“Ah. As to that,” Reynaud began, but there was a commotion in the doorway. A tall, ruddy-faced young man with strikingly prominent blue eyes came into the room.
“Your Majesty!” Lord Travers exclaimed. “To what do we owe the honor of your visit?”
“Come to sign a paper, what?” King George replied. “What a dingy little room this is.” He turned and examined Reynaud. “You’re Blanchard?”
“I am.” Reynaud bowed low. “It’s an honor to meet you, Your Majesty.”
“Captured by savages, or so we’re told by Sir Alistair Munroe,” the king said. “Bound to be a good tale in that, what? We would be most pleased if you’d come to tea and tell us the story. Bring your lady wife as well.”
Reynaud fought back a grin and bowed again. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“Now, where’s that recommendation?” the king asked, looking around as if it might appear out of thin air.
“You’ve come to sign the recommendation?” Lord Travers asked in mild astonishment. He snapped his fingers urgently at the servant by the door. “Walters, fetch a pen and paper, if you will. We must prepare the committee’s recommendation for His Majesty’s signature.”
The servant left the room at a dead run.
“And then there’s the writ so you can sit in the House of Lords,” the king said cheerfully. He motioned to an attendant. “We’ve had it already drawn up, just in case.”
“Your Majesty is quite prepared, I see,” Lord Travers said somewhat drily. “Had I known Your Majesty’s plans, I would’ve had some papers already prepared. As it is, we’ll have to work fast, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, yes?” The king raised his eyebrows.
“Indeed, sire,” Lord Travers said somberly. “The House of Lords is convening at this moment.”
“WHAT THE HELL’RE you doing?” Lord Hasselthorpe roared. It was the Colonial, Samuel Hartley, climbing into his carriage as if he had every right.
“Sorry,” the other man said. “I thought you’d stop to give me a ride.”
“What?” Hasselthorpe glanced out the window. They were almost on the outskirts of London. “Is this robbery? Have you commandeered my carriage?”
“Nothing of the sort.” Hartley shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest, slumping a bit in the seat, his legs taking up too damned much of the room. “I merely saw your carriage stopped and thought I’d ask for a ride. You don’t mind, do you?”
“I have a session of the House of Lords to attend at Westminster Palace. Of course I mind!”
“Then you’d better tell your coachman,” Hartley said maddeningly. “We’re driving in the opposite direction.”
Once again, Hasselthorpe rose and pounded on the roof of the carriage.
Ten minutes later, after a ridiculous argument with his coachman, who seemed to’ve entirely lost his sense of direction, Hasselthorpe once again took his seat.
Hartley shook his head sadly. “Good help is hard to find. Do you think your driver’s drunk?”
“That or mad,” Hasselthorpe grumbled. At the rate they were going, the session might very well be over by the time they got to Westminster Palace. He clutched his memorandum book in sweaty hands. This vote was an important one—it would demonstrate his ability to lead and direct the party.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Hartley drawled, interrupting his thoughts. “Who were you referring to when you told Sir Alistair Munroe that the Spinner’s Falls traitor had a French mother?”
Hasselthorpe’s mind went entirely blank. “What?”
“Because I’ve been racking my brain, and the only veteran of Spinner’s Falls who had a French mother that I remember is Reynaud St. Aubyn,” Hartley said. “Of course, your brother was there as well, wasn’t he? Lieutenant Thomas Maddock. A brave soldier as I remember. Perhaps he wrote you about another soldier who had a French mother?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hasselthorpe said. “I never told Munroe anything about soldiers with French mothers.”
Hartley was silent a moment, staring at him.
Hasselthorpe felt sweat dampen his armpits.
Then Hartley said softly, “No? How strange. Munroe remembers the conversation vividly.”
“Perhaps he’d been drinking,” Hasselthorpe snapped.
The Colonial smiled as if he’d revealed something damning and said lightly, “Perhaps. You know, I hadn’t thought about your brother Thomas for a very long while.”
Hasselthorpe licked his lips. He was too hot. The carriage felt like a trap.
“He was your older brother, wasn’t he?” Hartley asked softly.
Chapter Seventeen
As the end of his year on earth drew nearer, Longsword grew more and more despondent until Princess Serenity feared for his very life. Yet although he was distracted and moody, in his body he remained healthy and strong. She decided then that the problem must lie with his mind, and to find out the matter, she questioned him closely, both day and night. So vexed was her husband that in the end he could do naught but confess his story. How he had made a very bad bargain with the Goblin King. How he could remain on the earth for only one year unless he could find someone to take his place in the kingdom of the goblins of their own volition.
And how if Longsword failed to find his replacement, he would be damned to labor for the Goblin King for all eternity….
—from Longsword
“Westminster is so very masculine, isn’t it?” Lottie mused as they stopped and glanced about the great hall.
“Masculine?” Beatrice stared at the high vaulted ceiling, nearly black with age. “I don’t know what you mean by masculine, but I do think it could do with a good cleaning.”
“What I mean by masculine,” Lottie said, linking her arm with Beatrice’s, “is stodgy and self-important and much too serious to notice mere womenfolk.”
