to slow the flurry of words in her head. “This madness between us, it must stop,” she managed.
Silence.
“It’s not madness,” he ground out, “it’s . . .”
His face was grim. She watched him struggle, grasping for the right words. Naming it would make no difference. His name would always be more important to him.
“Whatever it is,” she said, “it will pass, if only you leave me alone.”
Chapter 22
The morning of the march on Parliament, Lucie gathered the suffragists at Oxford Station. A cold breeze swept over the platform and shrouded them in the suffocating plumes of black smoke that rose from the waiting train.
“Now, I cannot repeat this often enough,” Lucie said. “Much as it pains me, this must be an utterly peaceful demonstration, so no chanting, no accidental or purposeful obstruction of the entries to Parliament. No petitioning of passersby.”
Annabelle had informed Lucie that Montgomery was aware of their plans. Of course, Lucie had decided to go ahead. She seemed in an excellent mood this morning; the gleam in her gray eyes was positively rapacious. Ideological intoxication. Annabelle gave herself a mental shake. The sooner she stopped seeing and hearing Montgomery everywhere, the better.
“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