Love's Harbinger by Joan Smith

was eaten and removed. While Lady Lynne sipped her wine and considered the advantage of apple tart versus gingerbread and gooseberry preserves for dessert, a commotion in the hall beyond alerted them to a new arrival at the inn. She leaned forward to see who had entered, then pushed back her chair. “It’s Guy!” she exclaimed happily. “Soaked to the skin. He looks as though he’s just been fished out of the sea. Someone’s with him.” She ran to the door and called him in.
    He was, indeed, thoroughly drenched. His black hair was plastered against his head and water dripped from his shoulders. He stopped at the door and bowed. “Good evening, ladies. I’m happy to see you managed to get a parlor. I was afraid you might be consigned to your chamber for the entire evening.”
    “Come in, come in,” Lady Lynne urged. “Join us, if you haven’t eaten. You’ll never get a parlor. We had to wait an age.”
    Behind him in the doorway lurked another soaking-wet man. “We’re in no condition to join you,” Guy said, mopping his brow with a handkerchief, but his eyes turned to Faith to read her mood.
    “Mr. Delamar must change, Auntie. He’ll catch his death of cold if he doesn’t.”
    “It’s only our outer coats that are soaked,” he pointed out, and removed his to show a dry jacket, though the bottom of his trousers was a shade darker than the top and Faith was convinced his boots were soaked through.
    “Why, you’re dry as a desert,” Lady Lynne declared. “Come and join us and tell us what you’ve been up to. There is plenty of room for you both.”
    “If you’re sure we won’t crowd you . . .”     he said, again looking to Faith. She smiled a small welcome, and it was settled but for the gentlemen to run up to Fletcher’s room to towel-dry their hair. Even Lady Lynne’s eagerness for company allowed them that small vanity.
    When they returned, they were wearing clean shirts and cravats and a scent of some spicy cologne hovered around them. Guy introduced the ladies to his employee, Dick Fletcher. His skin was the same heathenish color as his companion’s, though his blond hair and blue eyes proclaimed him an Englishman even before he spoke. His accent proclaimed him a gentleman.
    “Dick and I were together in Spain,” Guy said briefly. He never said more than the minimum on that subject. “Dick does some of my best pieces for the Harbinger , especially on politics.”
    “What have you learned about the election here?” Faith asked, aiming her question between the two men.
    “We’ve learned plenty,” Fletcher said, “but proving it is something else again. The election was certainly rigged—it began at the polling booth, before the returns were taken for counting. The usual preelection tricks were carried out as well, of course. Bribery, treating, perhaps a little coercion here and there.”
    “Treating?” Lady Lynne asked. “I never heard Sir John speak of that. Is it something new?”
    “As old as Adam,” Mr. Fletcher replied. “The non-Tory voters are wined and dined to such excess before the election that they aren’t in shape to stumble to the polls. But even with that help, the Tories weren’t sure of taking it. Guy and I hung around outside the returning officers’ window, trying to see what went on. Graveston kicked up such a fuss that the Whig was allowed a representative in on the counting.”
    “I’m by no means sure the scrutineers weren’t stuffing a few votes into their pockets or up their sleeves,” Guy added. “It was hard to see through the window with the rain pouring down. We’re interested to see the final count. Dick’s taken his own unofficial poll and he figures it should be a close call. If the Tories come in with some inordinate majority, we’ll know they juggled the count.”
    “And we won’t be able to print it because we have no proof,” Dick added, shaking his head in frustration.
    Faith listened with the keenest interest, and when a