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.
Beatrice looked up with an apologetic smile on her face, but it died when she saw the man she’d run into. “Lord Hasselthorpe!”
The peer looked ghastly. His face was blanched a greenish white, and it shone with sweat. He’d been staring at the closed doors to the Lords, but at her voice, he turned to her and his eyes seemed to focus and then grow cold.
“Lady Blanchard.”
“TO THE TRUE Earl of Blanchard!” Vale cried, not a little inebriated, as he held up a foaming tankard of ale.
“Blanchard! Blanchard!” Munroe, Hartley, and most of the rest of the rather seedy tavern they sat in cheered. Vale had stood the entire small, smoky room drinks twice already.
They were at a booth in the corner, the table scarred and pitted from numerous previous patrons. The barmaid was buxom and pretty and had at first obviously held high hopes for them. Now, however, after a half hour of concentrated effort, she’d turned her ample charms on a table of sailors sitting nearby. Reynaud couldn’t help but think how different her seduction of Vale would’ve ended seven years ago.
“I thank you. I thank you all.” Reynaud was on only his second pint despite Vale’s urging to drink more. He still had a niggling fear of not being completely alert—perhaps a leftover from his years of captivity. “Without your help today, gentlemen, this would’ve been a far more difficult endeavor. Therefore, to Munroe, who so ably diverted a certain duke and requested the presence of another gentleman of importance at Westminster.”
“Huzzah!” shouted the tavern customers, most of whom had no idea what was being said. Even the barmaid waved her cloth.
Munroe merely smiled and inclined his head.
Reynaud turned to Vale. “To Jasper, who gave the deciding vote to pass Mr. Wheaton’s veteran’s bill!”
“Huzzah!”
Vale actually blushed, the color running high over his hangdog face. Of course, that might’ve been the ale as well.
“And to Hartley, who delayed the main opposition to the bill!”
Hartley also inclined his head to the cheers of the crowd, though his eyes were still grave. He waited until the surrounding tavern regulars had quieted and turned back to their own affairs and then said, “There’s something you all ought to know about Hasselthorpe.”
“What’s that?” Suddenly Vale didn’t look drunk at all.
“He denies telling Munroe that the traitor’s mother was French.”
Where another man might sputter into protestations, Munroe merely raised his eyebrows. “Indeed.”
“Why would he lie about such a thing?” Reynaud set down his tankard of ale, wishing he’d not drunk even that. They were close to something here; he could feel it.
“Perhaps it was his first statement that was the lie,” Hartley said softly.