Free Major Lord David by Sherry Lynn Ferguson Page A

come a long way-from the Channel and Dover through the night-and would benefit from
some sleep.” As he shrugged into his high-collared greatcoat,
he drew a small parcel, carefully wrapped in paper and twine,
from one deep pocket. “Happy Birthday, Miss Caswell,” he
said, tendering it to her without a smile. “‘Tis from Brittany.
On seeing it, I thought of you and your brothers” He did not
meet her gaze as he bowed and swiftly exited, letting in a rush
of frigid air at the door.
    Only later, when the company had left and the house was
silent, when she could most self-indulgently regret rejecting
his company, did Billie unwrap the perfect Faience pottery
box with its charming depiction of one skirted girl amid a
host of boys.

66We’ve the devil to pay,” Hayden muttered, as David
stood next to him at the following Monday’s musicale. The
angry cries from the street outside were much at variance with
the politely restrained evening in progress indoors. Their
hostess, the mother of pretty May Sanders, could never have
reckoned on the circumstances in town that night.
    With the introduction in Parliament of the Corn Importation Law, a bill calculated to keep grain prices high and the
pockets of wealthy landowners full, much of the poorer populace of the countryside appeared to have descended on the
capital to object. Deliberations on the bill in the Commons
had begun only that morning, and tempers both on the floor
and out on the street were running hot.
    David reflected that the weekend had certainly not been an
auspicious one on which to return to London. He had left behind a continent at peace, only to confront an armed camp in
the West End.
    Since his return, he had scarcely seen his brother, Hayden,
catching only a brief glimpse of him two nights before, at Billie Caswell’s birthday party. And because Grandmere had
wanted David to reside not at Hayden’s rooms in St. James’s
but with her at the town house, there had been little opportunity to speak.
    At this evening’s informal recital, they were meant to be
listening to May Sanders play the harp. May Sanders herself had invited him. But David’s attention had been drawn instead
to the back of Billie Caswell’s glossy head. She sat among the
attentive audience, as immovably courteous as most, thoughbecause she sat at the end of the row-he could see the slight
impatient tapping of her gloved fingers against her lap.

    To distract himself he whispered to Hayden, “How shall
Father vote on the bill?” The duke usually took Hayden’s recommendation. “That is, if the thing should pass?”
    “Oh, it will pass. Nothing more certain than that this rush
to remedy should pass.”
    “And then how shall Father vote?”
    “Why, as he’s always voted” Hayden eyed him languidly,
then returned his attention to the musicians. “In his own interest!
But if you are asking if the Lords will then approve the billthat is a surety as well.” He sighed. “If I troubled to counsel
anything, ‘twould be delay. ‘Tis all an unseemly hurry to tinker. We might reasonably wait a year or more to see how the
peace suits. But I shan’t trouble.” He straightened a coat
sleeve, as though matters of state were, after all, of trifling import.
    “These mobs grow surly,” David observed. “I sailed across
from Calais with Lord Castlereagh’s suite. The folk meeting
us at Dover seemed cheerful enough. But as we came on to
London, the dissent increased. I feared some wished him
physical harm”
    “Naturally the discontents must focus their ire on the Foreign Secretary-no matter that he’s been away in Vienna. The
issue is certainly on his plate now.” He looked at David. “Why
did you not stay in France, to go on to Vienna with Wellington? D’you plan to cash out after all? Or were you concerned
about the filly?”
    “I wish you would not refer to Miss Caswell so, Myles.”
    “Why, ‘twas you yourself likened her to your