Chapter 24

Charles, Lord Jarvis, paused in the doorway of the princely dressing room and watched His Royal Highness, George, the Prince of Wales, pivot first one way, then the other as he studied his reflection in the series of ornate, gilt-framed looking glasses that lined the room's silk-covered walls. Several of the Prince's boon companions, Lord Frederick Fairchild among them, lounged at their ease about the cavernous, crimson and gold room, their discussions ranging from the use of champagne in boot polish to the newest opera dancers to catch their fancy. A dozen ruined cravats lay scattered across the chamber's richly hued Turkey carpet, while the Prince's man hovered at the ready with another armload of starched white linen neckcloths, should the Prince's present endeavor be no more successful than the last. Prince George might require the assistance of two footmen to shove his corpulent body into his coat, and a mechanical contrivance to hoist him into the saddle, but he always insisted on tying his own cravats.

"Ah, there you are, Jarvis," said the Prince, looking up.

Jarvis, who had spent the past half hour trying to soothe the wounded dignity of the Russian ambassador, simply bowed and said, "Sir?"

"What's this Lord Frederick is telling me about Spencer Perceval and his damned Tory government pushing for restrictions on our regency?" The Prince's full, petulant mouth puckered into a frown. "Restrictions? What restrictions?"

Jarvis shifted a crumpled shirt and torn satin waistcoat from a gilded chair shaped like a lotus blossom, and sat down. "A temporary restriction only," he said blandly, "to be lifted after one year."

"A year!"

"The doctors insist the King continues to improve," said Lord Frederick, his voice tight with worry. It was the Whigs' greatest fear that mad old King George III might recover before they were able to return to power. "There are those in the Commons who are saying a regency may not be necessary after all."

"What do you think?" said George, whirling to face his friends. It took Jarvis a moment to realize that the question referred not to his father's health, but to the Prince's latest attempt at executing a complicated new knot for his cravat.

Sir John Bethany, an aging roué with full, ruddy cheeks and a girth to rival the Prince's, hauled out his quizzing glass and subjected his friend to a long, thorough inspection while the Prince waited in an agony of suspense. "Brummell himself could do no better," said Bethany at last, letting the quizzing glass fall.

The Prince's face broke into a wide smile that collapsed almost at once. "You're just saying that." With an impatient oath, he ripped off his latest creation and began again, one eye cocking back toward Jarvis. "Our powers will be the same as the King's, of course?"

Jarvis cleared his throat. "Not quite, sir. But you will be allowed to form a government—"

"I should rather think so," interjected the Prince.

"Although it will need to be announced before you are sworn in by the Privy Council."

The 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."