Home > Bringing Down the Duke(6)

Bringing Down the Duke(6)
Author: Evie Dunmore

   An East End accent, and showing so easily? Times were dire when even the palace had trouble finding decent staff.

   The large wing doors swung open, revealing the usher and the gilded interior beyond.

   “Your Grace. Sir Lambton.” The usher dipped low as he stepped back. “Her Majesty will see you now.”

   The queen’s stout figure rose from her armchair in a rustle of stiff black skirts.

   “Montgomery.” She started toward him, one bejeweled hand extended. “I am pleased to see you.”

   Her upturned lips said as much. She was in an appreciative mood. For now.

   “Sir Lambton”—she turned to her secretary—“we trust your journey was uneventful?”

   Lambton shook his head. “A near miss, ma’am. We were attacked by a feminist on Parliament Square.”

   The corners of her mouth pulled down sharply. “I daresay.”

   “She made straight for the duke.”

   “The gall!”

   “I escaped unharmed, ma’am,” Sebastian said wryly.

   “This time,” the queen said. “This time. Oh, they ought to be given a good whipping. Wicked, unnatural demands! And who would suffer, if they got their way? Why, these women. No gentleman in his right mind is going to be willing to protect such mannish creatures should the need arise. Tell me, Montgomery,” she demanded, “did she look terribly mannish?”

   Mannish? The woman had had the softest, most inviting lips he’d seen on this side of the channel. A man could easily lose himself in the pleasures to be had from a mouth like hers. But what was more remarkable was that she had looked him straight in the eye. Green eyes, slightly slanted. Her smile had not touched them.

   He shook his head. “She looked female to me, ma’am.”

   “Hmph.” The queen looked unimpressed. “You know what happens when common people have grand ideas? Chaos. Chaos happens. Just look at France.” She all but whirled on her heels. “Those are tomorrow’s concerns, however,” she said. “Today there are more pressing matters.”

   Sebastian tensed. Pressing sounded promising. She had something that belonged to him, or her nephew did, and he would get it back only if he could offer her something she would want more. In his sixteen years as Montgomery, there had never been such a thing. He understood. It was easier to control a duke, even a dutiful one, when one held his eight-hundred-year-old family seat hostage.

   The queen lowered herself back into her armchair with such gravitas one could imagine it were her throne.

   “You are a rare sort of man, Montgomery,” she began. “You assess, you decide, you execute, very efficiently and, remarkably . . . modestly.” She fingered the diamond-encrusted crucifix that dangled from her necklace. “And I so favor modesty.”

   He gave a modest nod, when in fact he wasn’t modest at all. He did things in moderation because it yielded results, but she was not the first to misread him on that account.

   And then she said: “I want you to be the chief strategic advisor for the election campaign of the Tory party.”

   Ducal breeding kept his expression completely bland, but his mind screeched to a halt. “For the upcoming election?”

   The queen frowned. “Yes. Something has gone awry. The Liberal party has gained a surprising lead.”

   Not that surprising, if one looked at the country through the sober glasses of reality instead of Disraeli’s rose-tinted party ideology. But the queen had an absurd soft spot for the prime minister, upstart that he was, and now she was asking him, Sebastian, to keep the man in power?

   The German cuckoo clock on the mantelpiece ticked away strategic seconds as he scanned the facts. The election was in March, little more than five months from now. Hardly enough time to turn things around, not when one had ten estates, policy work, and one unruly brother to manage. The question was, how much did she want him in particular to turn this election? Very much. He was one of her most trusted advisors at only thirty-and-five because he was good at what he did.

   He locked eyes with her. “I’m honored, but I’m not a politician, ma’am.”

   She stiffened. “Leave us, Lambton,” she commanded.

   The scowl on her face deepened as soon as the door had clicked shut. “You are a politician in all but name and no one can contest your leadership,” she said. “Your public endeavors have an unbroken record of success.”

   “I’m presently too occupied to do the task justice, ma’am.”

   “Regrettable,” she said coolly, and, when he did not reply, “pray, is there something that would allow you to change your priorities?”

   She wasn’t asking as much as she was daring him to make demands on the queen of England.

   His gaze didn’t waver. “I spend a lot of my time convincing Hartford to sell me back Montgomery Castle,” he said. “If someone convinced him to return the house, I would be free to advise the Tories.”

   Her eyes narrowed. “To sell you back the castle? And there we had been under the impression it was never properly purchased in the first place.” Below her impenetrable skirts, a small foot was tapping rapidly. “Remind us, Montgomery, how did your family seat come into my nephew’s possession?”

   He supposed he deserved it. “My father lost it to the marquess in a card game, ma’am.”

   The queen’s brows rose in mock surprise. “Ah. That’s right. You see, one would think a castle deserves to be lost, if it is held in such low regard as to be staked in a hand of cards, would you not agree?”

   “Unreservedly,” he said, “but then, I am not my father.”

   The tap-tap-tap of her foot ceased. The silence that ensued was rife with an oddly personal tension. She had watched him for years as he tried to piece his family’s legacy back together, never quite hindering him, never helping him, either. Except once, he suspected, when he had rid himself of his wife and the consequences had been surprisingly manageable.

   “Indeed you are not,” she said. “Hence, I want you to take over the campaign.”

   “Ma’am—”

   Her hand snapped up. “Very well. Hartford will make you an offer after the election.”

   His muscles tensed as if he had been slammed to the ground, making his next breath difficult.

   “Is the offer contingent upon the election outcome?” he managed. One needed to be clear about such things.

   She scoffed. “It certainly is. The final say over the victory is of course in the hands of higher powers, but would that not be all the proof we need that the castle was truly meant to return to you?”

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