by Jo Beverley
She didn’t inspect the servants’ quarters, but she suspected that all the servants here were male. For tonight, at least, Henry must sleep with her in the second bedroom.
What struck Kitty was the quality. In its way, Braydon’s home was as fine as Beauchamp Abbey, but infinitely more welcoming. All the principal rooms were decorated with gleaming wood, papered walls, and beautiful objects that seemed chosen one by one rather than acquired for show.
She paused to admire a small bronze of a horse and rider.
She’d thought once that his rooms would tell her much about him. They did, but again it was daunting.
The unwelcoming atmosphere at Beauchamp Abbey had given them common ground, like people of very different backgrounds and natures thrown together in a wintry storm. These rooms made their differences plain. As she’d once acknowledged, Braydon had been accustomed to graciousness and wealth since the day he’d been born, and she had not.
Fires were being hastily lit in all the rooms, but the air wasn’t frigid, so Kitty shed her cloak, bonnet, and gloves and washed her hands before going to the dining room. As Braydon wouldn’t command that food be ready for him at any time, it must have been rushed from a nearby inn or tavern, but everything was served on fine china and silver chafing dishes.
Kitty would have liked to have Henry’s company at the meal, but she couldn’t see how to invite her maid without inviting Johns. She assumed they would eat in the kitchen. Perhaps they’d be more comfortable there. As she finished, the clock in the hall tinkled ten, and distantly she heard other clocks sounding the hour.
Oranges and lemons
Say the bells of Saint Clement’s.
You owe me five farthings,
Say the bells of St. Martin’s.
When will you pay me?
Say the bells of Old Bailey.
When I grow rich,
Say the bells of Shoreditch.
When will that be?
Say the bells of Stepney.
I do not know,
Says the great bell of Bow.
Most of those old bells were in the City of London, but she’d heard some of them at times in Moor Street, marking the passing of the day or night.
She shook herself. She was falling asleep where she sat. Foolish to even think of staying up for Braydon. She drank the last of her tea, realizing she was clinging to hope of more marital adventures.
In her weariness, doubts crept in. Perhaps he was pleased to be free of such duties. Perhaps that was why he’d seized on whatever summons had brought him here. Perhaps he had some other woman’s bed to go to when his business was done.
* * *
Braydon had gone to the Home Secretary’s home.
“Avoided by the merest chance,” Lord Sidmouth said, pacing his office. He was a spare, bony man with thinning hair and deep-set eyes, plagued more by an anxious nature than ill health. “If a servant hadn’t moved a barrel out of his way . . . three princes gone!”
Sidmouth lived in fear of insurrection. There was true danger—it had happened in America and France, after all—but that meant a steady head was even more important. Braydon believed he had a steady head, and he was willing to serve. He hoped to steer a good course, but also to turn aside the more draconian acts of suppression.
“May I have the full story, sir?” In violation of etiquette he sat, which led, as he’d hoped, to Sidmouth also sitting down.
Perhaps it hadn’t been outrageous. He realized that he now outranked the Home Secretary in the peerage. They were both viscounts, but Sidmouth’s was a new creation, whereas Braydon was the sixth of his title. The thought amused.
“Kent, Clarence, and Sussex gathered together last night to discuss the current problems,” Sidmouth said, “and find a way to get the Regent to take control.”
There were seven surviving sons of the king. One was the Regent and the rest were royal dukes—York, Clarence, Kent, Cumberland, Sussex, and Cambridge.
“I thought Kent resided in Brussels for the health of his purse,” Braydon said. Being royal didn’t mean being wealthy.
“He does, but he sometimes returns, supposedly incognito. Clarence is in regular attendance on the queen in Bath, but he came to Town for the meeting. Sussex, of course, resides in Kensington Palace.”
“But they gathered in a private house?”
“In Holles Street. Someone learned of the gathering and put gunpowder in the basement in the guise of barrels of beer. The plot was prevented only by chance! A servant moved a barrel out of his way and thought it didn’t contain liquid. Suspecting a fraud on the part of the beer merchant, he summoned the butler, who tapped it.”
“And black powder dribbled out. How was it to be set off?”
“Someone would have had to slip into the basement, but that wouldn’t have been difficult. There’s a hatch through which the beer barrels and other heavy goods are put in. We set a watch, but no one turned up. The servants have been kept quiet as much as possible, but word is bound to escape. There could be panic!”
“The story can be denied,” Braydon said soothingly. “The world is awash with rumors. Whose house was it?”
“The Honorable Mrs. Courtenay. In the past she was part of the queen’s household and was trusted by the princes.”
“Is she under suspicion?”
“She seems an honest enough old lady, but who knows where evil lurks these days?”
It’s your job to know, Braydon thought with asperity. For Sidmouth, every protestor was a potential revolutionary, every orator a potential Robespierre, and every servant a potential traitorous spy. Braydon sometimes wondered if Sidmouth truly trusted anyone.
“You said in the letter that Hawkinville is unavailable?” he asked. Sir George Hawkinville ran an unofficial antirevolutionary department for which Braydon worked from time to time.
