“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?”
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
As the end of his year on earth drew nearer, Longsword grew more and more despondent until Princess Serenity feared for his very life. Yet although he was distracted and moody, in his body he remained healthy and strong. She decided then that the problem must lie with his mind, and to find out the matter, she questioned him closely, both day and night. So vexed was her husband that in the end he could do naught but confess his story. How he had made a very bad bargain with the Goblin King. How he could remain on the earth for only one year unless he could find someone to take his place in the kingdom of the goblins of their own volition.
And how if Longsword failed to find his replacement, he would be damned to labor for the Goblin King for all eternity….
—from Longsword
“Westminster is so very masculine, isn’t it?” Lottie mused as they stopped and glanced about the great hall.
“Masculine?” Beatrice stared at the high vaulted ceiling, nearly black with age. “I don’t know what you mean by masculine, but I do think it could do with a good cleaning.”
“What I mean by masculine,” Lottie said, linking her arm with Beatrice’s, “is stodgy and self-important and much too serious to notice mere womenfolk.”
Beatrice eyed her friend, who was looking elegant as usual in a deep purple and brown striped gown. She’d just taken off her fur hood, but her cheeks were rosy from the cold outside, and her eyes snapped with an aggression that Beatrice wasn’t sure had anything to do with Westminster Palace’s architecture.
“It’s a building, Lottie.”
“Exactly,” Lottie said. “And all buildings—at least the great ones—have a sort of spiritual sense about them. Did I ever tell you about the chill I felt in St. Paul’s last spring? Quite mysterious. It sent a shiver down my spine.”