Chapter 9.

If particular care and attention is not paid to the ladies, we are determined to foment a rebellion, and will not hold ourselves bound by any laws in which we have no voice or representation.

Abigail Adams, to her husband John March 31, 1 776 ""T his way to the carriages, ladies!" Elizabeth called into the crowd of milling women in the lobby of the Adams. Their random circling reminded her of rounding up a flock of chickens on her aunts' manor farm.

"Carriages, where, Elizabeth?"

"Outside, Mrs. Deverel, in the drive-up." These were all highly intelligent women, one-on-one, but jam them together into a gossiping mob and they lost all sense. "We've got three carriages. Plenty of room for everyone. Just find a place and sit down or we'll be late."

And the omniscient Earl of Blakestone might appear out of nowhere and discover them leaving on their expedition, then follow them with his blaze of objections right to the steps of Westminster.

Or concoct some obstacle to keep them from leaving the Adams at all. For their safety. For England. For the good of mankind.

She had expected to run his gauntlet of questions that morning on the way out of her bedchamber. Heaven knows, she'd felt him there all night long. Even imagined herself waking to the sight of him standing in her doorway, his bronze chest naked in the moonlight, stalking toward her, his corded muscles shifting... Ahem!

But by the time she'd bathed and dressed, he had already disappeared from her sitting room. Her hopes that he'd reconsidered his unnecessary security measures against a nonexistent threat to her and the ladies' club had been dashed when she found three very serious men walking a frowning circuit around the Adams.

Trapped. Observed. For no reason whatsoever.

Except that she'd obviously done her job far too well. But how could she possibly have predicted that secretly arranging steamship pa.s.sage for one young woman who desperately needed to escape her abusive husband would so quickly escalate into a full-scale clandestine conspiracy to aid and abet two other equally desperate women?

A total of four now, counting Lydia, who was quickly recovering from her ordeal and gaining back that much needed will to triumph over the worst of her fears.

"I thought I'd bring one of our Votes for Women signs, Elizabeth." Justine Knox grinned broadly as she held up the sign between them. "Just to get my husband's attention on the back benches.

"Let's leave that here, Justine," Elizabeth said, gently taking the sign from her. "Remember, ladie 's - 't his goes for all of u 's - w e're not attending the session of Parliament to protest this time. Only to listen and learn."

" Aw www w..." They all groaned like a team of cricketers at a rained-out match.

"So we don't want to do anything to call attention to ourselves..."

But, of course, they couldn't really help it. As much as Elizabeth wanted their expedition to be unremarkable, a dozen well-dressed women marching up the public steps of Westminster was bound to cause a fu ror.

St. Stephen's Hall had been ringing with male voices when the ladies of the Abigail Adams entered the long room, but the sight of the women traveling in a pack seemed to have struck the men dumb.

The stunned silence followed her determined group through the narrow, grandly vaulted hall, right into the central lobby, where the women broke into a chorus of oos and ahs about the impressive architecture, and wandered about among the other denizens of the room.

"Oh, my! Look at that spire!" Mrs. Garrison pointed her gloved finger into the air. "Why, it's grand!"

It was, indeed. The octagonal tower was a full seventy-five feet high, and crowned with ta l l windows framed by lacy Gothic arches.

"Ooo! And there's the Duke of Argyll!" Mrs. Barnes was heading toward the man and his knot of aides.

Elizabeth hooked the woman's arm and turned her toward the group. "Mustn't interrupt the duke while he's in conference. Now, let' 's -"

"And if I'm not mistaken that's Sir William Molesworth," Mrs. Deverel said, narrowing her eyes at the man. "The Commissioner of Public Works. Excuse me, dear, I need to see him about a pothole in front of my town house."

"But, Mrs. Deverel, it's time to take our seats in the public gallery. Come along, ladies!"

Elizabeth had visited the halls of Parliament a few times since moving to London, but she'd never made it beyond the central lobby into the gallery of the House of Commons.

Nothing was going to stop her today. Not flood nor famine, nor busybody earls.