“In Paris. Ostensibly a pleasure jaunt with his family, but there are some issues there. You will handle this?”
It should have been a command, but came out with an anxious question mark at the end.
Braydon considered claiming his very new marriage as reason to decline, but that would be vile. This was a dangerous incident and could be smoke from deeper fires.
“Of course.”
“Good, good. Find the spy in that house. He or she will be the one intended to set off the bomb.”
“You said that access was possible from outside,” Braydon reminded him. “Moreover, if we find such a person, we’ll have a mere minion. We need to know who is behind the plot.”
“Find the minion and we’ll get the truth.”
By any means? Braydon hoped he was correct in believing torture chambers a horror of the past. “Even the rack wouldn’t overcome ignorance,” he said, “and such means are, of course, unthinkable. If I were devising such a plot, the lowest wouldn’t know me, and the links from layer to layer would be very hard to follow.”
“Damnation. Damnation! We could still hang the vermin. Hang, draw, and quarter ’em for an attempt on three royal lives. That should deter any future attempts.”
Braydon prayed no jury would condemn anyone to death for such a nonevent, but in these times who could be sure? Most juries looked kindly on protestors, but in the current mania over Princess Charlotte’s death, a jury might turn vicious with anyone threatening the royal family.
“People fired up by a purpose are rarely rational,” he said. “What measures have been taken to prevent future attacks?”
“Their royal highnesses have instructions not to cluster. Kent is en route back to Brussels, and Clarence should be in Bath by now. Both are under extra guard. Sussex is a damned irregular, but he should be sensible in this situation.”
Braydon thought the Duke of Sussex admirably freethinking, but it was a shame that his rebellious streak had led him to marry in contravention t
o the Royal Marriages Act. He had children, but the Act made any royal marriage null if it didn’t have the approval of Parliament, so his were technically bastards. If matters were otherwise, there’d be no succession crisis. Prince Augustus and Princess Ellen would stand ready to ascend to the throne if needed.
“But who was behind it?” Sidmouth demanded, thumping the arm of his chair with a clenched fist. “Who?”
“Rather, ask why,” Braydon said. “Qui bono?”
“Someone who wishes to disrupt the kingdom!” Sidmouth declared. “The death by explosion of three princes. Alarm. Shock. Fear.”
Certainly in you.
“There could be a more practical purpose,” Braydon said. He left a polite pause, but when Sidmouth didn’t take up the subject, he did. “The explosion would have removed three of the four princes who are free to marry and provide an heir.”
“By Lucifer! Jacobites?” Perhaps Sidmouth’s hair really did rise on end.
“Any Jacobite claim would be feeble, but there are plenty of German Protestants with a line of descent.”
The Jacobite fragments were Papist, which was why Parliament had made a law to say all future monarchs must be Protestant. That was how George of Hanover, a rather distant branch on the royal family tree, had become King George the first in 1714. If the Hanoverian line failed, a number of other Protestant German principalities had people with claims.
Sidmouth shot to his feet to pace. “I can’t believe it of any of them. It’s the French. It has to be the French. Create mayhem. Weaken us. Open the way . . .” A knock at the door ended the tirade. “Come!”
A footman entered with a letter on a silver tray. Braydon heard him murmur, “From Carlton House, my lord.” The Regent’s London residence.
An explosion there, too? Thank God the Regent wasn’t in residence.
Sidmouth waved the man out and broke the seal. “Good God.”
Braydon waited, aware of his heartbeats.
“He’s here,” Sidmouth said. “The Regent. Demanding my immediate presence.”
Not a new disaster.
“You’d better come, too.”
“I’m still rough from travel,” Braydon pointed out.
“So must he be if he’s hurtled here from Brighton. Come.”
Sidmouth hurried out, and with a moment’s wistful thought of his wife and his marriage bed, Braydon followed.
Chapter 26
Braydon was pleased to see that Carlton House was adequately guarded, though it was possible the number of soldiers had been increased today. They were challenged at the railings that barred the forecourt, and scrutinized as they left the coach beneath the massive portico and climbed the steps to go inside. In the hall Braydon saw only liveried footmen, but there could be other guards concealed by the elaborate architecture.
He’d attended levees here and one banquet, but never been admitted beyond the public rooms. Now he accompanied the Home Secretary through the famous octagon room into the back of the house and the more private areas. The decoration did not become simpler. The anteroom was hung with remarkable paintings. The furnishings were sparse but opulent, most probably obtained from the spoils of the French Revolution. Perhaps their former owners would be pleased to see them in a royal setting.
Bourbon visitors might also like the fleur-de-lis carpet, which continued into a salon, and at last, into the Regent’s presence. He was seated in a large chair with upholstered arms and seat, but it bore no resemblance to a throne. This room was smaller than the previous one, but just as fine—if one favored blue panels and hangings amid gilded walls, doors, and cornices. Thankfully, the grand chandelier was unlit, and the room was illuminated only by candelabra, but a great many of them. They and the large fire made the air unpleasantly hot.
No wonder the Regent was half-undressed and swathed in a silk banyan of blue embroidered with gold. Someone so very large should avoid strong colors.
