A Lady of Persuasion (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #3)(50)

“Others?” the man in the yellow coat called out.

“I nominate our esteemed incumbent, local freeholder and my friend, Mr. Archibald Yorke.” It was Toby’s voice. Wasn’t that a bit odd, Bel thought, for a man to nominate his own opponent? But perhaps it was a show of good sportsmanship on Toby’s part. Mr. Yorke mounted the platform, accepting the crowd’s generous applause with a gracious nod. He spied Bel in her carriage and tipped his hat, his silvered hair glinting white in the sun. A twinge of conscience pinched her, to think that Toby would usurp not only this old man’s seat in Parliament, but this accompanying measure of public respect. How sad for Mr. Yorke. But then she remembered Lady Aldridge’s dislike of the man. Bel trusted her mother-in-law’s judgment. Besides, Mr. Yorke was a Tory, which meant he sat in opposition to nearly every cause she intended to champion.

Mr. Yorke has had his time. It’s Toby’s turn now.

“All right, then that’s done,” the returning officer said. “Any others?” he asked, in a tone that said he expected none.

Mr. Yorke tapped him on one yellow-covered shoulder. “I have a nomination to make.”

The crowd quieted, seemingly as confused as Bel by this statement from the incumbent MP.

“But you’re already nominated,” the officer replied.

“I know, but I’d like to nominate someone else.”

“Someone else? Well, I don’t know that you can.” The officer riffled through his sheaf of papers. “Seeing as you’re already a candidate …”

“I’m a freeholder in this district, aren’t I?” Mr. Yorke asked gruffly. “Well then, I can nominate a candidate.”

“Er … all right.”

“I nominate Sir Tobias Aldridge.”

The crowd reacted with silence. Men looked from one to another, seemingly uncertain whether to laugh or applaud.

Bel decided to pity their indecision. As Toby mounted the platform, she clapped heartily, and soon a wave of polite applause built, sweeping toward the stage. Toby removed his hat and made an agile bow. The interest level of the ladies scattered through the assembly increased appreciably. They did not merely look; they gawped.

And who could blame them? Oh, he looked so handsome. The golden highlights of his hair caught the sunlight and reflected it to dazzling effect. The white gleam of teeth in his charming, boyish grin was visible even from here, at the edge of the square. Had he not been attired in such elegant clothes and so animated with youth and vitality, one could have mistaken him for a purloined Greek sculpture. A possessive sense of pride swelled her heart, to think that this tall, dashing figure of a man commanding the admiration of hundreds—he belonged to her.

“Well, this is interesting,” the man in the yellow coat said, scratching the back of his neck.

“Seems we may actually need to count votes this year. We haven’t done that in a generation.”

“Speeches!” someone called from the crowd.

The request was quickly seconded, and soon the whole assembly clamored for oration.

“Speeches! Speeches!”

“All right, all right.” The yellow-clad man indicated Mr. Yorke. “We’ll hear from the incumbent first, if you please.”

Bel had not heard many political speeches in her life. In fact, this one counted as her first. Still, Mr. Yorke’s address from the hustings struck her as very odd. For one thing, it was short—

barely a few minutes in duration. For another, he spoke not a word on any matter of legislative importance. He merely reminded the electors of his years of service in the House of Commons, cobbled together a few phrases about service and progress, and promptly ceded the floor. Bel was almost offended on Toby’s behalf. Did Mr. Yorke think so little of Toby’s threat to his candidacy that he would first nominate Toby himself, then make only the slightest attempt to woo the electorate? While the crowd rewarded Mr. Yorke with a smattering of polite applause, she sniffed and busied herself arranging the folds of her skirts across the carriage seat. Well, perhaps she should be grateful for Mr. Yorke’s overconfidence and underestimation of her husband. Once Toby took the platform, he would charm the votes right out of the old man’s pocket.

A roar of excitement rose up from the milling throng. Bel looked up to see the ancient Colonel Montague shuffling to the center of the stage. Merciful heavens, why did they have to put the old man through such humiliation, just for a bit of entertainment? Did so little of interest happen in this borough?

The crowd hushed as Montague snapped another open-palmed salute.

“Duty!” The word creaked from the old man’s throat.

“Duty!” the assembly echoed, at a volume magnified one thousandfold.

“Honor!” Montague called.

“Honor!” came the unified roar. Fists pumped in the air.

The aged colonel raised both arms as high as he could. Which ended up being barely shoulderlevel. “Vigilance!”

“Vigilance!” the crowd returned, overlapping the colonel’s own cry. It was clear this was a familiar litany to everyone in attendance.

Everyone but Bel, that was. She looked around the square. Hadn’t Toby called this a sedate borough, not prone to rioting? Over the waving arms of the crowd, she managed to catch her husband’s eye. He gave her a carefree shrug and a cheeky wink, apparently unconcerned. She could not say the same for the team of horses, who stamped and whickered with each rousing cry.