“One could almost suspect they don’t want women to watch them make laws,” Annabelle muttered.
Down in the chamber, the peers began debating the first point on the agenda—a possible half-percent tariff increase on Belgian lace.
The droning speech of one of the lords was disrupted when the door to the chamber creaked open again. Someone was running late.
“His Grace, the Duke of Montgomery,” the usher announced.
Annabelle froze in her chair, shock turning her blood to ice.
Of course he would be here. He’d be the last man in England to shirk his political duties.
She didn’t dare move, as if catching a glimpse of his blond head would turn her to stone.
She felt Hattie’s hand on her arm, the soft pressure helping to quell the chagrin ripping through her.
She had made her choices. Sensible choices.
Perhaps one day, when she was ninety years old, they would feel like good choices.
“My lords,” she heard him say, “I request to bring the Married Women’s Property Act forward on the agenda.”
The sound of his dispassionate voice sent a powerful wave of longing through her. So much so that the meaning of his words didn’t register until Lucie muttered a profanity under her breath.
“Request approved,” said the Speaker.
“My lords,” Sebastian said, “I request permission to speak on the Married Women’s Property Act.”
A bored “Aye” rose from the benches. “Permission granted,” the Speaker said.
Annabelle gripped the edges of her chair. Cold sweat gathered on her forehead. Knowing Sebastian was only a few dozen feet away and feeling all her senses come alive in response was distressing, but witnessing him launch a tirade against women’s rights, in front of her friends no less, would be unbearable. She fumbled for her reticule. She had to leave.
“Gentlemen, many of you will remember the speech John Stuart Mill gave on the floor of the House of Commons fourteen years ago,” Sebastian said, “the speech where he claimed that there remain no legal slaves in Britain, except for the mistress of every house.”
That elicited a few Boos and calls of “Shame!”
A small hand touched her knee as Annabelle made to rise. “Stay,” Lucie murmured. “I have a feeling this could become interesting.”
Interesting? It was nerve-racking, being forced to endure his presence so soon, when her heart throbbed with the phantom pain of a severed limb . . .
“The problem is,” Sebastian went on, “when one compares a married woman’s current legal status and the definition of slavery, it requires a great deal of self-delusion to ignore the similarities between the two.”
The peers made ambivalent noises.
Annabelle sank back into her chair. What was he saying?
“We try to smooth over these technicalities by investing women with other powers, more informal powers,” Sebastian said, “and there is of course the matter of keeping them safe. The world of men is a brutal place. And yet women visit our offices, approach us in the streets, and send us petitions with tens of thousands more signatures every year to ask for more freedom. They feel that their safety comes at the expense of their freedom. And, gentlemen, the trouble with freedom is, it isn’t just an empty phrase that serves well in a speech. The desire to be free is an instinct deeply ingrained in every living thing. Trap any wild animal, and it will bite off its own paw to be free again. Capture a man, and breaking free will become his sole mission. The only way to dissuade a creature from striving for its freedom is to break it.”
“My goodness,” Hattie whispered, her eyes searching Annabelle’s uncertainly. “Is he on our side?”
“It appears so,” Annabelle mumbled. But why? He had made it perfectly clear that it would harm his interests to do so.
Indeed, a stony silence had fallen over the chamber.
“Britain has avoided the revolutions of France and Germany because here in this chamber, we always knew when we were approaching a tipping point, when it was time to make a concession to the people to keep the peace,” Sebastian said. “The suffrage movement is rapidly gathering momentum, and what will we do? Will we strike back harder and harder? I for my part am not prepared to try to break half the population of Britain. I am in fact unprepared to see a single woman harmed because of her desire for some liberty. I therefore propose a bill to amend the Married Women’s Property Act of 1870.”
The collective gasp in the Ladies’ Gallery was drowned out by the shouting on the floor below. Annabelle didn’t remember rising, but she stood, her fingers curling over the grille brass work like claws.
Sebastian stood at the opposite end of the chamber, and even from here she could see his contemptuous frown as he surveyed the tumultuous scene before him.
“To any suffragists in the Ladies’ Gallery,” he said, his voice rising over the noise, “I say—brace yourselves. For many people, your demands amount to a declaration of war on the master of every household. It is a war you will not win in the foreseeable future. But today, you gain another ally for your cause. I hereby resign from my role as election campaign advisor.”
“No!” Her outcry echoed through the chamber.
Sebastian’s head jerked toward her.
He couldn’t possibly see her here, behind the grate, dozens of yards away, and yet he caught her eye.
The world seemed to slow on its axis as their gazes locked.
“No,” she whispered.
Sebastian folded up his paper, never taking his eyes off her. “And, gentlemen,” he said, “I am leaving the Tory party.”
Chaos erupted.
Annabelle turned on her heels.
“Annabelle, wait,” Hattie called out, but she was already squeezing through rows of stunned spectators to the exit. She hasted blindly along the corridor, her blood pumping in her ears. What had he done? His life’s mission depended on him winning the election.
She skipped down a flight of stairs. A startled footman swung back the heavy entrance door for her, and she bolted into the open. Wet droplets hit her face. The light rain had morphed into a roaring downpour; the skies had turned the color of iron.
“Annabelle.”
She heard him clearly over the rain.
How had he caught up so quickly?
Because he is always one step ahead.
And her body was driven to flee, its animal instincts shrieking that he was out to catch her again.
She would not escape him today.
When his hand wrapped around her arm from behind, she whirled. “How could you?” she cried. “How could you do this?”