The River of No Return

Calumny.” He bowed to Delbun. “And Your Grace of Slander.” He made an elaborate leg to Kirklaw. “I believe we have said enough to one another this evening. I thank you for your hospitality, and I bid you good night.” He drained his brandy balloon with a flourish.
    “One moment before you go, Blackdown.” Kirklaw went to a leather writing case sitting on an escritoire, opened it, and drew out a heavy sheet of paper. He spent a moment perusing it, then handed it to Blessing, who handed it to Delbun, who handed it up to Nick. It read: “George Augustus Frederick, the Prince of Wales, Regent of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, To Our Right Trusty and Well Beloved Nicholas Clancy Falcott, Chevalier, Greeting.”
    Shit.
    A Writ of Summons.
    Nick looked up to find Kirklaw watching him with a smirk, pinching at that wretched cigar. “You are to appear in the House of Lords in your robes the day after tomorrow,” he said. “Whereupon you will take your oath of allegiance and make your maiden speech in favor of the Corn Bill.” He reached into the case and extracted a sheaf of papers. “This is your speech. It repudiates Jemison and those like him, and calls for immediate passage of the bill. It praises me, your old friend.” He shuffled through the pages and found a passage, which he read out loud. “‘I fought in Spain, at the head of a gallant company. I can tell you from experience that Jem Jemison is a coward. But I can also tell you, as a leader of men, that I know how to recognize courage and fortitude in any man.’” Kirklaw looked up. “And here you gesture at me. I shall look surprised, and you shall ask me to stand. Then you say, in ringing tones, ‘The Duke of Kirklaw is just such an exemplar of British manhood! I put my faith in him, the faith of a soldier and an Englishman!’”
    Nick suppressed a smile. “You expect me to read that, out loud, in the House of Lords.”
    “I do. And I believe, when you consider the alternatives, that you will.” The duke handed the papers to Blessing, who handed them to Delbun, who handed them up to Nick.
    “I don’t have robes.”
    “You will find that Ede and Ravenscroft have your father’s robes put away. Like your title and the duties you owe to your family, your estate, and your class, Ede and Ravenscroft have been waiting for you.”
    “And if I do not appear?”
    “The choice is entirely yours, of course.”
    “Oh, of course.”
    “May I offer you another drink, or have you had enough?”
    Nick looked down at his empty balloon, then up and into the eyes of his former friend. “Oh, fill her up,” he said. “Smuggled brandy makes blackmail go down much more smoothly.”
    Kirklaw bowed, acknowledging the hit. Finally flicking his shredded cigar into the fire, he grabbed the bottle up from the table where it had been left and strolled over to Nick. “Welcome home, my old friend,” he said, tipping brandy into Nick’s glass.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
    T he house was silent, except for the patter of raindrops on the windows. Julia lay on her bed, trying to distract herself with a novel. She had declined an invitation to join Clare, Bella, and the dowager marchioness on a visit to their second cousin Lydia. It hadn’t been hard to say no: Lydia was a famously bad-tempered old woman who lived in unfashionable Kensington. She had many cats, three parrots, and a silent husband. Bella said the husband was probably stuffed, for he always sat in the same place and never said a word. Julia had waved them off without a shred of regret.
    Thinking herself alone in the house, she had gone into the drawing room to read, only to find Count Lebedev stretched out asleep between two gold bergère chairs that he had pulled into position, his knees ridiculously supported by the harpsichord bench that he had placed between them. There he lay, snoring, his boots casually ruining the exquisite blue-and-gold silk jacquard upholstery. Julia indulged herself in a good long contemptuous stare. This was the man of whom she was so afraid, the man who was hunting her down. This boorish man, who clearly gave not one pin for the dowager marchioness’s delicate sensibilities; she doted on those chairs almost as if they were her children. Surely Blackdown couldn’t actually like this Russian miscreant?
    Well. Julia flared her nostrils. What Blackdown liked and didn’t like was no concern of hers. She knew full well what she thought of the Russian. If ever