The River of No Return

cold seats in the House of Lords and we served this country. And now you come back without the foggiest notion of the dangers you face as a lord of the realm, as a brother to your wayward—yes, your wayward—sisters. The dangers you face as an Englishman.”
    “Do you dare to rebuke me because you outrank me, Kirklaw? I only ask because it has been so long since I have studied the Peerage . I’ve heard it is the best thing in fiction the English have ever done.”
    The three lords stared at Nick from matching pairs of blue eyes, their faces as flat as a row of Wedgwood plates. Then Kirklaw blinked and flushed. “Fiction? Fiction? Without the Corn Bill fixing the price of our corn, our days are numbered. The manufactories are already squeezing us, stealing our workers. And the merchants are buying our titles with their whey-faced daughters and their filthy money. Once foreign corn starts pouring in, we will have neither the money nor the influence to keep men on the land. Do you want America, or France, to happen on English soil? Are you ready, at best, to become a commoner, who must make his leg to the richest tailor in town, or at worst to see your sisters’ heads roll as you wait your own turn for Madame Guillotine?”
    “And your Corn Bill? It will save us from those unimaginable fates?”
    “It certainly will,” Blessing said. “Indefinitely.”
    “If it passes,” Delbun said.
    Kirklaw waved a dismissive hand. “The bill will pass, handily. But it is unpopular with the lower classes. To say the least. And your Jemison—”
    “He is not my Jemison.”
    “Your Jemison,” the duke said insistently, “is at the heart of the trouble. I need you to denounce him. You are known to be my friend, and you cannot be both my friend and his.”
    “Surely one returned soldier cannot tarnish the reputation of a duke.”
    “No, but one marquess can.” Kirklaw pointed a wet finger at Nick. “Your peers are ready to accept you as a hero, as a leader. They are ready to hand you their trust and their admiration on a plate. But that could change. I am merely warning you of the thin ice upon which you stand. If the people rise up after the vote—and they will—and if you have not stood up and made clear your loyalty to your party and your class, your peers will turn on you. They will blame you for the unrest. Then they will turn to me, and they will think, How could Kirklaw be friends with that man? The mob or me. That is your choice.”
    The Mob! Nick pictured Tony Soprano bursting into the House of Lords and shooting everyone dead with his ArmaLite AR-10. He chuckled. “You want to ride the coattails of my eminence, don’t you, Kirklaw? And if you cannot, you will bring me down in a fit of pique.”
    “I will not be the one to bring you down, Falcott. I only warn you that fame is a fickle mistress. Your fair-weather friends downstairs might come to learn of Jemison’s association with Lady Clare. They might come to learn that he served with you in the Peninsula. That he fought side by side with you. It could be said that you sent Jemison on from Spain to be the steward at Blackdown. It could be said that you are a radical, like Byron, who wishes to see his own class degraded, destroyed. Like Byron, you think the mob speaks the sentiments of the people.”
    “That clubfooted reprobate has fathered a child on his own sister,” Blessing said. “If you don’t stand against Jemison soon, people might say that you are little better than he, that you condone Jemison’s corruption of Lady Clare. That you would welcome the issue of a tallow chandler into your family. For that is what Jemison is. A tallow chandler’s son.”
    Nick laughed out loud at that one and twitched his cuffs into place. “Between the tallow chandlers and the incestuous noblemen, it’s a wonder Albion hasn’t sunk beneath the waves. I’ll have you know, Kirklaw: Byron will be remembered when we are all rotting away in our family vaults. As for the tallow chandler, Jemison the Elder provides candles to the navy. His candles have illuminated the battle plans of Sidney Smith and Horatio Nelson. He is a wealthier man than any of us here.”
    Kirklaw curled his lip. “Our great admirals use waxen candles, surely.”
    Nick clapped his hands. “Oh, well done, Your Grace. You have bested me. How dare I suggest that the great Nelson ever had to smell burning fat!” He got to his feet. “My Lord Gossip.” He bowed to Blessing. “My Lord