Chapter Thirty-Six
The great hall that housed the House of Lords had never seemed so small. Nicholas stood behind the bench, fingers clenched around the stack of speech notes he’d written many nights ago, notes he now realized he would not be using.
Men filled the chamber in waves, MPs crowding benches, voices echoing off the dark leather, the sound of quills scratching, papers shuffling, murmurs rising like a growing tide.
Hargrave lounged smugly across the aisle. Winston was seated near the front, rigid with expectation, his jaw set in stone.
Nicholas felt all of them watching him, waiting for him to play his part.
His father’s voice rose in his mind—Don’t perform, Nicholas. Never give them a spectacle.
The old reflex tightened, swift and familiar. He inhaled deeply.
Today, he would not obey it. He was done being his father’s instrument.
He rose. A hush fell.
He did not read a single word from his notes. Instead, he set them down deliberately and met the gazes of every man in the room.
“Gentlemen,” he began, voice steady, echoing through the chamber. “For years I have stood here as a representative of my constituency. A frequent supporter of the Tory party. As a disciple of tradition, expectation, and duty.”
A murmur ran through the benches.
“But I realized—belatedly—that I have confused obedience with principles,” he continued. “That I have mistaken inherited conviction for personal belief. I have confused loyalty with silence.”
Several MPs stiffened. Winston’s head tilted sharply. Hargrave’s smirk faded. Langford’s eyes narrowed.
Nicholas pressed on. “Today’s vote has been framed as a question of party. A question of duty. A question of which faction will emerge victorious.”
He drew a breath.
“Let me be clear. I no longer accept that premise.”
Gasps. A wave of shock rolled across the room.
Nicholas looked up at the gallery—just briefly—and something inside him jolted.
She was there.
Hidden beneath a modest bonnet. Hands clutching the railing. Pale, tense, trembling.
Bea.
His chest tightened.
Was she crying? Or was that only his imagination?
He cleared his throat and forced himself to continue.
“I have spent years believing that the work of this chamber was a game to be maneuvered, moves to be strategized, speeches to be sharpened, alliances to be negotiated.” His voice softened. “And then…someone showed me differently.”
The gallery went still.
Bea’s fingers froze around the railing.
“She opened my eyes,” Nicholas said, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable than he had ever allowed it to be in public. “She showed me the cracks in the foundation I defended. She challenged me. She forced me to think. She made me a better man.”
It was unmistakable now. Tears slipped freely down Bea’s cheek.
Nicholas saw them.
It nearly undid him.
“In her words, I found a mirror held up to my own weaknesses. And in that mirror, I saw a truth I can no longer ignore.”
He swept the chamber with a steady gaze. “I am not a Whig,” he said. “But neither am I a Tory.”
Chaos erupted.
Men leapt to their feet. Voices rose in outrage. Half the chamber shouted over the other half. The chancellor pounded his gavel. Winston surged up from his seat as if he’d been struck.
Nicholas did not flinch.
“For the first time in my life,” he continued over the uproar, “I shall cast a vote today not for ambition.”
He paused.
“But for what I truly believe. Unlike the caricatures in the paper would suggest…I am voting for the reform bill, and I urge those of you with a conscience to do the same.”
He stepped back.
Silence followed, shocked, disbelieving silence.
Nicholas turned once more toward the gallery…just in time to see Bea stand.
Her bonnet trembled slightly as she lifted her chin. Her eyes locked onto his.
Then, before anyone could stop her, she pushed past two startled gentlemen, rushed through the gallery door, down the narrow stairwell, and into the chamber itself.
Gasps filled the air.
A lady—Winston’s daughter, no less—had entered the floor of the House.
Several MPs rose in scandalized outrage. The chancellor shouted for order. Nicholas froze.
Bea.
She stood in the open space at the foot of the benches, chest heaving, eyes shining with tears and fierce resolve. She’d ripped off her bonnet. Her cloak billowed behind her, her hair tumbling loose in golden waves.
