhaps it’s better if I don’t know how shabby I appear.”

“Where the hell do you think you are?” snapped the giant at his side. Norman Wynford-Scott jostled Sheri’s shoulder with an oversized paw. “For once in your life, would you be serious?”

Witnessing the normally unflappable man in a veritable lather did wonders for Sheri’s spirits. “Right you are,” he said, leaving his neckcloth to its fate. He spun sharply on boots freshly blackened and polished with champagne to an immaculate shine and addressed the remaining occupants of his coach. “Step lively, lads. This way. Hop to.”

Henry De Vere clambered out, rubbing sleep from his deep-green eyes. “Shouldn’t be chipper at this ungodly hour. It’s deuced rude.” To their immediate north, the Thames was a hard, steel gray in the pre-dawn gloaming. Henry’s jaw cracked on a yawn.

“The secret is not to go to bed. At least,” Sheri said with a smile, “not to sleep.”

Glowering darkly, Henry muttered invective against the menace of confirmed bachelors. Married just two weeks ago, he’d spent most of the ride through Mayfair and Chelsea grousing at Sheridan for robbing him of his domestic comforts.

The last occupant of the coach, Harrison Dyer, descended from the carriage with a long, flat box tucked under one arm and a grim set to his stubbled jaw. “Tyrrel is here ahead of us.” He indicated with his chin the black carriage at the far end of Battersea Fields.

Two men stood near the vehicle while a third, solitary figure, dim in the gray mist, paced a short distance away. A distinctive limp identified the man as Lord Tyrrel. The orange ember of a cigarillo intensified, then faded, as Tyrrel drew on it.

“I’ll speak to his men.” Harrison clapped Sheri’s back and strode to meet the seconds of the offended party.

It had been deuced bad luck that Tyrrel walked into his wife’s bedchamber two nights ago. The man hadn’t been expected back from his hunting trip for another week, and he’d not made so much as a peep as he entered the house. It was well known that her ladyship had a string of paramours over the last five years, of whom Sheri was just the most recent.

Having already spent several nights together, Sheri and Sybil had moved beyond the fundamentals of coitus and were becoming a little more creative in their bed play. That particular evening had involved various foodstuffs. Sybil had been lying on her stomach, and Sheri had scooped dollops of blancmange in a line down the column of her spine. Naked and aroused, he’d been poised above her on hands and knees, licking and nibbling his way up her back, at the moment her husband entered the room.

Sybil had gasped and started to move, setting all the bits of dessert to quivering like frightened baby bunnies. Perhaps he lacked some vital instinct for survival, Sheri reflected, or maybe he was just too accustomed to his dissipated pastimes. In any event, when Lord Tyrrel happened upon them, Sheri didn’t make a run for his breeches; rather, he’d laid a calming hand on Sybil’s haunch and met the furious, shocked glare of his host with a steady, amused gaze. Then he’d offered the man a spoon.

He was more than a bit nonplussed over being the instrument by which Tyrrel chose to restore his manly honor.

A dull rumble announced the approach of another carriage. Within seconds, a hackney coach pulled in behind Sheri’s equipage, and Brandon Dewhurst hopped out, surgery bag in hand.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said. He spoke to the driver, then joined Sheri, Norman, and Henry. After another moment, Harrison returned from his
tête-à-tête
with Tyrrel’s representatives. In the center of their protective ring, Sheri slowly turned to meet the eyes of each man. He couldn’t help but feel a lump of gratitude in his chest.

Tasked with naming his seconds for the duel, Sheri had quickly dispatched notes to his tight-knit group of friends, the Honorables. They’d been drinking companions at Oxford, meeting frequently at The Hog’s Teeth tavern, facing the crucible of those final steps into adulthood around a rough-hewn table. “The Honorables” derived from the fact that though each man was the scion of an aristocratic family, none of them would inherit a title. They were each The Honorable Mr. So-and-so.

Technically, he,
Lord
Sheridan, second son of the Marquess of Lothgard, was not honorable—literally and figuratively—but courtesy title notwithstanding, he was legally a Mister, just like his friends.

Now, on the dueling ground of Battersea Fields, Sheri had never felt the appropriateness of the name more. Pressing a hand to his chest, Sheri bowed. “Thank you all for coming, gentlemen.”

Henry lifted his hat and swiped a hand through his hair. “Was that a note of sincerity I detected? Don’t tell us you’re actually worried.”

