Vanquished (33 page)

Yet despite precious little food or sleep, barring the errant abdominal butterfly, she felt calm as she walked down the drafty hallway leading to the PM's cabinet room. Footfalls ringing off the marble floor, she considered the reason for her newfound sense of peace. The answer came down to one word, or rather one person--Hadrian. Before him, the suffragette cause had served as her
raison d'etre;
she had quite literally eaten, drunk, and slept solely in its service.

In the short span of three weeks, all that had changed. Having something, or rather someone, in her life not involved in politics had afforded her a perspective, a
balance,
that only in retrospect did she own had been sorely lacking for the past decade, perhaps the whole of her duty-driven adult years. Because of Hadrian, she'd come to see there was a great deal more to the art of living than the tangible measures she'd used to gauge success. While she still remained wholly committed to doing her utmost to sway Salisbury to their side, if today's meeting failed to yield that sought-after outcome, at least she and the other delegates had put forth their very best effort. That would be some satisfaction at least.

His secretary's knock yielded the anticipated call to enter and Callie caught herself holding her breath. No doubt in deference to his overriding interest in foreign affairs, notably British possessions in Africa, Salisbury had broken with tradition by opting to run his government from the Foreign Office, not 10 Downing Street. That being the case, certain of his remarks in the recent past could be construed as support, albeit tepid, for female suffrage. But then again, he was a politician, after all.

The door opened on a large, high-ceilinged room stenciled in olive and gold, with red and gold borders.

Lord Salisbury rose from behind the polished mahogany desk. Of late middle years, he had a heavy face framed by a fringe of white hair that put Callie in mind of a monk's tonsure and a closely clipped salt-and-pepper beard. The deep-set eyes studying her looked not so much unfriendly as fatigued but then he had combined his role of PM with that of Foreign Secretary, a demanding double job. Slope-shouldered and stout, he nonetheless cut an imposing figure as he crossed to the front of the desk and came toward her, gesturing her to one of the leather-upholstered chairs.

"Pray be seated, Miss Rivers. My esteemed colleague, Lord Stonevale speaks highly of you. Given all I have heard to recommend you, I am please to be able to meet with you at last."

Taking her seat, Callie inclined her head in acknowledgement of the compliment. "You are most gracious, milord, to consent to meet with me."

He raised a dismissive hand to indicate that his presumed graciousness was yet a subject of some debate. "Yet you must appreciate the difficulty of my position, Miss Rivers. As prime minister, I cannot risk my Party's majority for the sake of a cause that, by your own account, some British women themselves do not embrace."

The past decade on the periphery of the political arena had taught Callie that there was a time to smile and nod and a time to take bold if calculated action. Judging this to be one of the latter occasions, she drew a deep breath and said, "With all due respect, my lord, I rather think your government's primary directive is to safeguard and uphold the rights of all British subjects, regardless of party affiliation, gender . . . or circumstance," she added, thinking of women such as Iris Brown for whom gender was but one obstacle to be surmounted in the struggle for a better life for themselves and their children.

Salisbury shook his grizzled head. "Yet I hear reports of women embarking on hunger strikes, smashing shop windows, in some cases going so far as to chain themselves to fence posts so that police with hacksaws must be called in to remove them bodily. This government cannot endorse violence, Miss Rivers. We cannot and will not no matter how worthy the cause."

In addition to foreign-policy matters, Salisbury had made his mark by bringing unity to the various fractious Conservative party factions. Regardless of any personal sympathy he felt toward female suffrage, he was not likely to champion a cause that might threaten that hard-won unity.

He was alluding to Emmeline Pankhurst, who along with her husband, Richard, had formed the militant Women's Franchise League the year before. Based out of Manchester, the League regularly made headlines in the scandal sheets.

Knowing her response could well determine the outcome of the interview, Callie took care in framing her reply. "Extremes are to be found among the ranks of any movement as well you know, my lord, and sadly female suffrage is no exception. That said, please allow me to assure you that violence in any form has never and will never be countenanced by the leadership of our organization." It was fair near the same promise she'd made to Stonevale the day before, and one she meant to do everything in her power to keep.

Bracing stubby fingers on the desk's highly polished surface, he said, "As I'm sure you are aware, there is considerable concern among my colleagues, Liberal as well as Conservative, that enfranchising females on a universal basis could result in women voters outnumbering men. I will tell you plainly that amending the language of your current bill to limit female suffrage to older adult women who own property in their own right or through their husbands would greatly increase its chances of passage." He raised one bushy eyebrow and regarded her, waiting.

Callie hesitated. Tying suffrage to property ownership had always been a dodgy business, an issue on which the NUWSS member organizations continued to be split. Although she had always believed wholeheartedly in universal suffrage for both sexes, a few weeks before she might have been willing to settle on the basis that the proverbial half-loaf was better than none.

But thinking again of Iris Brown and her fellow match-factory workers gave her pause. Did Iris really have any less of a right to express herself politically than Callie did simply because she owned only the clothes on her back? And what of Iris's daughter, June? What chance would that little girl and the many others like her have for a better future if deprived of their voter's voice? Could Callie work to procure the vote for privileged women while consigning poor women to continued enslavement?

After a moment's pause, she said, "I cannot in good conscience attach such caveats myself. Until female suffrage is placed on the same basis as that afforded to men, there can be no true justice, only varying degrees of tyranny."

