Page 66 of A Lady Igniting Wicked Passions
“I should say so. What do I need it for?”
Blakehill had stood and was reading over Aaron’s shoulder.
“To remind the Regent that we were once his men. The Prince of Wales’ own Hussars, and we were bloody heroes. For him.”
“Yes, we were. And yes, we were,” Blakehill agreed with both statements. “But what difference does it make to the price of fish?”
“You will see. Just get your uniform and meet me back here as soon as you can. Don’t spare the horses. Time is of the essence.Make haste, the better foot before.”
“They stumble that run fast, my boy,” Blakehill countered.
Aaron looked up sharply and with no little exasperation. Blakehill raised his hands in surrender.
“Very well. I shall return, post-haste, in all my martial finery. Perhaps then I shall discover what insanity you propose to plunge these two Prince of Wales Own Hussars into next.”
***
Aaron, flanked by Blakehill, strode through the fire-ruined hallways of Westminster. They were resplendent in their dress uniforms, swords on hips and helmets carried under one arm. Blakehill wore his medals, Aaron wore the cross of Santiago.
They stopped before a seemingly anonymous door, a room that in the heyday of the Palace of Westminster contained nothing more than the office of a junior official. Now, with intact rooms at a premium, it was the meeting place of the opposition to the Disbandment Bill being championed by Sir William Gove. Aaron rapped sharply and then opened the door.
His former friend and comrade, the Earl of Flint looked up in mid-sentence. He sat at the head of a table, around which a number of peers were crowded. Papers were strewn across it and Aaron could see scores of names, some circled, some crossed out. Flint regarded him coldly.
“Have the Whigs sent in the army to arrest us, then? The vote on our tabled amendment to the Bill is today, as I’m sure you are aware.”
“I am,” Aaron replied.
He unbuttoned his tunic and produced a sheath of rolled papers, tied with string, and tossed them to the table.
“I and Blakehill here have come to offer our votes and…”
Flint laughed, sitting back, and rubbing a hand across his bald head. “Your votes? They will be a drop in the ocean. With the Regent’s followers either abstaining, or voting against, it makes no difference.”
Aaron smiled tightly and gestured to the papers. “Time is of the essence. So, I suggest you read. And while you do, for the benefit of the rest of the room I’ll tell you what it says. It is the support of the Prince Regent for your tabled amendments.
Full throated and enthusiastic. I watched him dictate that statement to his secretary and he was quite animated. After some persuasion by two heroes of his own Heavy Cavalry. Blakehill grinned fiercely and Aaron laughed at the expression of shock spreading across Flint’s face. He was looking at the other peers around the table.
“This will bring us twenty votes…possibly more…how…I thought you were in Gove’s pocket.”
“Keep up, old man,” Aaron replied.
“Did you not hear of my disgrace? Gove was trying to blackmail me. Something that I will take pains to prove, so that I can ruin the dratted man. But you can’t threaten scandal against a man who has created his own. Which frees me up to give my support to my comrades in arms. And…”
He exchanged looks with Blakehill who seemed about to burst with pride.
“And, I currently have the ear of the Regent. I helped him acquire a rather fine work of art which he is currently smitten with. I could ask him for Cornwall at this very moment, and he would oblige.”
Blakehill harrumphed. “I don’t know about that, old boy. Fife, perhaps.”
Aaron grinned boyishly. Flint was already talking rapidly, dispatching the men around the table to seek out others with this news, rallying his troops with their new allies. Amidst the commotion, Aaron quietly headed for the door.
Politics had never been his preferred battlefield, and he considered his duty done. Arabella would be returning to London in just a few hours. They had one last battle to fight.
Chapter 39
The weariness that Aaron felt upon his return to the house at Hanover Terrace was extreme. The tension of the last twenty-four hours, followed by the relief of victory had drained his strength; it flowed out of him like water from a holed bucket. So it was that when he walked through the front door, he did not notice the telling wisp of perfume.
He unbuttoned the stiff collar of his dress uniform. Blakehill had been all for celebrating into the night, draining their respective cellars dry. But Aaron simply wanted to await his wife’s return in peace. A servant approached as he neared the staircase, and he waved the man away, then called him back and handed over his helmet and sword.