“He should be,” Norman snapped. “Tyrrel is reputed to be a crack shot.” Standing well over six and a half feet tall, the large man’s disapproval seemed to fall quite a distance before it reached Sheri.

With a dismissive flick of his hand, Sheri scoffed. “How good could he be? He returned home early from his trip. I’d wager he challenged me after already having been bested by every beast in Scotland, who laughed him over the border with his tail ’twixt his legs.”

Crossing his arms, Norman muttered, “Unless he came home early because he shot them all and had nothing left to do.”

Squinting at the lightening sky, Harrison said, “Nothing to fear, Norm. Tyrrel intends to shoot wide. It’s satisfaction he wants, not blood. Our Lothario will be seducing the ladies tonight.” His brandy eyes flicked to Sheri. “It’s time.”

Brandon held up a hand. “Just a moment.” He produced a flask from the inside pocket of his great coat and unscrewed the cap. “A dollop of Dutch courage.”

Sheri took a swig of the gin. Nerves he would never admit to had kept him awake for nearly twenty-four hours, so he appreciated the stringent vapor of juniper that curled up the back of his nose and sharpened his focus.

After passing the drink around, the circle broke up. Harrison met Tyrrel’s second at the weapons table to inspect and load the pistols, while Brandon took a position off to the side, surgery bag at the ready. Norman loped to the center of the field and fished out a handkerchief, as Henry and Tyrrel’s other man paced off the distance.

With all the fellows busy at their appointed tasks, Sheri was left alone. A pang of loneliness, or maybe nostalgia, ached in his chest. Turning so the others couldn’t see him, he fumbled at his waist to detach the fob that secured his omnipresent quizzing glass to his person by means of a silver chain. The silver fob was round, a little larger than a guinea, and puffed like a delicate sea biscuit. Embellished with the Zouche family crest, the fob reflected the weak morning light in undulating gray lines.

Pressing his thumbnail into a recess on the edge, Sheri popped the fob open, revealing a miniature portrait of a young girl, which he cradled in his palm. She smiled at him shyly, her lively brown eyes hinting at impishness. Not for the first time, Sheri felt a rush of gratitude to the portraitist who had managed so perfectly to capture the way Grace’s lower lip curled over her teeth when she smiled and the stubborn lick of brown hair that liked to escape her ribbons.

“Miss you, Grace,” he said as he always did, as he always had done.
Miss you, Sheri!
she used to call back when he took his leave of her cottage. She hadn’t mastered many words in her twelve years, but those three had always rung out clear and true.

“I won’t ask if you’ve got any sway up there,” he murmured. “I don’t suppose I’ve a single favor to call in, even if you had. But if you could spare a few moments to be with me now, I’d be much obliged. You’d laugh yourself silly at the scrape I’ve gotten myself into this time, Grace, you really would. So maybe linger a bit for the entertainment, if nothing else.” He smiled sadly, a poor imitation of the expression captured in the tiny portrait. “And if things go badly here, then we’ll see each other soon. We’ll play snakes and ladders, all right?”

“Sheridan!” called Henry.

Sheri snapped the fob shut and returned it to its place on his waistcoat, then went to his mark.

Twelve paces away, Tyrrel joined Sheri on the field of honor. The challenger gave Sheri a long, hard stare.

Beneath the other man’s scrutiny, a vague feeling of embarrassment stole through Sheridan at being caught up in something as sordid as a duel. In his long, storied career of fornicating, this was the first time he’d been called out. On the surface, it seemed remarkable that after sleeping with dozens of married women he’d not once been called to task for it, but Sheri was meticulous about discretion. He was interested only in seeking pleasure with enthusiastic partners, not in causing trouble for the women he bedded, their lawful husbands, or—most importantly—himself.

Inside his kid gloves, which he’d purchased for the occasion of his first duel, Sheri’s palms began to perspire.

The seconds broke away from the weapons table, each making for their respective principal. Harrison held the gun—one of the two he always carried about his own person—across his flat palms and presented it to Sheri.

It didn’t look like much. The stock was fashioned of dark wood, with a brass cap on the end of the handle he supposed would be good for coshing one’s opponent over the head, should one’s shot go astray. The barrel, he believed it was called, was simple and unadorned.

“You get the lucky one,” Harrison said. “This is the same pistol Brandon used to put an end to the scoundrel who abducted Mrs. Dewhurst.”