The Tutor (House of Lords) Read Free Page B

career, if only because he seemed to be one of the most vocal opponents of the causes she held dear. He was unmarried, so perhaps his sister meant to play hostess for him.
    Mariah shook her head. “No, not Imogen—her brother.”
    Cynthia gaped. “Her...her brother? Do you mean her younger brother?” There were two Bainbridge brothers, she thought. Certainly it was the younger, who was probably a boy still, who wanted her help?
    “No, dear. Charles Bainbridge, Duke of Danforth, wishes you to tutor him.” Mariah looked almost gleeful at the prospect of a duke needing tutoring in the world of politics and the law. Cynthia didn’t blame her. She knew the Duke of Danforth by reputation, and she was aware that he was a bit of a rakehell, but the idea that a man who had been a marquis all his life and was now a duke would need her services was a little frightening. Seeing that she did not know what to say, Mariah went on, “He is going to take up his seat in Parliament when the session begins in February. Before that, he needs a little...polishing.” Cynthia thought Mariah might actually have giggled a little at that last word. And it was rather laughable. But it was also terrifying. Were these the men who had the ear of the king? By all accounts, William IV was not well. It was falling increasingly to the peers to make the decisions that would affect the kingdom with very little input from him, and the Great Reform had only made Parliament stronger. With all the uncertainty surrounding the king's health and the fitness of the Princess Victoria, his child heir, parliament was trying to push through as many changes as they could now, before William died and left the young princess—or worse, her overbearing Hanoverian Mama and her cronies—in control of the kingdom. Last year they had finally, completely abolished slavery in England and its protectorates, and she knew that this year it was to be a reform of the inadequate and crippling Poor Laws. There were certainly a great many decisions to be made, many of them requiring great care and deliberation, but Cynthia was horrified to think that a Member might need help from her to make such decisions.
    But if anyone was qualified, it was her. One thing her father had not taught her was false modesty. Cynthia knew her strengths. She knew how intelligent she was, and she knew that she had been a student—not a formal one, but a student nonetheless—of one of the greatest political minds of his generation. If she knew how to turn a ninny like Lydia Baxter into a poised, intellectual society belle, then she could teach a duke, who would surely have intelligence and a quick wit, to be a leader amongst his colleagues at Westminster.
    She lowered herself into the chair Mariah offered. “I’m listening,” she said.
     
    It was nearly four when Cynthia arrived home. When they had moved to London, she had still not truly understood how large the inheritance her father had received was. But when she had seen the fashionable townhouse in Cavendish Square, she had realized that he had, indeed, come into a great deal of money. The house was a four-story affair built in the Georgian style. Inside well appointed if narrow hall led into the formal rooms: a parlor, a sitting room, and a dining room. At the back of the house a door led out to the garden, and another led down to the kitchens, which were the domain of their long-suffering cook. Cynthia had only been down to the kitchens once or twice. Usually she met with Cook, whose last name was Bludderidge, in the dining room after breakfast had been cleared away. Her father had a large and varied appetite, and often gave Cynthia instructions about dinner at the morning meal so that they could be passed on—he never dealt with Cook or any of the other servants directly unless it could not possibly be avoided. There weren’t many—besides Cook, there was the butler, a round, officious looking man called Mallory, Cynthia’s ladies’