Miss Dumont perched on the edge of his desk. “Do you have any brandy, Mr. Kettle? I like a spot of brandy with my cake.”
“Brandy, here?” he protested.
“Don’t look so surprised. You’d be astounded by how many gentlemen like yourself will have a nip of brandy from time to time during the day. Particularly when it’s as cold out as it is. Wouldn’t you like a nip before heading home for the day?”
He would, actually.
Mrs. Honeycutt picked up the stack of correspondence and turned her back to him. She leaned up against the desk and quickly shuffled through it, pulling out one packet.
“Is it only chocolate? Anything else? Currant, perhaps?” Mr. Kettle asked, eyeing the cake.
“A very good guess, Mr. Kettle. You’ll have to eat it to find out.”
He picked up the cake and bit into it. The center of it oozed with jam. With a sigh of contentment, he closed his eyes and chewed.
By the time he’d finished his cake, Mrs. Honeycutt had returned the day’s correspondence. She had what she wanted and he didn’t even care. This was all Mrs. Kettle’s fault—she should never have left him like she did. She should have stayed at home as a wife ought to and minded her husband. And these two ought to be at home minding husbands, as well, but that was the way of things these days. Women had minds of their own.
The ladies left him a second cake, even more delicious than the first, and he was so entranced with it that he scarcely noticed they had taken their leave. He kept his eyes closed as he savored the last bite of the last small cake.
What harm was there, really? What did it matter that she was looking for someone on a Scottish ship? It was of no consequence. His reward for defying the command of Lord Palmerston had been well worth it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Quite a hubbubwas witnessed at Piccadilly Circus recently when a throng of gentlemen stumbled upon a young soldier, an influential earl’s youngest son, in flagrante delicto. The Coalition of Decency and Morality “volunteers” chased the young man down the street and flogged him. They have publicly proclaimed one small victory against sodomy.
Meanwhile, in Shoreditch, where many coalition members reside, as the vicar of St. Leonard’s made his way to church one morning, he unexpectedly encountered a gentleman with whom he is acquainted. The gentleman, who is known to occupy the front pew of St. Leonard’s with regularity, claimed to be calling on a sick friend at that early morning hour. However, that afternoon when the vicar called on the sick friend, he found everyone in the house very well indeed, and in particular, the young lady.
—Honeycutt’s Gazette of Fashion and Domesticity for Ladies
TWODAYSHADpassed since Marek had called on Mrs. Honeycutt—two days Marek had had to ponder those four soldiers. He had decided there was nothing to her claim. How could there possibly be? It was not unexpected that more guard relief might be needed in London and a few soldiers were sent on a merchant vessel. And he still thought it was quite probable that the men didn’t exist or had been confused for someone else.
Marek had spent the last two days advising Dromio and, by extension, the king, of the national impact of their decisions during these negotiations. He had explained, in the simplest terms possible, that the tariffs on grain could be ruinous to the producers of the grain.
“Je,I understand,” Dromio had said impatiently. “The king understands. Everyone understands, Brendan. We are not idiots.”
That was open to debate.
They had just returned from the meeting room where the Weslorians, Alucians, and English met to hammer out the details of the agreement. Dromio had reported to all those assembled that King Maksim was keen to industrialize, yes...but that he would impose those tariffs. Marek had tried to make sense of it, to understand what the king hoped to achieve. He could come up with no plausible reason.
He fell in behind Lord Dromio as they made their way back to the Green Hotel. Dromio was walking along with Lord Van, the two of them quite animated in their conversation. Lord Osiander was behind Marek, looking entirely disgruntled. But then again, Osiander often looked as if he’d lost his glasses and couldn’t find them.
Marek quickened his step, catching up to Dromio and Van, hoping to hear what they said. It was useless—with their backs to him, every word sounded as if it was spoken under mounds of wool.
When they reached the entrance to the hotel, Marek slipped in beside Dromio and asked for a word.
“Yes, what is it?” Dromio asked impatiently. His gaze was following Van, who disappeared into a common room where the ministers often met for brandy and port.
“The tariffs,” Marek said. “I thought—”
“Je,that was very clever of me, I think.”
Marek was taken aback. It was Dromio’s idea? “But as we discussed, my lord, the tariffs will make the grain more costly for the Weslorian capitalists to produce, and those costs will be passed on to our people.”
“Capitalists!” Dromio began to knead his side with his fingers, as if he had a sore muscle. “How do you propose, Mr. Brendan, that a government conduct its business? There must be some money to be had that doesn’t come from the pockets of our poorest citizens.” He smiled thinly and glanced over his shoulder at the men gathered in the common room. “Is there more?”
“No,” Marek said quietly. Dromio walked on, his steps quick, as if he couldn’t wait to be away from Marek.
Marek watched him go, thinking about what to do, when he heard something that sounded like someone singing underwater. He turned around to see a footman holding a silver tray. “Sir, a letter has come for you.”