"You are frank, Miss Rivers, an estimable quality that precious few leaders of our modern age exhibit. If you can muster sufficient support to see your suffrage bill through to a vote, I will promise you this much, I will do nothing to oppose it."

That evening, Hadrian closed the door on his darkroom where he'd left the last of the photographs of Callie drying on the line. Once she'd let down her guard, Callie had made a lovely and arresting subject. Callie, eyes flashing fire and chin held aloft, giving him his comeuppance that first day in his studio when he'd deliberately baited her. Callie standing alone in the park, face wistful in profile as she looked out onto the boys playing ball. He had to marvel that what had started out as a ruse had resulted in a first-rate photographic portrait study, worthy of any exhibition-hall showing. Most savory were the myriad more-personal images he held onto if only in his mind's eye--Callie, bold and beautiful, standing on her soapbox outside the match-factory gates, Callie running hell for leather alongside him as they raced through the warren of East End streets, and last but hardly least, Callie looking up at him from his pillow, eyes wide and face stark with wonder, just after she'd come.

Stripping off his apron, he looked toward the stairs leading up to his flat. He would wash up and then set out for her aunt's house. By the time he got there, she should be home or at least on her way. No point in putting off the inevitable confession any longer. Despite his bluff, he really had no proof of Dandridge's past misdeeds. And after last night, satisfying though it had been, the MP wouldn't rest until he saw Hadrian ruined. Soon Callie, along with everyone else in London, would know the sordid truth of just who and what he really was. The very least he could do to atone for his sins, past and present, was to tell her himself before she found out elsewhere.

He would have sought her out earlier only he remembered that today was the much anticipated meeting with the prime minister, the culmination to all her sacrifice and hard work. He hadn't wanted to upset her beforehand and telling her just how he'd colluded with Dandridge to dupe and destroy her would most certainly do that. His confession made, he would say goodbye and walk out of her life for good. Surely by then she would be only too glad to see the back of him, especially as she was on the brink of starting a new life with another man.

Yet those soulful eyes of hers would haunt his dreams for a long time, quite possibly forever, because . . . well, because he was in love with her.

Ironically it was his encounter with the fiance that finally had freed him to own the truth of his feelings. Ordinarily he didn't deal in absolutes, moral or otherwise. To say "I love you" was lunacy pure and simple; add "forever" to the mix and you bloody well deserved whatever slice of hell fate served up. Or so he'd thought before . . . Callie. Lost to him though she was, he couldn't help his feelings any more than he could help the color of his eyes or the breadth of his shoulders.

A tail swishing his legs had him looking down to where his cat followed him across the room. Dinah's green-eyed gaze met his and she opened her mouth on a loud meow, reminding him that though his life might be falling to bits, there was still dinner to be dished up. Reaching down to scratch beneath her chin, he said, "Well, Dinah, what say you to Paris next? Or maybe it's Venice you fancy, eh?"

From the top of the stairs, a female voice called down, "I'm rather fond of London myself."

Callie? Heart pounding, he bounded up the stairs two at a time to the half-cocked flat door. He entered, the room bathed in the soft glow of candlelight.

Wearing his silk dressing gown, dark hair flowing about her shoulders, Callie stepped out from the shadows. "Not planning on going on holiday anytime soon, are you, Mr. St. Claire?"

His heart stopped for what felt like a full moment, but her teasing smile had it resuming beating. She hadn't found him out, not yet at any rate; otherwise she'd never have come, certainly not like this.

Closing the distance between them, she wrapped urgent arms about his neck and pulled him down for a passionate kiss that sent the room about them spinning. Against his lips she said, "Can I possibly tempt you to join me in an indoor picnic, Mr. St. Claire?" He looked over her shoulder to where a bucket of iced champagne and a wicker hamper set out on the table along with the bank of candles, all the accoutrements of seduction.

Oh, she could tempt him, all right, in more ways than he cared to admit. He was already hard, a condition that couldn't possibly be lost on her given how she pressed against him. Yet remembering "Teddy's" self-satisfied smirk, he held back at the door and said, "That rather depends on what your fiance would say if he knew you were here?"

He'd expected to startle her but instead she only sent him a soft smile and shook her head. "As I don't have a fiance, only a dear but rather desperate friend, I'm much more concerned with what you've to say on the subject." She slid warm hands up his arms, palms coming to rest on his biceps.

She quickly explained the circumstances surrounding her friend's ruse. Embarrassed to have been so easily duped, so quick to think the worst of her when it was he who was the liar among them, Hadrian could only shake his head. "I'm a rum fool. I should have known."

"Were you terribly jealous?" She tilted her face up to his. Eyes dark with mischief and mouth moist, she looked every bit the part of the tantalizing seductress.

"Terribly." Though he'd told himself upon entering he'd stay stoic and strong, weak man that he was, he reached for her. Laying hands on the slippery silk at her waist, he pulled her flush against him, his erection pressing into the soft flesh of her belly.

"If I were a better person, I shouldn't be glad of that, but I am glad. So very glad."

Reaching between them, her hands found his trouser waist. Any trace of the previous night's reticence was gone as she slipped eager fingers inside and tugged his shirttail free.

"Callie, wait." He took hold of her wrists, bringing her hands down to her sides. Letting her go, he looked into her eyes and asked, "Do you remember the other night when I told you I'd changed my name once I got back to London?"