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