Toby held his tongue. It was becoming a bit of a pattern, he’d noticed. Isabel was a willing, and even enthusiastic, partner in lovemaking. But the moment their physical pleasure was concluded, her charitable zeal returned in double force. Just last night, while he’d been struggling for breath in the aftermath of an explosive coupling, Isabel had popped straight from bed and fished the tinderbox and candle from the drawer of his writing desk. Her reason? It had been imperative, at two in the morning, to pen a note to Augusta regarding some alteration in the text of their Society leaflet.

For his part, Toby had gone to sleep.

Well, he supposed, different women had differing reactions following the coital act. Some found languor and sleep, while others experienced a burst of energy. And no matter what task Isabel rose from their bed to complete, in time she always came back. Toby could understand the habit, on a rational level, and he hardly knew how to object. But he still felt a small surge of resentment, each time he lazily stretched to embrace his wife and grasped nothing but air. The coach rolled to a halt in the town square.

“Here we are, then,” Toby said, leaning forward in his seat. He took his wife’s hand. “Shall I have the driver take you on to Wynterhall? Our trunks have likely arrived by now, and the house staff will be expecting you.”

“What do you mean? I don’t want to go on to the house, not alone. I want to stay here with you, and watch the proceedings.”

“Isabel, it’s only the nomination of candidates … a trifling matter of procedure and an excuse to tap a few kegs of ale. Not a referendum on the human condition. Besides, the hustings can become disorderly. This isn’t a scene for a lady.”

She peered out the carriage window. “But there are several ladies in the crowd already. Please, let me stay. If you like, I’ll sit in the carriage and watch from here. I want to witness the birth of your political career.” With a little smile, she added, “And I’d so looked forward to hearing your speech.”

“Had you?” Toby asked, suddenly wishing he’d prepared one.

* * *

Isabel asked the coachman to retract the landau top so she might enjoy the open air. From her vantage point at the edge of the square, she watched the crowd churn with anticipation. The taverns bordering the green were doing a brisk business, and the dry-goods merchants as well. Wandering piemen and orange-sellers hawked their wares in colorful song. Above all, a string of bright banners fluttered in the breeze. Bel had never attended a country fair, but in her imagination, they looked much like this.

A man wearing an outmoded jonquil-yellow topcoat mounted the hustings platform and called out to the throng. His voice was every bit as loud as his coat. Bel could tell from his proud bearing, he took his duties very seriously.

“All right, then,” he called. “We all know how this goes. As your returning officer, empowered by the sheriff to oversee this election, I’ve summat to read aloud.” He withdrew a folded sheaf of parchment from his pocket.

“Can’t we skip over that part?” a voice whined from the crowd.

“No, we can’t skip over that part,” the yellow-clad man mimicked back. He shook his clutch of papers and fortified his booming voice. “It’s procedure, you idiot. It’s government. It’s this paper what separates us from the heathens.”

Another bystander called out, “It’s that paper what makes you a pompous arse.”

“No, it ain’t,” a third shouted. “It’s that bloody coat.”

“Trust me, gents, it’s neither.” This came from a round-cheeked woman draped over the sill of a second-story window. “He’s a pompous arse, wearing nothing at all.”

The crowd roared with laughter, and the yellow-clad man’s face turned a violent shade of red.

“I only wish he’d read me that paper some night,” she continued. “Couldn’t be any more boring than his—”

Bel couldn’t make out the remainder of her remark. A fresh storm of laughter drowned it out. Still, she blushed as her mind filled in the blank.

“Enough!” the man in the yellow coat berated the crowd. “Drink your ale, you uncivilized idiots. And you, woman”—he waved a finger at the cackling figure in the window—“I’ll paddle your meddling arse six shades of red this evening.”

“Oh, Colin,” she sang out, fluttering her eyelashes. “Do you promise?”

When the crowd finally settled—several minutes later—the man in the yellow coat began to read. Bel understood why the crowd had protested the idea. First there was the writ calling for a new Parliament, and then the act against bribery. Then another man came forward, to administer the officer’s oath against bribery. And as the gears of government creaked along, the sun inched higher in the sky, baking the square with soporific heat. Soon the horses were stamping and whickering with impatience. The coachman’s head slumped to the side, and even Bel was swallowing back a yawn.

Finally, the yellow-clad returning officer put out the call for nominations.

“Montague!” the crowd roared as one. They repeated the name until it became a three-syllable chant: “Mon-ta-gue! Mon-ta-gue!”

Montague? Who was Montague, and why had Bel not heard of him if he possessed such a loyal following? She’d thought Mr. Yorke posed Toby’s only opposition. A bent, decrepit man mounted the platform, helped up the stairs by a man half his age and twice his size. He wore a faded Army redcoat with tarnished buttons and cuffs worn white at the edge. The crowd’s chanting increased in volume until he doddered to the center of the stage and snapped a military salute.

To a man, the assembled electors came to attention and saluted in return.

“All hail Madman Montague!” a man cried out from the throng.

The hulking man at the candidate’s elbow made a threatening gesture with his fist. “Don’t you be disrespecting the colonel.”

“Aw, come on. Ain’t as though he can hear me.”

The man in the yellow coat regained control of the stage. “Colonel Geoffrey Montague is hereby a candidate for the office of Member of Parliament.”

A general cheer rose up again. The old man saluted with even greater vigor, sending the epaulette of his uniform askew.

Bel understood it now. The crowd took amusement at this old man’s expense. He must present himself as a candidate in every election, with no serious hopes of winning, and the people of the borough took from him a hearty laugh. It was pathetic, really. Poor thing.

“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.