What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

Prince so often played the buffoon that one tended to forget that the blood of a host of kings—French and Spanish, English and Scottish, from William the Conqueror and Charlemagne to Henry II and Mary Queen of Scots—flowed through this man’s veins. He could strike a decidedly kingly pose, when he so chose. “Don’t start, Jarvis,” said George, suddenly every inch the prince.
    Jarvis inclined his head in a wordless bow.
    The regal manner faded almost instantly. George sighed. “If only Fox were still with us. Dashed inconsiderate thing to do, dying like that.”
    “Just so,” said Jarvis. He waited a moment, then added, “Although Perceval thought perhaps—”
    “The devil fly away with Perceval,” said the Prince in a explosion of warmth. “It’s enough to give a man palpitations.” He stopped suddenly, the fingers of one hand going anxiously to his opposite wrist. “Our pulse is galloping. The next thing you know, we’ll be having abdominal spasms.”
    Jarvis rather thought the Prince’s abdominal spasms could be traced to the mountain of buttered crab he’d consumed the evening before, and the two bottles of port with which it had been washed down, but he kept the observation to himself.
    “It’s really far too early in the day for such discussions,” said the Prince, his hand shifting to the royal belly, a spasm of distress contorting his fleshy features. “It’s dangerous for the digestion. I will lie down for a spell.”
    “And your appointment with the Russian ambassador, sir?”
    The Prince looked genuinely puzzled. “What appointment?”
    “The one scheduled for half an hour ago. He’s still waiting.”
    “Cancel it,” said the Prince, one hand coming up to shade his eyes as if the light had suddenly become too much. He tottered toward a nearby divan shaped like a crocodile padded with crimson satin. “Do close the drapes, someone. And bring my laudanum. Dr. Heberden says I must have a dose whenever I feel anxious, to avoid any danger of agitation of the blood.”
    His thoughts kept carefully to himself, Jarvis personally went to draw the drapes. Short of the old mad King effecting a miraculous recovery, sometime in the next week the Regency Bill would pass and this indolent, pleasure-loving, spendthrift prince would be sworn in as Regent. But as much as the Prince of Wales might find the image of himself as Regent flattering, his experience with the squabbles and intrigues of politics was as limited as his interest. Jarvis was confident that in the end—and given the right set of circumstances—the Prince would be only too happy to be guided by others’ wisdom.
    Solicitously turning down the lamps, Jarvis ushered the Prince’s companions from the room and quietly closed the door. The Whigs might think their long years of political exile were about to end, but men like Lord Frederick Fairchild were too idealistic to anticipate the lengths to which their opponents were willing to go to keep them out of power, and too mealymouthed to ever be ruthless themselves.
    In government, one needed to be ruthless. Ruthless, and very, very clever.

     
    Sir Henry Lovejoy was looking over case reports at his battered old desk when the Earl of Hendon, a polished walnut box tucked under one arm, walked into Lovejoy’s office at Queen Square.
    Behind him came the sweating, bald-headed clerk, his normally squinty little eyes big and round over the spectacles he wore pushed down to the end of his nose. “I tried to announce him, Sir Henry, truly I did—”
    Lovejoy waved the man away. “That’s all right, Collins.” Lovejoy had been expecting an angry confrontation with his fugitive’s powerful father. The magistrate had already decided how he would behave: deferential, polite, and respectful, but firm. Standing, he extended one hand toward a nearby chair with worn, brown leather upholstery. “Please have a seat, my lord. What may I do for you?”
    “That won’t be necessary.” Setting the small wooden case on Lovejoy’s desk, he stood with his feet planted wide, his hands clasped behind his back. “I’ve come to turn myself in.”
    “Turn yourself in, my lord?” Lovejoy shook his head in confusion. “For what?”
    Hendon looked at him with withering contempt. “Don’t be a bloody idiot. For the murder of that actress, Rachel York, of course. I did it. I killed her.”

Chapter 25
     
     
    “ H ow old is this nevy of yers?” Tom asked.
    They were walking along