Reynaud felt the blood rush in his ears, so loud that at first he didn’t hear the verdict. Then he did and a wide grin split his face.
“. . . this committee therefore will recommend to Our Sovereign King, His Majesty George the Third, that Reynaud Michael Paul St. Aubyn be given his rightful title as the Earl of Blanchard.”
The chairman continued with the litany of Reynaud’s other titles, but he no longer listened. Triumph was flooding his chest. The lord sitting beside him clapped him on the back, and the man behind him leaned over the bench saying, “Well done, Blanchard.”
Dear God, it felt good to be addressed by his title finally. The chairman wound down and Reynaud stood. The men about him crowded close, offering congratulations, and Reynaud couldn’t help but feel a bit of cynicism at his sudden popularity. He’d gone from being a madman to one of the most influential men in the kingdom. Beatrice had been right. He had great power now—power he could use to effect good if he wished.
Over the heads of the crowd, he saw Reginald standing by the door. He was alone now, his power gone. Reginald caught his eye and nodded. It was a graceful gesture, an acknowledgment of defeat, and Reynaud wanted to go to him, but he was prevented by the press of bodies. In another moment, Reginald had left the room.
The committee began filing out, and Lord Travers came to offer Reynaud his congratulations. “That’s done, then, what? I’ll have the secretary draw up the official committee recommendation to be sent to His Majesty.”
“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?”