Bloody Relations Read Online Free

colleagues to frame those historic changes in the electoral structure of British government.
    Both Marc and Beth had tried not to stare too rudely at the penultimate personage in the line, but it was difficult not to, as he was the most notorious of Lord Durham’s cronies. Edward Gibbon Wakefield did not look in the least Byronic, despite the fact that, as a callow youth, he had abducted an heiress and carried her off (whether the girl was willing or otherwise had not been finally decided by the court of public opinion), before being tracked down and imprisoned for his romantic excesses. Wakefield’s slim build, wispy blond hair, and tiny bespectacled eyes made him look more like a bank clerk than a Don Juan. At the present moment, as Marc well knew, Wakefield was the most knowledgeable Englishman in regard to colonial affairs. Whatever his amorousproclivities, his advice to Lord Durham during this critical period of assessment would be material and persuasive.
    Suddenly they were in the presence of Lord and Lady Durham, their hosts for the evening. (The Baldwins, as Reform leaders, had graciously declined to join the receiving line in order that no political bias be perceived in what was, after all, the Durhams’ gala.) Lady Durham was simply dressed, polite without condescension, and smiled genuinely, but she was unable to dispel the aura of legitimate gentry characteristic of her every gesture. Beside her, John George Lambton, the earl of Durham—Radical Jack—stood tall and imposing. Even at forty-six and after a life of constant travel and mental exertion as a landlord, mine owner, ambassador, and government minister, he was darkly handsome, with curly brown hair, thoughtful eyes alight with intelligence, and a Roman nose and sensuous lips that had set many a feminine breast aflutter. He took Beth’s gloved hand and kissed it, then turned his penetrating gaze upon Marc.
    â€œI trust your war wound is healing nicely, Lieutenant,” he said, and was already leaning towards Magistrate Thorpe and his wife when Marc halted momentarily in surprise at the remark and its evident solicitude.
    â€œWakefield didn’t give you a second glance,” Marc said as he and Beth approached the ballroom and the valets who were waiting to pounce on top hat and stole. “I don’t know whether to be relieved or aggrieved.”
    â€œThe night’s still young,” Beth teased, looking around expectantly.
    The ballroom before them was rapidly filling with the patricians of the city and their wives, daughters, and distant cousins from the townships. It was the largest domestic space Beth had ever seen, though Marc refrained from commenting that it wasmodest compared with its counterparts back home. Nonetheless, it was impressive and certainly worthy of the demi-royal personages who graced it this evening as host and hostess. Along the eastern wall, a bank of tall, elegant windows reflected the dazzle of a dozen gigantic candelabras. Opposite, a mezzanine held the twenty-piece orchestra—Toronto’s finest bolstered by half a dozen players accompanying the earl—which had just struck up a lively lancers. Through several arches below it lay the cloakrooms, powder rooms, a smoker, a billiard parlour, and a lounge set up for whist or piquet.
    The dancing began rather formally, for despite the short notice many of the guests had had time and foresight to secure dance cards and initiate the delicate process of filling them with names. As no program had been printed, a name opposite a number had to suffice. However, it was not long before the informality of local custom and its regrettable levelling effects began to hold sway. Brazen young Canadians barged into the protective ring of family circles to forcibly carry off the prettiest, mildly protesting member. Gentlemen of girth and standing permitted themselves to be seduced out of their dignity by giggling ingénues and an intoxicating