Page 26 of Mr. Eastwood’s Match

Lyness felt brief unease at his brother’s easy dismissal of a man many knew had played a prominent part in ending the slave trade. Fawkes was not a loud man, but he held much respect in the county. And if his committee drew members of rank from the Whig Club, it could cause trouble for the future of their party.

Sir George gave a long sigh from his place at the head of the table. It was almost the first sound he had made since the conversation began in earnest. “Though we do need younger men such as yourself, Lord Hartwell, to lead the cause, it will not do to alienate more established men of greater reputation. You will forgive me for saying it, but you have yet to prove yourself outside of our fair city.”

That made Lyness wince, and he saw the slight tick at Roman’s jaw that meant the baron gritted his teeth against making a sharp response.

“We have invited Prince Augustus Frederick, Duke of Sussex, to lead our dinner during the race week,” Roman reminded everyone present. “He has yet to accept the invitation, but I am certain he will agree. He presided over the Norwich Fox Dinner two years ago, and he is sympathetic to our cause. Having a brother of our king in attendance will bring all the respectability we need.”

Lyness considered, for a moment, mentioning his own misgivings about that endeavor. The press for the York Whig Club had not been favorable of late. He kept up with the London papers, and they were hardly mentioned there except with the written equivalent of a smirk.

He did not wish to appear to undermine Roman, however, and so he was relieved when someone else voiced his question.

“What if the Duke of Sussex declines the invitation?” Mr. Thaddeus Nelson asked, eyes steady on Roman. “What then?”

For a moment, all were silent, waiting for an answer. Looking between their president, Sir George and Roman, their most vocal leader.

Finally, Sir George answered, “We will reschedule the dinner, of course, to a time that is more conducive to speaking as a collective body. Perhaps putting it around that the races were too much a distraction from our goals at the present time.”

The tension in the room did not exactly dissolve, but a few tight nods made it possible to at least move forward in the conversation.

“The festivities during Race Week,” Archibald Kettleburn said, hands steepled together before him, “are of concern to me. Not merely because I have horses racing, as you all know.”

Good natured groans followed that statement. Archibald waved a hand to silence them, but with good humor, before he continued.

“It is a time when all our most prominent members will be in town. Gambling. Attending political meetings. Entertainments. I think it important that we stress keeping all our behavior above board. We are already reported in the papers as a club falling into disrepute.”

“Only because we have common men as members,” Sir George said with a huff. “A man doing an honest day’s labor ought not be seen as disreputable. Quite the opposite.”

“Nevertheless,” Kettleburn continued, “if one of our most distinguished members should bring undo attention to himself, we may find the papers are more antagonistic than usual toward us. Can we at least voice the warning to our membership this evening, Sir George?”

That was not something Lyness had considered. Thankfully, he had nothing to worry about in Roman or himself. They were committed to upholding the family name in honor, doing all in their power not to summon the ire of good Society.

“We will say something,” Sir George promised with a brief nod. “It will not go amiss to remind our men to be on their best behavior.”

A gentleman on Lyness’s other side turned to him with eyebrows raised. “You have been quiet all evening, Mr. Eastwood. You are one of the most level-headed members of our club. Have you anything to add?”

“Silence should not always be taken as good sense,” Lyness said, trying for levity. This was not his sphere of expertise. “If you must know, I am considering how much to bet against Kettleburn’s horses come Race Week.”

Several of the others laughed, and even Roman nearly smiled at that. They had done a great deal of talking without making any decisions. Other than reminding an assembly of men to behave themselves, as though they were schoolboys let out on holiday for a picnic.

“I, for one, would rather speak of pleasanter things. Like the ball on Wednesday of Race Week,” another younger, unmarried man said. “The loveliest ladies in the county and outside of it will be present.”

“Ah, and speaking of fair ladies,” Phineas said suddenly, turning to Roman. “Rumor has it, Hartwell, that you are entering the marriage mart.”

Immediately, Lyness went stiff and still as a statue, hand tightening on his glass.

Roman shook his head in calm denial. “You should know better than to trust to rumor. And I would prefer not to have my private affairs discussed. But if it will satisfy the curiosity I can see come alive in all of you, I admit that I do mean to invite a certain lady to join me on an outing tomorrow.”

The table hummed with amusement and curiosity.

But for Lyness, the words struck like a blow—he froze, his glass of wine half raised to his lips.

Some asked which lady, but Lyness already knew. Of course, Roman had not given up the idea of courting Lady Emily. Why had Lyness ever thought that he would? As the men’s laughter and conversation dwindled, Lyness withdrew slightly, half-listening, his gaze on the fire.

“I heard she has a handsome marriage portion,” Kettleburn murmured, arms crossed over his chest. “I have yet to meet her myself. Though her brother is a good chap.”

“Lady Emily Sterling is deserving of better than to be discussed by us,” Thaddeus said with a small shake of his head. “I would not wish my sisters speculated about in a room full of men who do not know them. We ought to limit our subjects to matters we know more about.”

“You would have us sit in silence, then?” his brother Phineas quipped.