To Tempt a Scandalous Lord by Liana De la Rosa

Chapter Five

Niall was dead on his feet.

He’d risen before the sun to read through a bill proposal that had been presented to his committee for review, and then prepared talking points for a speech he was to give to party members at a luncheon later in the day. Then there was another blasted ball to attend, this time an affair hosted by Lord Talbot. By the time dinner rolled around at the event, he would be awake for nearly an entire day.

Scrubbing a hand across his brow, Niall focused on reordering his thoughts. No one had said a bid for Prime Minister would allocate time for sleep.

At least he had his waltz with Lady Lindsay to look forward to.

The promise of seeing the dark-eyed blonde shouldn’t make his palms tingle and his breath come in rapid spurts, but there was no denying his eagerness to hold her in his arms as they twirled about the dance floor.

Niall preferred not to contemplate too deeply why the countess fascinated him. There were enough matters to consider and wrestle over rather than his quickly growing infatuation with the clever, witty widow.

A knock on the study door drew his head up.

At his word, the butler entered. “Mr. Torres is here to see you, my lord. May I show him in?”

The Duke of Darington’s man of business? Whyever would the man be calling on him? Niall was instantly at attention. “Please.”

While he awaited his unexpected guest, Niall pushed the papers on his desk into neat, orderly piles, arranging his pens just so, before he smoothed back his hair.

“Mr. Torres, my lord,” his butler intoned as the dark-haired gentleman stepped over the threshold.

Niall had met the tall Spaniard only a time or two before, but the man had made an impression. Torres had worked for Darington long before the duke had come into his title, and he knew the man did jobs for his other friends, as well. They trusted the man implicitly, which made the mystery of why he was now calling on him even more interesting.

After exchanging pleasantries, Niall invited him to have a seat. “Is there a particular reason why you have graced me with your presence today?”

“Darington and Ashwood grew tired of your reticence to discover the identity of the chapbook author and set me to the task.”

Oh.Frustration and appreciation clashed within Niall’s chest and left an uncomfortable ache behind. That his friends took it upon themselves to see to this problem that had been haunting him left him at sixes and sevens.

Impervious to his thoughts, Torres stretched out his long legs in front of him. He reminded Niall of a cat preparing for a nap under the afternoon sun. “I have identified the publisher of the tracts. Does the name Charles Hughes sound familiar? He’s known for printing several small periodicals, as well as dime novels and recipe books. His business printing and distributing political chapbooks is not advertised.”

“I’ve heard his name mentioned before. You’re certain he’s the one printing these things?” Niall reached into his drawer and scattered several copies of the chapbooks across the desktop like blighted confetti.

Torres scanned the copies, his mouth twisting. “I am. In fact, I saw him accepting what I think might be a new essay in the park yesterday morning.”

Niall went still, his breath hitching in his throat. “You saw a handoff? How do you know that’s what it was?”

“Because a new tract began circulating this morning,” the Spaniard said, sliding a chapbook across the desk.

Staring down at the folded paper, Niall swallowed. He picked it up slowly, his fingertip stroking the corner of the tract for a moment, before he unfolded it and read.

Two Men for Prime Minister, No Champion for the People

As the vote for who will lead the Whig government approaches, party voters have a difficult decision to make.

Their first choice is a man who holds the confidence of current Prime Minister, Lord Grey, yet persistent rumors of a peccadillo with a married lady cast shadows on his honor. The second choice is a duke’s heir who runs a foundling home for orphans and has been one of the most popular MPs in decades. Yet in his seven years in Commons, he’s consistently failed to bring sweeping reform bills to the floor.

So which flawed candidate will party electors choose? The heir apparent with questionable morals, or the party star who cannot get things done?

Niall crumpled the tract before he could read more. He did not need to know how the author compared him to Medlinger. The opening salvo had infuriated him enough.

Spearing Torres with a fierce look, he asked, “Who delivered it?”

“On my way to visit Darington, I passed a young Black woman walking on Lower Brooks Street. Later that afternoon, I saw her again, this time in St. James’s Park…sitting on a bench next to Hughes. She pulled an envelope from her reticule, placed it on the space between them, and then rose and strode away. I was instantly curious because from what I have seen, new chapbooks circulate once a week, almost always on Thursdays, which means the essays themselves are probably due that Tuesday if not Wednesday.” Torres gestured to the newest tract with his chin. “Is it a coincidence that issue was distributed today? I could be mistaken, but I highly doubt it. The young woman I saw was either the author or works for the author.”

Niall stabbed the tract with a finger. “Did you see if she went in or out of any house on Lower Brooks Street?”

Torres shook his head. “Unfortunately, I did not. I saw her only in passing, and noted her pretty face and nothing else.”

Rising to his feet, Niall stalked to the sideboard and pulled the stopper from a decanter of whisky with a bit too much force than was necessary. Pouring a healthy dram into two glasses, he offered one to Torres before he collapsed into his seat.

Taking a healthy sip, Niall held the liquor in his mouth as it burned his tongue, willing the sting to fortify him. Dropping the glass down on the desktop, he scrubbed a hand down his face.

“I understand only a small portion of your frustration, and if I had been paying better attention, we may have been able to put an end to this.” Torres tossed back the entirety of his glass with one gulp.

“How could you know the woman you passed by in the street could be responsible for wreaking havoc over Westminster?” Niall leaned back in his chair and planted his elbows on the armrest, tapping his carded fingers against his chin. “You’ve discovered a lead, and that’s the best anyone else has done.”

“Your praise embarrasses, my lord.” Torres huffed a laugh. “Do you want me to track down this woman?”

“I do,” Niall murmured, “and report back on what you find.”

The Spaniard nodded.

“What do you think are the odds this woman is the author?” he inquired as he leaned back in his chair.

“She very well could be,” Torres said with a shrug. “Whoever she is, I did not recognize her, and I’ve tried my best to know who is who in Society, if only to protect His and Her Grace of Darington’s interests.”

Niall puffed his cheeks on an exhale. “Right, well, perhaps she works with an insider who has a view of the ton. Someone who haunts ballrooms and drawing rooms, plucking information and gossip where it’s available.”

“And there is plenty of gossip to parse nuggets of information from.”

He snorted. “You’re right about that.” Dropping his gaze to the newest treatise, Niall considered the writer’s words. “Do you suppose Medlinger is behind these? I know they haven’t necessarily been positive to his candidacy—”

“Or character,” Torres added.

Niall huffed a laugh. “Or that. But Medlinger is clever. If he could find a seemingly unbiased way to make himself seem like the better candidate, personal ethics aside, I think he would do it.”

The Spaniard ran a finger over the rim of his glass. “I agree that Medlinger is clever, but something about this feels truly impartial. The writer, whoever he…or I suppose she is, feels strongly about the arguments they’re making. Their passion is evident right there on the page. I don’t think anyone would accuse Medlinger of expressing this level of passion for any one issue.”

A true assessment. His opponent was a worthy candidate because he was even tempered and seemed more concerned about the smooth flow of government than he was about championing particular causes.

Rubbing a hand along his brow, Niall nodded. “So if not Medlinger, who? Who stands to benefit from these pointed critiques?”

Torres snorted. “I’m certain this anonymous writer would say the British people do.”

“Point taken,” he said with a chuckle.

“Well, whoever the real author is, what do you intend to do once I run this woman to ground?”

“I’ll put a stop to this,” he said, sweeping his hand across the scattered chapbooks, “once and for all.”