and enchanted had turned into sludge during the past couple of days. Not that it mattered. The weather was always the same in his study.
London was slowly but steadily soaked by gray drizzle. By the time he entered Buckingham Palace, his leather shoes were glistening wet despite the black umbrella hovering above him.
He did not expect a warm welcome in the royal apartment today. Neither the queen nor Disraeli would be keen on his latest recommendations. He’d push his strategy through regardless. He just knew when a plan was right, like his farmers had a sixth sense for how the weather would change. What niggled at the back of his mind as he took his seat was whether Victoria already knew that his heir presumptive had absconded. That would open a can of worms he’d prefer to keep firmly closed.
The queen and the prime minister sat in their usual spots, she in her thronelike armchair by the window, he right next to the fireplace, as if he suffered from a perpetual chill. Sebastian’s briefing was laid out neatly on the low table.
The queen’s eyes were as opaque as her onyx earbobs. “I was very pleased to hear that your New Year’s Eve party was a success,” she said.
He blinked at the unexpected sting between his ribs. He’d forever associate that party with personal rejection.
“I’m glad it lived up to expectations, ma’am.”
“I had no doubt it would.” Her gaze slid away from him to the briefing before her. “We were, however, surprised by your suggestions for the campaign. Indulging the farmers, Montgomery?”
“You once described them as the backbone of Britain, ma’am,” he said smoothly.
The queen pursed her lips, deciding whether she liked having her own words played back to her like that.
“Farmers are not our clientele,” Disraeli said. His white hair stood on end at the back of his head, as if he’d taken a nap in his wing chair and not yet fixed himself. “Local soil is not the running ticket of the Tories. Besides, the Liberals firmly have their claws in them already.”
“They are easy prey for Gladstone because they still hold a grudge against you over the corn laws,” Sebastian said. “Enough of them could be turned if given a few concessions.”
Disraeli was gripped by a coughing fit; he coughed until his eyes bulged and watered. “But how many farmers are there?” he asked when he had caught his breath.
“Around three thousand.”
“Not a number that will make or break our victory, surely? Even if they had the vote.”
Sebastian resisted the urge to rub a hand over his face. How this man had managed to weasel his way into a position of leadership and into the queen’s good graces continued to astound him.
“Give each of these three thousand farmers a few partners in trade they can infect with their outrage in the pub every Friday, and we have the tens of thousands of outraged tradesmen who are bound to influence their constituencies,” he said. “The Liberal party is still very effectively blaming the economic downturn on the Tories, and they are blaming us daily, in town halls and market squares all over Britain.”
Disraeli’s lips twisted as if he were trying to rid himself of a bad taste in his mouth. “You were there when I wrote the Tory manifesto. We stand for expanding the empire, endless horizons. Glory. Greatness. That is what uplifts people, even the most lowly man. Uplift the empire and farmers will follow you gladly.”
Sebastian’s smile was entirely void of humor. “And I give every man credit who prefers starving for glory over feeding his family,” he said, “but the current polls are what they are and they demand a change in tactics.”
One did not even have to read four newspapers every morning to know this, or have a spy planted among the opposition. He, like every man of his class, had tenants. Unlike his peers, he saw their toils; he found them reflected in his own balance sheets when a harvest was bad or imported grain was sold too cheaply. It was all there if one cared to look. And he had looked hard in the past five days; every moment he hadn’t spent speaking to Scotland Yard, he had buried himself in paperwork and figure columns and reports. Of course, facts hardly convinced people whose emotions wanted it to be otherwise; a pity, for he found he was surprisingly unwilling to indulge petty sentiments today.
The silence in the royal apartment thickened. Disraeli shifted in