It was no use keeping her hands still, Verity thought vaguely, if the rest of her shook like the last leaf of autumn.
“We haven’t much more time left,” continued the dowager duchess in the absence of a response from him. Her voice was cogent, urgent, compelling. “You know the situation as well as I do. The Irish are restless. They will not abide English rule for much longer. This is our last chance to settle the question in peace and honor rather than in strife and bloodshed. Will you put one woman above the good of a nation?”
There was a long pause. Verity imagined her aunt gazing intently at Stuart, her steely will seeking victory at all costs.
“Can the private happiness of one man truly be so deleterious to the well-being of many?” he asked.
Verity closed her eyes. Despite the evenness of his tone, she’d heard the bewilderment and dismay in his voice.
“Yes, it can,” said the dowager duchess.
God Himself could not have spoken with much greater authority and conviction. Verity knew then that she had lost him. Bitter tears trickled down her face. The duchess knew that his greatest virtue was also his greatest weakness. The nobility of his character rested upon his absolute sense of duty.
“You are right,” he said. “It can.”
Her tears gushed now. After the Irish Question there would be other crises and other calamities—the ship of state sailed ever in dangerous waters. And there would never be a moment when he didn’t need his moral authority and his stature.
“I’m pleased that you see my point so well,” said the duchess.
Verity did not fail to notice the odd lack of triumph in the old woman’s voice. Such a good actress she was—she would not gloat in front of him. She would savor it later, when she slapped Verity with her I-told-you-so.
“Thank you, Madame, for pointing out where I’ve been blind,” said Stuart.
Verity covered her face, so as not to make any sounds. She would not give the dowager duchess the satisfaction of hearing her cry.
“You will send Madame Durant away, then?” said the dowager duchess, lightly yet commandingly.
“No indeed, Madame. I will marry her.”
A dead silence greeted his words. Then Verity sprang to her feet. Something fell loudly. But it wasn’t her chair. It came from the middle of the drawing room—and sounded like the dowager duchess’s walking stick.
“What did you say, Mr. Somerset?” asked the dowager duchess, her voice uncharacteristically high-pitched.
“I said I will marry her, Madame,” he said calmly. “Hiding her will allow speculations to proliferate. I will bring her into the open. I believe I might even be able to persuade Miss Bessler to be seen together with her. That should calm rumors about Miss Bessler’s revulsion.”
Yes! Yes! Yes! Verity stuffed her fist into her mouth to stop herself from screaming it out loud. She’d known she had entrusted her heart to the right person this time. She’d known it!
She climbed onto her chair just in time to see the dowager duchess rise from her seat. Stuart, who had been sitting with his back to the screen, rose also.
“Mr. Somerset, you have lost your mind.”
“No, Madame. I assure you, I am in firm possession of all my faculties. You yourself said I cannot afford the loss of prestige brought on by an engagement that ends in ill feelings and an affair with someone of Madame Durant’s particular…distinction. Every rumormonger loves an affair, but there is little to excite the imagination in a marriage. And while Miss Bessler cannot keep company with my mistress, I’m sure she will have no objection to a shopping expedition or two with Mrs. Somerset.”
“A shopping expedition or two…” The duchess was never at a loss for words. She was now.
“With a special license we can be married within the week.”
Verity had always liked Stuart’s voice. Now she knew that he had the most beautiful voice in the entire world. Within the week.
“Mr. Gladstone will never stand for it.” The dowager duchess almost sputtered.
“Do we speak of the same Mr. Gladstone, Madame, the one who in his spare time personally arranges for the rescue and rehabilitation of prostitutes? I should think he’d consider it splendidly done of me to make a vapid hausfrau of one of Britain’s most infamous retainers.”
“I will cede you that point,” said the dowager duchess, more collected now. Verity’s euphoria cooled a few degrees. The dowager duchess was regrouping. She was far from giving up. “Perhaps Mr. Gladstone, in his advanced age and eccentricity, would not mind your choice of a spouse. But you may be certain that he would be the only one. The rest of the Liberal establishment would be aghast. And it would be the end of your political career. You will not receive the Home Secretary’s portfolio. You will not even retain your position as Chief Whip. And if you’ve ever entertained thoughts of 10 Downing Street, well, you need never entertain them again.”