Why Kings Confess

Chapter 6

In addition to extensive estates in the country, Charles, Lord Jarvis, owned a large town house on Berkeley Square that he shared with his invalid wife and his aged mother. Since his contempt for the former was matched only by his profound dislike of the latter, he spent as little time at home as possible. When in London, he could generally be found either at his clubs or in the chambers reserved for his use here, at Carlton House, by the Prince Regent.

For thirty years, he had served the House of Hanover, dedicating his prodigious intellect and unerring talents to the preservation and exaltation of his country and its monarchy. Acknowledged by all as the real power behind the Prince’s fragile regency, he had steered Britain safely through decades of war and the perils of social unrest that could all too easily have consumed her.

Now he stood at the window overlooking Pall Mall, his attention seemingly divided between the forecourt below and the slight, freckle-faced Scotsman who lounged with his back to the fire, the tails of his exquisitely tailored coat lifted up and to the sides so as to better warm his backside.

Angus Kilmartin had a small bony face with oversized features and a halo of frizzy, copper-colored hair that combined to give him an almost comical appearance. But in the Scotsman’s case, appearances were definitely deceptive. Kilmartin was shrewd and venal and utterly amoral. By heavily investing in well-selected war-related manufactories, he had risen in the space of twenty years to become one of the wealthiest men in Britain.

“The question is,” said Kilmartin, “does his death mean anything?”

Jarvis reached for his snuffbox and flicked open the box’s filigree and enamel lid with one agile fingertip. “It undoubtedly means something to someone. Whether it should concern us or not, however, remains to be seen.”

“Does it?”

The silence in the room was suddenly, dangerously strained. “Are you questioning my analysis or my veracity?” asked Jarvis with deceptive calm.

A dull red stain tinged the other man’s cheeks. “I’m. . Surely you understand my concern?”

“Your concern is unnecessary.” Jarvis lifted a pinch of snuff to one nostril and sniffed. “Was there something else?”

Kilmartin’s fingers tightened around the brim of the hat he held in his hands. “No. Good day, sir.”

He swept a precisely calculated bow, turned on his heel, and left.

Jarvis was still standing at the window, snuffbox in hand, when he heard an odd yelp from his clerk in the anteroom; an instant later, Viscount Devlin strode into the chamber without bothering to knock.

“Do come in,” said Jarvis dryly.

A hard smile touched the younger man’s lips. “Thank you.”

He was thirty years old now, tall and lean, with a vaguely menacing bearing that reminded one of the time he’d spent as a cavalry officer. Two years ago, Jarvis had sought to have the man killed. Jarvis little realized at the time how much he would eventually come to regret that rare failure.

He slipped his snuffbox into his coat pocket and frowned. “How does my daughter?”

“She is well.”

Jarvis grunted. His wife, Annabelle, had exhibited numerous shortcomings over the years of their marriage, but by far her most grievous failure was her inability to provide Jarvis with a healthy male heir. Despite numerous miscarriages and stillbirths, she had succeeded in presenting him with only two children: a disappointingly sickly and idealistic son named David, who’d gone to a watery grave at the bottom of the sea, and Hero.

Tall, strong, and brutally brilliant, Hero was exactly the sort of child who might have delighted Jarvis-if she’d been born a boy. As a daughter, however, she was far from satisfactory. Strong willed, unapologetically bookish, and dangerously radical in her thinking, she had sworn off marriage at an early age and dedicated herself to a succession of appalling projects, only to allow herself to be impregnated by this bastard. Jarvis had never understood exactly what happened, but he uncharacteristically had no desire to know more about it than he already did.

Now the two men faced each other across the width of the room, the air crackling with their mutual animosity.

Devlin said, “What can you tell me about Harmond Vaundreuil? And don’t even think of trying to pretend you don’t know him. I saw you together.”

Jarvis went to settle comfortably in the Louis XIV-style chair behind his desk. He stretched out his legs, crossed his ankles, rested his folded hands on his rather large stomach, and heaved an exaggerated sigh. “You’ve involved yourself in the death of that young French doctor, have you? What was his name again?”

“Damion Pelletan.”

“Mmm. Somehow, when I heard a certain Irish surgeon had been so unfortunate as to discover the body, I knew you would feel compelled to interfere.”

“What has Vaundreuil to do with you?”

“Nothing that is any of your affair.”

“Damion Pelletan’s murder makes it my affair.”

Jarvis possessed an unexpectedly winsome smile he had long used to cajole or deceive the unwary. He used it now, although he knew Devlin was neither cajoled nor deceived nor unwary. “Fortunately, Damion Pelletan’s murder has been taken out of the hands of the bumbling East End authorities and turned over to Bow Street-by which I mean to the chief magistrate, Sir James-not to your good friend Sir Henry Lovejoy. So you see, there really is no need for you to involve yourself.”

Devlin, in turn, showed his teeth in a hard, nasty smile. “Concerned, are you?”

“Hardly. Sir James understands the delicacy of the situation.”

“Does he?”

“Let’s say that, at least, he understands enough to do what must be done.”

“Which is?”

“There will be no postmortem. The body has already been removed from Gibson’s surgery and turned over to Vaundreuil for burial.”

“And that’s to be it?”

“I suggest you read the papers. Dr. Pelletan was brutally set upon by footpads. The Regent has expressed outrage at the growing boldness of the criminal class in the city, and an initiative will soon be launched to remove the worst of the ruffians from the streets. Those who make it a practice of attending the hangings at Newgate are in for some good sport in the months ahead.”

Devlin’s eyes narrowed. He had the strangest eyes Jarvis had ever seen-the tawny gold of a tiger, with an unnatural, almost feral gleam. For some reason Jarvis could not have named, he suddenly found himself hoping that his coming grandson-or granddaughter-would not inherit this man’s damned yellow eyes. And he silently cursed Hero, again, for having mixed their noble blood with that of this bastard.

Devlin said, “Harmond Vaundreuil must be important.”

“In and of himself? No. But what he stands for is very important indeed. Far more important than the death of some random physician. If you love your country, Devlin, you will heed me on this and leave well enough alone.”

“Oh, I love my country, all right,” said Devlin. “But I’ve found that my vision for Britain and your vision are frequently two very different things.” He turned toward the door. “I’ll tell Hero you were inquiring about her.”

Jarvis stood abruptly. “I meant what I said. Do not involve yourself in this.”

“Why?” Devlin paused to look back at him. “What are you concerned that I might find?”

But Jarvis simply shook his head, his nostrils quivering with the intensity of his dislike.