Especially not unmarried ones, who had slept the night just outside her bedchamber.

"Have you lost your way, ladies?" An official-looking little man was bearing down on them as they moved toward the Commons, a patronizing tolerance for the weaker s.e.x hovering beneath his neat moustache. "You have found yourself in the halls of Parliament."

"Excellent, sir." Elizabeth met him before he could plow into the center of her party and risk his equanimity. "That's exactly why we had our carriages drop us in front of St. Stephen's Porch."

His smile thinned. " W hyever would you want to do that, madam?"

"Because we plan to... to..."

Oh, blast it all!

Blakestone!

"Look there, Elizabeth, dear," Mrs. Barnes whispered, nodding slightly toward St. Stephen's Hall. "It's that stunning earl. And he's coming right this way, like a locomotive."

With a full head of steam.

"Let's go, ladies!" Elizabeth left the little official stammering and started herding the women toward the long corridor and the Commons lobby beyond. "Up the stairs to the Public Gallery. Careful now."

Elizabeth could feel Blakestone's eyes burning into her back as she hurried with the last of the group down the narrow corridor.

Knowing she couldn't escape him completely, she waited until the women had reached the Commons lobby, then stopped at the end of the corridor to wait for him.

"Ah, Blakestone," she said as she turned on her heel to meet him. Every ma.s.sive ounce of him coming toward her as though he would overtake her like a thunderstorm. "Fancy meeting you here in Parliament. Is the Lords in session today? Or are you on loan to the prime minister?"

He took up her elbow and brought his steaming temper against her ear. "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, woman, you told my guard at the Adams that you were heading for Kew Gardens."

"You know women. We change our minds as often as we change our hats."

"Why did you lie? Because you didn't want me to know what you were up to today?"

"Because you'd send someone to follow us, wouldn't you? Even though we are perfectly safe from an abduction. I don't appreciate being tended to like a child."

"Or is that your guilty mind, Miss Dunaway? What sort of mischief are you planning now?"

"Mischief?"

"Another protest? Have you Women's Rights signs tucked up under your skirts?"

Elizabeth should have gasped in outrage, but the sound turned instantly into laughter. "You must be joking."

"Oh, no, madam. I can see your plan now: just as the Speaker opens the debate, your ladies launch into a chant."

Elizabeth caught her hand over her mouth to quiet her laughter, but Blakestone only drew her closer, his sultry whisper dashing against her temple.

"I warn you against this, madam. A single outburst from your ladies in the gallery and the sergeant-at-ar in 's will haul you away to jail, and then you will have your precious press coverage in spades."

"Excellent news, sir." Delighted to find the man so disgruntled and so unable to freely chide her in such a public corridor, she turned her head and whispered against the slight bristle of his very male cheek. "Any suggestions as to what we should shout to make the biggest impression?"

He scowled fiercely down at her, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Mocking Parliament is no way to win them over to your cause."

"We had planned to shout 'Give us the vote or give us death!' but that might not quite do the trick. However, it'll have to do for now since we're late and fresh out of ideas." She gave the startled man a huge smile, then started into the nearly empty Commons lobby, darting toward the gallery stairs.

"Oh, no you don't, madam!" He caught her arm as she reached the base of the stairs. "If it weren't for the Lord Mayor's inquiry, I'd be sorely tempted to let you go make a fool of yourself."

"Then what do you mean to do with me instead? Tie me here to the banister? Or put me in stocks out in the old courtyard? Think of the press coverage then!"

"A pity we've outlawed that sort of punishment."

"An even greater pity that you have no idea when I'm pulling your leg."

"What do you mean?"

"The ladies of the Abigail Adams have not come here to protest."

"Then what?" He narrowed his eyes at her, focusing their dark intensity on her own. "You're surely not here for anything but mischief." "There's a great pity too, my lord. That men cannot fathom the fact that women might possibly be interested in the everyday workings of government. But we are."

"Why?"