Beatrice eyed her friend, who was looking elegant as usual in a deep purple and brown striped gown. She’d just taken off her fur hood, but her cheeks were rosy from the cold outside, and her eyes snapped with an aggression that Beatrice wasn’t sure had anything to do with Westminster Palace’s architecture.
“It’s a building, Lottie.”
“Exactly,” Lottie said. “And all buildings—at least the great ones—have a sort of spiritual sense about them. Did I ever tell you about the chill I felt in St. Paul’s last spring? Quite mysterious. It sent a shiver down my spine.”
“Perhaps you were standing in a draft,” Beatrice said practically. They’d reached the end of the hall and had come to a passage. “Which way now?”
“To the right,” Lottie said decisively. “The left leads to the Commons’ Strangers Gallery, so the right must be the way to the gallery for the lords.”
“Hmm.” This seemed rather haphazard, but as Beatrice had never visited parliament before and Lottie had, she followed her.
And as it turned out, whether by luck or accident, Lottie was exactly right. They turned right down a narrow passage that led to a set of double doors. To the side was a staircase that led upward. Once at the top, they each gave the waiting servant two shillings and were admitted to the ladies’ side of the visitor gallery.
Below them was a hall with tiered benches arranged on either side rather like the choir in a cathedral. The benches were covered in red cushions. Between the rows of benches was a long wooden table, and at the end of the hall stood several single chairs. The gallery overhung the hall and ran around three sides.
“I thought they were in session,” Beatrice whispered.
“They are,” Lottie replied.
Beatrice examined the noble members of the House of Lords. “They don’t look like they’re doing very much.”
And they didn’t. Some men wandered the chamber or chatted together in small groups. Others lounged on the cushions, more than one dozing. A gentleman stood at the end and appeared to be talking, but the noise in the hall was so loud that Beatrice couldn’t hear him. Some of the lords appeared to be heckling the poor man.
“The governing process can be obscure to the untrained eye,” Lottie said loftily.
“Why, that’s Lord Phipps,” Beatrice exclaimed in dismay, having finally identified the speaker. “It doesn’t look very good for Mr. Wheaton’s bill.”
For Lord Phipps was the champion of the veteran’s bill in the House of Lords. He was a kindly man but was a bit dry and nondescript and, as it was obvious now, not a particularly good speaker.
“No, it doesn’t,” Lottie said, subdued. “He is so sweet when he comes to the meetings. He sat and told me all about his ginger cat once.”
“He got tears in his eyes when he talked about his late wife,” Beatrice said.
“Such a nice man.”
They both watched as a lord in a full-bottomed wig and black and gold robes at the end of the room vainly shouted for order. Someone threw an orange peel.
“Oh, dear,” Lottie sighed.
There was a commotion by the doors, but since the gallery overhung the room, Beatrice couldn’t at first see who had entered below them. Then Reynaud strode into the room, and her heart gave a sort of painful leap. He was so handsome, so commanding, and he seemed farther away from her than ever. Reynaud headed straight to the man in the chair as heads turned to follow his progress.
“What’s he doing?” Lottie asked. “A peer has to have a writ of summons from the king to join parliament.”
“He must’ve won the title back,” Beatrice said softly. She rejoiced for Reynaud, but she worried about Uncle Reggie. He must be crushed. “Perhaps he got a special dispensation?”
“From the king himself,” a male voice said from the aisle separating the ladies’ section from the rest of the gallery.
“Nate!” Lottie cried.
Mr. Graham nodded at his wife. “Lottie.” He came to stand by the rail near them. “It’s all over Westminster. Reynaud has been given the title and the earldom by King George—he actually came to Westminster to do it.”
“But how could he sit in the House of Lords today?” Lottie asked.
Mr. Graham shrugged. “The king issued his writ of summons at the same time.”
“Goodness,” Beatrice said. “Then he’ll be able to vote on Mr. Wheaton’s bill.” Would his vote be for or against the bill?
The peer in the black and gold robes was calling for order. “The noble Earl of Blanchard will now speak on this matter.”
Beatrice gasped and leaned forward.
Reynaud stood and placed one hand on the table in the middle of the room. He paused a moment as the House quieted and then said, “My lords, this bill has been explained to you at length by the noble Lord Phipps. It is to provide for the well-being of the gallant men who serve this country and His Majesty, King George, with their bravery, their labor, and sometimes their very lives. There are those who value this service lightly, who consider the soldiers of this green and glorious isle to be less than deserving of a decent pension in their old age.”
A lord cried, “Hear him!”
“Perhaps these persons find mealy peasemeal and gruel a banquet. Perhaps these persons think marching for twenty miles through mud in pouring rain a stroll through a pleasure garden.”
“Hear him! Hear him!” The calls were growing more frequent.
“Perhaps these persons find facing cannon fire relaxing. Enjoy meeting the charge of galloping cavalry. Find the screams of dying men music to their ears.”
“Hear him! Hear him!”
“Perhaps,” Reynaud shouted above the chant, “these persons love the agony of a severed limb, the loss of an eye, or the infliction of torture such as this.”
