“Look there!” someone cried. “It’s the blacksmiths!”
To be precise, The Worshipful Company of Blacksmiths. He’d forgotten about that. Every livery, as they’d always been termed, was called The Worshipful Company of Something or The Something Company. Idly, he wondered what made a company Worshipful instead of just a plain Something Company.
Perhaps it was the volume of their performance—the blacksmiths were so loud, he couldn’t even hear Giselle ask him a question. Situated atop a long wagon, the blacksmiths pounded anvils in counterpoint, making music with their sole instrument as they rolled past. That was fairly impressive.
They were followed by different sorts of marchers—a band of drummers here, a Worshipful Company there, another military regiment. Then came twenty-four knights on horseback played by actors in tin armor. It was a miracle they stayed on their mounts, given their obviously intoxicated state.
“Some things never change,” Heathbrook told Giselle. “They were inevitably drunk by this point in the few Lord Mayor’s Shows I saw as a boy, too.”
“But why have knights? There have been no knights in armor anywhere in Europe for hundreds of years.”
“It’s tradition. We are fond of tradition here.”
“Is that why the costumes of these marchers look so old-fashioned?”
“Exactly. The Lord Mayor’s Show goes back several centuries.” He shot her an arch smile. “Wedid not get rid of our aristocracy in a Revolution, remember?”
“Perhaps you should,” she said lightly. “Then you can wear more stylish clothes in your parade.”
He shook his head. One thing about his French miss—she had very interesting opinions. And she continued to express them throughout the procession. She did not like all the various military elements that marched, many playing fifes and drums to entertain the crowd.
“It is bad enough that Napoleon wanted war all the time,” she said. “He has certainly found a suitable playmate in England.”
“And in Russia and the Netherlands and Prussia and a few smaller countries I can think of.”
She sighed. “True. Napoleon found plenty of countries to play at war with.”
“What were we supposed to do—just let him devour all of Europe?”
“Of course not. But I should think you, of all people, would hate war as much as I. You were not even a soldier, and you ended up as part of the war anyway. You went to France on business with your father and then had to spend years in a prisoner’s camp because our emperor had a fit of pique. War is good for no one.”
He frowned. “You’re certainly right about that.”
The procession moved on with its variety of colors and costumes and music until the whole purpose for its very existence came around a bend. The Lord Mayor approached, riding in his bedazzling state coach drawn by six white horses.
Giselle gasped. “That coach is …”
“Beautiful?”
“Yes. But extravagant. So much gilding! It is blinding. It must be very heavy to require six horses.”
“The king’s coach is traditionally drawn by eight. The Lord Mayor is allowed six for this procession, which is significant, since no one in the peerage is allowed more than four.”
She smirked at him. “So, you are not as important as the Lord Mayor.”
“Idon’t get to ride around in a gilded carriage,” he joked, “so probably not.”
“You could buy one and keep it for special occasions.”
“But that would be too extravagant for you, would it not?”
“Iama child of the Revolution,” she said coyly.
For the rest of the procession, she was easier with him than before, and he couldn’t help but be relieved. After all, he still needed her help. That was his only reason for giving a damn.
Right. That, and the fact that he’d started wondering what she might like or want or need from him. Whathemight like or want or need fromher.Except for her in his bed, of course.
He sighed. He really had to stop thinking about her that way or he’d never make it through the next week. He was scheduled to go to court in a few days, and the last thing he needed was to alienate the one woman who could help him there.