“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.”
And Beatrice covered her mouth in mingled horror and pride. For on his last word, Reynaud flung from his body his coat and waistcoat and pulled his shirt half down his arms, revealing his upper back. Sudden silence descended on the hall as Reynaud pivoted in place, the light reflecting off the ugly scars snaking through his tanned skin. In the quiet, the sound of linen ripping was loud as Reynaud tore off the remainder of the shirt and threw it to the floor.
He raised one hand, outstretched, commanding. “If such a person is in this room, let him vote against this bill.”
The room erupted into cheers. Every peer was on his feet, many were still shouting, “Hear him! Hear him!”
“To order! To order!” the peer in the gold and black robes called to no avail.
Reynaud still stood, his chest bare, his back straight in the middle of the hall, proudly displaying the scars she knew had shamed him. He glanced up and caught her eye. Beatrice stood up, clapping, the tears standing in her eyes. He nodded imperceptibly and then was distracted by another peer.
“He’s won it,” Mr. Graham shouted. “They’ll vote, but I think it a mere formality. Your uncle can no longer vote on the Lords, and Hasselthorpe and Lister haven’t shown.”
Lottie leaned toward him. “You must be disappointed.”
Mr. Graham shook his head. “I’ve decided Hasselthorpe isn’t a leader I want to be following.” He looked sheepishly at Beatrice. “I’m almost certain he was behind that scene at Miss Molyneux’s ball. In any event, I intend to vote for Mr. Wheaton’s bill.”
“Oh, Nate!” Lottie cried, and threw her arms most improperly about his neck.
Beatrice looked down, smiling as Lottie and Mr. Graham embraced.
“Sir! Sir!” a servant called. “Gentlemen are not allowed in the ladies’ side of the gallery!”
Mr. Graham raised his head only fractionally. “She’s my wife, dammit.” And while gazing in a most romantic manner into Lottie’s eyes, he added, “And my love.”
And he kissed her again.
This was too much for Beatrice’s already overwrought emotions. She found herself wiping tears from her cheeks. In order to give her friends more privacy and to compose herself, she slipped from the gallery, quietly descending the back stairs. In the dark passageway below, she stood by herself, leaning a little against the wall.
Why had he done it? Just last night he said he never wanted to talk of his scars again. Then why reveal them to a roomful of strangers? Did the bill mean so much to him—or, wonderful thought, had he done it for her after all? Beatrice felt selfish, wanting his reason to endorse the bill to be her. The lives of so many soldiers were at stake. Perhaps he’d done it simply of noble consideration for the veterans. But then there’d been that glance he’d given her… Oh, she must not read too much into a mere glance!
While she’d been silently contemplating all this, the lords had quieted, but now they roared again, and she could tell by the shouts of “Blanchard! Blanchard!” that Reynaud had carried the day for Mr. Wheaton’s bill. Her heart was nearly overflowing. She turned blindly to return to the gallery, but in doing so bumped into a large male form.