“Sidmouth! At last. Who’s this?”
The Home Secretary introduced Braydon, with explanation.
“Hawkinville’s away?” the Regent said. “I like Hawkinville, even though he can be damned impudent. Wellington trusts him.”
Braydon was tempted to point out that Wellington trusted him, too, but silence seemed wiser. In private, people sometimes poked fun at the Regent for his extravagance, size, and folly over women, but he was the ruler, with a ruler’s powers.
As he and Sidmouth made their bows, Braydon assessed the man. There’d been optimistic reports in the papers that the Regent was recovering his spirits in Brighton and was seen out riding, but if they’d been true, he’d suffered a setback. His complexion was blotchy and his eyes almost haunted. A foot raised on a stool suggested gout, but even so, he had a decanter of port at his elbow and was drinking from a glass.
“Very well, very well. Tell me this tale.”
Sidmouth related the attempted assassination.
“Courtenay,” the Regent said. “Remember her. Always giving me sorrowful looks. Was she in on it?”
“I very much doubt it, sir.”
“Then who?”
Sidmouth went through their arguments. Braydon’s mind drifted. He could be much more pleasantly engaged. But, then, the journey had been taxing, and Kitty was probably fast asleep by now. Would she sleep in his bed and be there when he finally managed to get home? A delightful prospect, but she’d probably prefer a bed of her own. She’d returned to her own bed last night.
“Balderdash!” The Regent’s exclamation snapped him back to the moment. “The succession?” the Regent continued. “Even if the plot had succeeded, there’d be no benefit from it for decades!”
He was right. Despite the Regent’s bulk and ill health, he was showing a sharp mind.
“M’father’s living a long life,” he continued, and Braydon thought he heard resentment. “And there’s no reason we shouldn’t all do so. Go odds some of my sisters’ll live to ninety. Could end up with a succession of doddery old virgin queens! Queen Augusta, Queen Elizabeth the Second, Queen Mary the Second, Queen Sophia . . .”
He laughed and swigged more port, but the laugh was bitter. None of his brothers and sisters could reign until he died. Perhaps he spent sleepless nights fretting that his father might outlive him, stealing his chance of coronation and kingship. From all reports, the mad king was in better physical health than his heir.
“It’s one of those damned revolutionaries,” the Regent said. “Arrest ’em all!” Braydon must have moved, for the Regent’s eyes turned on him. “You think that unwise?”
Now, there is a tricky question. “Not in principle, sir,” Braydon said carefully, “but the recent tragic event has reminded everyone of their devotion to the royal family and particularly to yourself, and strengthened their desire for peace and good order. Anyone speaking treason now is chastised by those around. To arrest people without explanation would disturb that situation, but would it be wise to explain? Might it not be best to keep the event from public knowledge?”
“Don’t want to create new fear and uncertainty, eh?” The Regent pouted, but didn’t repeat his command. “Leave it in your hands, gentlemen. Find the culprit and ensure there’s no repetition. I hold court tomorrow. Excuse for coming, don’t you know, in order to keep this quiet.” It was the Regent’s way to make good decisions his own. He’d even been known to claim a part in the victory at Waterloo.
They were dismissed, and Braydon was glad to escape. He and Sidmouth left in silence, aware of listening ears, but Braydon was rearranging the pieces.
They’d ignored the princesses. They were probably all past childbearing age, and only two were married, but if their brothers all died, they would ascend the throne, one after the other. The royal dukes might not make old bones, but some of the princesses might. Even if there were no new legitimate grandchildren for the king, it could be forty yea
rs or more before the Hanoverian line was exhausted.
So what would have been the point of killing Kent, Clarence, and Sussex?
Once in the coach and on their way, Sidmouth said, “Insurrectionists after all. I thought so. Hawkinville’s staff is still in place in his house. Use them.”
Does Sidmouth not trust his own Home Office or the military in this matter? Paranoia or reason? “If you’ll let me down at Mrs. Courtenay’s house I’ll begin my enquiries.”
“This late?”
“Carelessness with gunpowder deserves some inconvenience.”
Sidmouth shrugged, and soon Braydon was ruthlessly knocking until a sleepy servant opened to him. He learned that the lady had fled to the country. Or fled the country? That could be discovered.
Her absence gave Braydon free rein to tour the house and ask questions, though she seemed an unlikely conspirator. The Regent had confirmed her royal service, and her servants described an elderly widow of a sober, religious disposition.
There was nothing informative about the three-story house. Its elegance was rather faded, but it spoke of conventional tastes and deep propriety. The hatch into the basement was as described, accessed from a small backyard that had a gate into a delivery lane. The hatch was near the kitchen, and two servants slept nearby. Could anyone trundle a beer barrel into the basement unheard?
“Oh no, milord,” the butler said. “It was delivered, regular, in a manner of speaking. That is, the usual people, but we weren’t expecting it.”
“Yet you took delivery.”
“Danny, the footman did. We were in such a flurry of preparation for the royal dinner, so Danny said no one had time to stow it properly. When the delivery men offered to do that instead of carrying it back to their cart, he agreed.”