"The same reason that men are interested: its laws affect every aspect of our lives. In these modern times, with so much at stake, we'd be fools not to keep abreast of Parliament. And to that end, from now on, the Abigail Adams will field a reporter to the Commons, every day of every session. That reporter will then relay to us what she has learned and we will be wiser for it."

"She?" He laughed. "A female reporter, turning up in the Press Gallery every day?"

"Why not?"

"Seems a waste of time. Why not just subscribe to the Hansard record?"

"Because Hansard only employs men, and the ladies of the Abigail Adams require a woman's point of view."

He went utterly silent, his frown deeply lining his forehead.

"So, my lord, if you have no further objection, I'll just go join the rest of my party in the Public Gallery. As is my right. I think."

Pleased with the squared-o ff con fu sion locked in the man's jaw, and still reeling from the fiery thrill of his touch along the inside of her elbow, Elizabeth started up the stairs, certain that the man would follow.

Hoping he would, because he did smell particularly fine today. Of laurel and musk.

Infuriating woman! Ross grabbed back the bellow that would have stopped her in her tracks and doubtless brought the noise from the floor of the Commons to a halt as well.

Instead, he followed her up the stairs, unable to turn his eyes from the lithe trim of her ankles teasing him from beneath the crisply white flounce of her skirts.

b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, he felt like a besotted swain as he climbed into the warm air of the gallery.

There they were, Miss Dunaway and her gang of women, perched like an eager jury, six above six, on the tufted leather benches that overlooked the great brawling machine that was the British government.

The ladies were chattering to each other, craning over the railing, pointing down onto the main floor where the morning's proceedings were about to get under way.

"Psst, Blakestone!"

Miss Dunaway was beckoning to him with a subtle, utterly compelling crooking of her gloved finger, her green eyes flashing up at him. He might have actually had the strength to resist, but she splayed her fingers across the s.p.a.ce on the seat beside her and patted lightly there.

Or was that a caress?

Lord help him find the strength to walk away.

But, of course, he sat down beside her anyway, his nerves tattered, already on edge.

"How can I help you, madam?" he asked, quite smoothly for a man who had just become thickly aroused in the gallery of the House of Commons.

And tempted to disaster by a woman who was fast becoming an element of his blood.

"Actually, my lord, the ladies have a few questions."

" 'Morning, my lor d -"

"Good to see you, si r -"

"Will you be attending the charity ball, Lord Blakestone? It's for a very good cause. And I've heard you're up for auction..."

d.a.m.nation, he was going to have to clear up that particular error right away. "Well, I don' 't -"

But the women reached out for him from all sides, extending their gloved hands, shaking his vigorously. Doubtless they would have backslapped him if they could have.

None of that demure, sweet-miss stuff here. d.a.m.ned if he didn't like that in a woman.

"Yes, and good morning to you all, ladies." He returned their enthusiastic smiles. "Miss Dunaway was just telling me that you had a few questions."

"About Parliament," the bewitching woman sitting so palpably beside him said. She was turned halfway around toward the group, her shapely backside making sound contact with the length of his thigh, taking his breath away. "Mrs. Ni l es, I think you had the first question."

Mrs. Niles stood, her hands clasped together. "My husband is a Conservative. He's always said that you can tell a Liberal devil in Parliament by the red tail that sticks out the back vent of his coat. Well, my lord, I don't see tails on any of the gentlemen down there. So, my question is..."

"Yes?" he prodded, when the woman's fiery glare into the pit below became fixed there.

"My question is this, my lord: am I to a.s.sume there aren't any Liberals in the Commons today? Or has my husband been playing loose with the truth?"

Though Miss Dunaway's head was turned mostly away from him, Ross could see well enough from around the narrow brim of her small bonnet that her jaw was working as hard as his to hold back a smile.

"Well, Mrs. Ni l es..." A perfectly good question, but without a good answer that wouldn't cause Mr. Niles to come find him with a swift punch in the nose. "Let's just say that one man's devil is another man's leader. Politics is a matter of personal opinion."

Mrs. Niles snorted and crossed her arms over her bosom. "Well, then, my personal opinion is that my husband's devil is no longer my own." She sat down with a plunk.