She looked wild.
And glorious.
And utterly unstoppable.
She was cradling a copy of the morning paper against her chest.
Nicholas’s breath caught painfully in his chest. “What are you doing?” he whispered.
Her voice shook, but it carried through the chamber like a bell. “What I should have done long ago.”
Winston remained standing, face purple. “Beatrix Winslow, what in God’s name!”
She ignored her father. Her eyes remained locked on Nicholas.
“You didn’t have to say those things,” she said, voice trembling. “Not for me. Not in front of all these men. You didn’t have to—”
“Bea,” Nicholas replied hoarsely, stepping forward. “I did. You’re the one who made me see.”
She shook her head, tears falling faster. “Then I must be honest too.” She pushed the paper into his hands. “Look at this.”
A murmur ran through the room, anticipation, confusion, dawning realization, while Nicholas studied her newest drawing.
Beatrix lifted her chin. Her voice broke as she turned to face the gallery and announced, “I am B. Adroit!”
Silence.
True, crushing silence fell over the House of Lords.
Then…absolute anarchy.
Shouts erupted from every bench. Men stood, outraged. Some laughed in disbelief. Hargrave sputtered like a kettle ready to boil over. Winston lunged toward his daughter, face redder than Nicholas had ever seen.
“You!” Winston choked. “You—you cannot—!”
Bea whirled away from him, while Nicholas stared at the paper, breathless, unable to move.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he said, his voice cracking.
“Yes.” Her voice wavered. “I did.”
“But they’ll—”
“I don’t care what they do,” she whispered. “I only care that you know I’m not hiding from this any longer. I’m not hiding from you. And,” she swallowed hard, “I love you.”
His throat tightened.
Hargrave jabbed a finger in her direction. “Arrest her! She has libeled half this chamber!”
The chancellor pounded his gavel desperately.
Winston lunged forward again and grabbed Bea’s arm, but Nicholas was there in an instant, stepping between them.
“Touch her again,” Nicholas said in a low, deadly voice, “and you will regret it.”
Bea gasped.
Winston froze. Outrage quickly covered his features, but he let his hand drop to his side.
Nicholas shoved the paper under his arm, then he took Bea’s hands gently, as if everything around them wasn’t madness.
Around them, men bellowed for order, for discipline, for her removal, for the vote to be cast, for someone—anyone—to explain how the country’s sharpest satirist had been living in Winston’s house under his nose.
And was a woman no less!
But none of it mattered.
Not to Nicholas.
Not to Bea.
In that moment, there was only them.
Nicholas squeezed her hands, voice low and aching. “You’ve just upended Parliament.”
She gave a watery, shaky smile. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”
He laughed softly, astonished, undone. “Beatrix Winslow, I love you.”
She stepped closer, voice breaking. “I love you too, and I’m so proud of you.”
His chest tightened. Hard. “And I,” he whispered, “am absolutely ruined for anyone else.”
She gave him a tender smile. “I feel exactly the same.”
The mayhem continued. The chancellor bellowed. Winston sputtered. Hargrave looked ready to faint. Sir Edmund looked as if he’d swallowed a bee, while Lord Hillary looked as if he could barely contain his pleasure.
But Nicholas—
Nicholas had never felt so steady in his life.
He wrapped his fingers around Bea’s and said, loud enough for the entire chamber to hear, “If she stands accused, then so do I.”
Gasps rippled through the air.
Bea looked up at him, tears shining in her eyes.
“Nicholas…”
He turned to the room. “I am culpable. I am complicit. Because I let ambiguity serve me when conviction was required. The caricatures she drew of me were not entirely wrong.”
Shouts, outrage, and calls to order echoed across the chamber.
Nicholas ignored them all. He lowered his forehead to hers. “They cannot arrest you simply for drawing things they dislike. Hell. Half the country’s artists would be in gaol. But let them rage. You’re not alone,” he whispered. “And you never will be again.”