Page 82 of The Duke Undone

His protective air rankled. Anthony gripped the edge of the desk. Yardley’s protectiveness—it was the counterpoint to his father’s disgust. He should have recognized that Yardley’s kindness shared the same root—deep skepticism about his mental powers.

He forced himself to smile.

“He wanted to know why I invited him. He said he’d sooner expected an invitation from the devil.”

Yardley’s face was going red. “You invited him?”

Anthony nodded. “I’ve read the records from the last parliamentary session. His ideas interest me.”

He’d labored over those blue books night after night, puzzling them out, collapsing on his bed, pain stabbing behind his right eye. But the effort had paid off. The names, the committees, the bills, were now locked in his head. He’d handled himself well with Lawford.

Reading his father’s notes alongside the records, he’d begun to track the forces—internal and external—that had shaped his father’s political persona. He hadn’t realized what a pivotal role Yardley had managed to play, without ever setting foot in Westminster.

As an active member of the Board of Works, Yardley attended long, windy meetings—several a week—where he rubbed elbows with men prominent in the affairs of every vestry in the city: aldermen, merchants, factory owners. He promised private investment in parish infrastructure, promises on which the Duke of Weston could deliver, and in return, they got their people to stuff the ballot boxes and delivered amenable MPs.

His father hadn’t resorted to bribery as far as Anthony could tell. No out-and-out corruption. But he knew how to play the game, and the game depended—heavily—on legalized graft and sinecures.

Yardley’s close connection with his father had given him access to the upper echelons of society. What would he do if Anthony found him less indispensable?

He felt vaguely ill, looking at Yardley’s familiar face, craggy and open. At the moment, his blue eyes were bulging slightly with the force of his amazement.

“Which of Lawford’s ideas caught your interest?”

Anthony cleared his throat. “He supported the Irish Land Act. The Irish farmers deserve a fair rent.”

As a topic, rent no longer bored him. That one image had caught his attention, changed his outlook.

My babes have grown so thin, I could keep them in my pincushion.

Nothing dull or abstract about it. Not at home or abroad.

Yardley sighed. “It starts with a fair rent. Next thing you know, it’s the expropriation of the landlords and agricultural collapse. You’ve a lot to learn, my boy. Men like Lawford exist in the realm of ideas. Try to implement one of those ideas and see what havoc ensues.” He sat heavily in a chair, setting his briefcase on his knees. “You should get to know your own party. Have you met with Southgate? He was one of your father’s staunchest allies.”

Ask Collins. They both knew the butler acted as a spy. Anthony’s jaw ticked. Were they going to continue to pretend that Yardley hadn’t enlisted Lucy’s help to extend his legal childhood? He picked up Lawford’s report.

“It seems to me that Lawford exists in the realm of action. He thought the invasion of Afghanistan cruel and unjust, and he opened the debate in the Commons on the policies that led to the war. He agitated for the independence of the Transvaal. Our government’s inhumanity keeps him up at night.”

Yardley’s nostrils flared. “Talk to Southgate about Lawford, and don’t take any of his prattle to heart. The man’s a jester. He’s up at night because that’s when he pens his witticisms.”

Anthony glanced at the report in his hand, flicked the edge with his finger.

“I’m most interested in the case he makes here. Against intervention in Egypt. In fact, I might throw my support behind him.”

Lawford had tugged at his long gray beard for a solid minute after Anthony had made that pronouncement. He had suspected intrigue. Yardley suspected buffoonery. He narrowed his eyes. Then he threw back his head and laughed.

“You’re the jester.” He wagged his finger at Anthony. “I should spot your clowning by now. This is what I get for urging you out of the stable.” He wiped his eyes. “Point taken. Do what you will, then. I can’t stop you.”

“That’s right. You can’t.”

Yardley heard the edge in his voice. He sobered, straightened.

“You’re in a strange mood,” he observed. “Still upset about Hampshire? Cruitshank wrote to tell me he’d had a letter from you. I told him I’d give you the annual reports.”

He opened the briefcase.

“Here they are, as promised. Three years of them. Inputs, output. It’s all there. The numbers are clear enough. The tenants have no cause to bellyache.”

He leaned forward, tossing the reports onto the desk.