“How about the banner?” asked Lady Mabel.
Lucie nodded. “It is being stowed in the luggage coach as we speak.”
“I hope so,” Lady Mabel said. “I’ve spent hours trying to space the letters evenly.”
“Should’ve used some math to do it,” muttered Catriona at Annabelle’s shoulder. Annabelle eyed her with surprise. It was very unlike Catriona to make biting remarks. Perhaps she was nervous, considering what lay ahead. Annabelle certainly missed Hattie’s unwavering cheerfulness, but everyone except Hattie had agreed that it would be best for her to stay in Oxford. No one wanted to bring the wrath of the mighty Julien Greenfield down onto their cause in case something went wrong.
Nothing will go wrong.
The train emitted a deafening whistle.
“Do you all have your sashes?” Lucie said. “I have some spare ones, just in case.” She patted her satchel, which hung heavy on her hip. No one stepped forward. The threat of a public dressing-down by Lady Lucie had seen everyone pack their sashes most diligently.
They split up as Annabelle made her way to third class. Ahead of her, a hooded figure in a voluminous gray cloak was moving slowly, causing a pileup of disgruntled passengers in her wake. At the train doors, the person stopped altogether and seemed to study the coach hesitantly.
Shoving and grumbling ensued.
“Apologies,” came a female voice from the depths of the cloak.
Impossible! With a few determined strides, Annabelle pushed past the woman and peered at her face.
“Hattie!”
“Hush,” Hattie said, glancing around nervously.
Annabelle pulled her aside. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“I’m going to London.”
Annabelle was aghast. “You can’t.”
“But I’m perfectly camouflaged, see?” She pointed at the woolen monstrosity that shrouded her.
“Camouflaged? Hattie, this cloak went out of fashion about five hundred years ago. You couldn’t look more conspicuous if you tried.”
Mutiny flared in Hattie’s eyes. “I’m going to London.”
“But what if someone recognized you? Your father would be furious; it would get us all into trouble.”
“This is my cause as much as yours. I have been to every meeting, I have done my research. I don’t want to stay behind like a namby-pamby prince while my friends are at the front.”
Goodness. “We all know you want to be there,” Annabelle said. “No one will hold it against you if you stay here.”
Hattie shook her head. “I have already escaped Mr. Graves. I can’t get the man in trouble for nothing.”
“Who is Mr. Graves?”
“My protection officer.”
Annabelle fell silent. She had never noticed a protection officer trailing Hattie.
Her friend gave a cynical little smile. “He is trained to be invisible. Would you feel comfortable walking anywhere with me if a grim man with a pistol were breathing down your neck? Well, I always know he’s there, whether I see him or not.”
Taking Hattie to London was wrong; Annabelle knew it with the finely honed instincts of someone who had long had to watch out for herself.
A whistle rang, and station staff were waving at them, urging them to climb aboard.
“Fine,” she muttered, “just stay close. And don’t turn your back on the men or you’ll get groped or pinched.”
“Groped and pinched?” Hattie looked at her blankly.
Annabelle gave her a speaking glance. “You’re not in first class anymore.”
* * *
The Marquess of Hartford, present owner of Sebastian’s family seat, was a slow man, his pace impeded by his gout, and it lengthened each corridor of Parliament by a mile. They crept toward the chamber in unsociable silence, perfectly acceptable considering that a mutual dislike was the only thing they had in common.
“Gentlemen, you have to see this.” The Earl of Rochester stood at one of the hallway windows, his gaze riveted on something on the streets below.
Sebastian’s pulse sped up. He could guess what had attracted Rochester’s attention. Still, it hadn’t prepared him for the picture of the rapidly gathering crowd on the square below. Streams of women were converging from all directions, their green sashes glinting in the sunlight.
“I say,” Hartford said, “so the rumors were true.” He chuckled. “This should be entertaining.”
“It’s thousands of them,” Rochester said. His profile was rigid with disapproval.
“No matter,” Hartford said, “the police will soon put an end to it.”
“It has to be quashed hard and fast, else we can expect a circus like that every week. They should call in stewards for reinforcing the police.”
Sebastian looked at Rochester sharply. “Stewards are not trained for handling this.”
Hartford ran the tip of his tongue over his bottom lip. “If these women behaved in the first place, they’d have nothing to fear, would they?”
Sebastian gave him a cold stare. “Assembling in a public place is the right of every British citizen.”
“For something like this?” Rochester said. “Only if they have been granted a permit.”
“They have a permit,” Sebastian said.
“That’s impossible.” Hartford sounded annoyed. “On what grounds? Any council would have denied it; they endanger the peace of the public.”
“It appears the council had no such concerns.”
Rochester and Hartford frowned but did not question him. He was known to know things they didn’t.
On the square, the women linked arms, forming human chains as if safety could be had in numbers.
Was she down there?
Probably. When had Annabelle ever heeded his advice not to do something?
“Unnatural creatures,” Rochester muttered under his breath. He was usually a bone-dry man, but now his face was pinched with some ugly emotion.
Sebastian had known it for a while now, but it had never been so glaringly obvious that his party, the party of rational interests, was not rational at all. There were Disraeli’s visions of an endless empire, of people wanting glory over bread. Rochester and Hartford, ready to see women harmed for their ideas. At the end of the day, their party was steered by emotions as much as the socialist who wanted to crush the aristocracy. It made him feel as though his skin were too tight for his body, and he shifted on his feet, not unlike Apollo when he was ready to bolt.