Munroe threw back his head and laughed, the sound harsh and rusty. “No one has ever talked about my scars so frankly to my face.”
Reynaud gestured, unsmiling. “They’re badges of honor. I have the same on my back.”
“Do you now?” Munroe looked at him thoughtfully. “You must’ve been a stubborn bastard to survive seven years a captive.”
“You might say that.” Reynaud cocked his head. “Have you been to see Vale yet?”
“Indeed I have, and he says you might have a small chore for me.”
“Good man.” Reynaud grinned. “Actually, I have two favors to ask of you. Let me tell you what I need done. . . .”
LORD HASSELTHORPE CLIMBED into his carriage and pounded his stick against the roof to alert the driver. Then he sat back and withdrew a memorandum book from his greatcoat pocket. His majority was thin, but he had no doubt they would easily vote down Wheaton’s ridiculous veteran’s pension bill. The government could ill afford to pay drunks and riffraff to lie about all day just because they once took the king’s shilling. Still, it never hurt to be careful. He licked his thumb and turned to the first page in the little book and began to study his speech against the bill.
So intent was he on the points he meant to argue, in fact, that it was some time before he noticed that the carriage was driving by Hyde Park.
Lord Hasselthorpe scowled and leaped to his feet, knocking against the carriage roof. “Stop the carriage! Stop the carriage, I say! You’re going in the wrong damned direction.”
The carriage pulled to the side of the road and halted. Hasselthorpe prepared to give the idiot coachman a tongue-lashing. But before he could reach the carriage door, it was jerked open and a familiar face filled the doorway.
“What the hell are you doing?” Hasselthorpe roared.
Chapter Sixteen
So Longsword lived with the princess and her father in the royal castle, and his days were filled with ease and joy. The food was rich and abundant, his clothing warm and soft; he didn’t have to battle any imps or demons, and the princess was delightful company. In fact, the more time Longsword spent riding with the princess, dining with her, and strolling the castle gardens, the sweeter his pleasure became, until he longed to spend all his days and nights with her forever.
But he knew he could not. His year on earth was growing to a close, and the Goblin King would soon demand his return….
—from Longsword
Westminster Hall’s stern Gothic architecture gave it a conservative air much admired by the majority of the older members of parliament. A corner of Reynaud’s mouth curled up as he neared the imposing doors. He’d come here often as a young man, accompanying his father when he sat in the House of Lords. It was strange to enter now, knowing that he came to defend a title held by his father—a title that should’ve passed to him without any dispute at all. He squared his shoulders and thrust his chin out as he entered the facade. It occurred to him they were the same movements he used to make right before battle.
This, too, was a battle, but one he must fight with his wits.
Reynaud strode through the great vaulted hall, passing under the watchful eyes of the angels that lined the eaves, and proceeded to a dark back passage. This led down a short flight of stairs and to a series of dark-paneled doors. Outside one was a somberly dressed servant.
The servant bowed to Reynaud. “They’re waiting within, my lord.”
Reynaud nodded. “Thank you.”
The dark little room he entered was sparsely furnished. Four rows of wooden benches sat facing a large wood table. Beside the table was a single tall chair. The room was loud with the voices of men, for the benches were nearly full. There were twenty members of this Select Committee for Privileges, appointed from the House of Lords to decide the matter of his title. As Reynaud found a seat, the chairman of the committee, Lord Travers, got up from where he’d been sitting with Beatrice’s uncle on the front bench. He saw Reynaud, nodded, and went to stand before the tall chair.
“My lords, shall we begin?”
The room gradually quieted, although total silence was not achieved, because several members continued to murmur, and one elderly lord was cracking walnuts in the corner, apparently oblivious to the proceedings around him.
Lord Travers nodded, gave a brief, dry outline of the case before the committee, and then called on Reynaud.
Reynaud took a deep breath, his fingers moving to touch where his knife usually hung by his side before he remembered he’d left it at home. He stood and strode to the front of the room and faced his peers. The faces that looked back at him were mostly old. Would they understand? Did they still have pity?
He took a breath. “My lords, I stand before you and plead for the title my father, my grandfather, my great-grandfather, and his father before him held. I ask you for what is only mine by birth. You have papers attesting to my identity. That, I think, is not at issue.” He paused and looked at the men sitting in judgment of him. Not a one looked particularly sympathetic. “What is at issue is what my opponent intends to claim: that I am mad.”
That caused several lords to frown and put their heads together. Reynaud felt his shoulder blades twitch. The tack he was taking was a risk, but a calculated one.
He let the murmurs die and then lifted his chin. “I am not mad. What I am is an officer of His Majesty’s army, one who has seen perhaps more than his fair share of combat and hardship. If I am mad, then every officer who ever saw battle, who ever came home missing limb or eye, who ever dreamed in the night of blood and war cries, is mad as well. Shame me and you shame every brave man who has fought for this country.”
The voices had grown louder at his assertion, but Reynaud raised his voice to be heard over the murmuring. “Grant me, then, my lords, what is mine and mine alone. The title that belonged to my father. The title that in time will descend to my son. The earldom of Blanchard. My earldom.”
There were frowns and voices raised in argument as he made his way back to his seat. As Reynaud sat down he wondered if he’d just won back his title—or lost it forever.
ALGERNON DOWNEY, THE Duke of Lister, was on the way to the House of Lords, but he paused on the front steps of his town house to give his secretary some additional instructions. “I’ve run out of patience. Tell my aunt that if she cannot keep figures, then she should hire someone literate to do it for her. Until then, I do not intend to give her any further monies this quarter. A few refusals of service from tradesmen may help her to be more frugal with her allowance.”