To Desire a Devil (Legend of the Four Soldiers #4)(67)
Author: Elizabeth Hoyt

“Perhaps you were standing in a draft,” Beatrice said practically. They’d reached the end of the hall and had come to a passage. “Which way now?”

“To the right,” Lottie said decisively. “The left leads to the Commons’ Strangers Gallery, so the right must be the way to the gallery for the lords.”

“Hmm.” This seemed rather haphazard, but as Beatrice had never visited parliament before and Lottie had, she followed her.

And as it turned out, whether by luck or accident, Lottie was exactly right. They turned right down a narrow passage that led to a set of double doors. To the side was a staircase that led upward. Once at the top, they each gave the waiting servant two shillings and were admitted to the ladies’ side of the visitor gallery.

Below them was a hall with tiered benches arranged on either side rather like the choir in a cathedral. The benches were covered in red cushions. Between the rows of benches was a long wooden table, and at the end of the hall stood several single chairs. The gallery overhung the hall and ran around three sides.

“I thought they were in session,” Beatrice whispered.

“They are,” Lottie replied.

Beatrice examined the noble members of the House of Lords. “They don’t look like they’re doing very much.”

And they didn’t. Some men wandered the chamber or chatted together in small groups. Others lounged on the cushions, more than one dozing. A gentleman stood at the end and appeared to be talking, but the noise in the hall was so loud that Beatrice couldn’t hear him. Some of the lords appeared to be heckling the poor man.

“The governing process can be obscure to the untrained eye,” Lottie said loftily.

“Why, that’s Lord Phipps,” Beatrice exclaimed in dismay, having finally identified the speaker. “It doesn’t look very good for Mr. Wheaton’s bill.”

For Lord Phipps was the champion of the veteran’s bill in the House of Lords. He was a kindly man but was a bit dry and nondescript and, as it was obvious now, not a particularly good speaker.

“No, it doesn’t,” Lottie said, subdued. “He is so sweet when he comes to the meetings. He sat and told me all about his ginger cat once.”

“He got tears in his eyes when he talked about his late wife,” Beatrice said.

“Such a nice man.”

They both watched as a lord in a full-bottomed wig and black and gold robes at the end of the room vainly shouted for order. Someone threw an orange peel.

“Oh, dear,” Lottie sighed.

There was a commotion by the doors, but since the gallery overhung the room, Beatrice couldn’t at first see who had entered below them. Then Reynaud strode into the room, and her heart gave a sort of painful leap. He was so handsome, so commanding, and he seemed farther away from her than ever. Reynaud headed straight to the man in the chair as heads turned to follow his progress.

“What’s he doing?” Lottie asked. “A peer has to have a writ of summons from the king to join parliament.”

“He must’ve won the title back,” Beatrice said softly. She rejoiced for Reynaud, but she worried about Uncle Reggie. He must be crushed. “Perhaps he got a special dispensation?”

“From the king himself,” a male voice said from the aisle separating the ladies’ section from the rest of the gallery.

“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.”