What Remains of Heaven

Chapter 2

LONDON, THE EARLY HOURS OF WEDNESDAY, 8 JULY 1812

The Circular Room at Carlton House was an inner sanc tum reserved for the most intimate friends of His Royal Highness George, Prince Regent. Here, amidst the glitter of crystal chandeliers and the glories of blue silk draped in imitation of a Roman tent, those with the privilege of entrée gathered late into the night to drink wine and listen to music and bask in all the benefits of being in the royal favor.

But tonight, the Prince was in a petulant mood, his full, almost feminine lower lip thrust out in a pout. “I hear the Bishop of London is set to give a speech against slavery before the Lords this Thursday,” said the Regent, snapping his fingers for another bottle.

Once, the Prince had been a handsome man. Now, in his early fifties, a lifetime of overindulgence in the various delights of the flesh had taken their toll. His face was flushed, his features blurred, and not even the talents of London’s best tailors—or the use of rigidly laced stays—could disguise the corpulence of his body.

His stays creaking perilously, the Regent turned to frown at his cousin Charles, Lord Jarvis, the acknowledged power behind the Prince’s fragile regency. “What say you, Jarvis? Surely there’s some way to stop him?”

His cousin Jarvis was also a big man, standing more than six feet tall and fleshy. Jarvis’s size alone would have made him impressive. But it was his awe-inspiring intellect, his formidable ruthlessness, and a true dedication to King and country that had combined to make him the most powerful man in the kingdom. He took a slow sip of his own wine before answering. “I hardly see what, short of killing him.”

A nervous titter spread amongst the men gathered near enough to hear. Everyone knew that those Jarvis considered his enemies—or even merely inconvenient—had a nasty habit of turning up dead.

The Prince’s pout grew. One of his intimates—a slim, hawk-faced exquisite named Lord Quillian—raised one eyebrow and said, “The man’s on a bloody crusade. You’re not troubled by it, Jarvis?”

Jarvis flicked open a gold snuffbox with one careless finger. “You think I should be?”

“Considering the fact that Prescott was largely responsible for getting the Slave Trade Act passed five years ago, I’d say so, yes. There’s a growing piety in this country, combined with a mawkish kind of sensibility that worries me.”

“It’s easy to support abolition in theory.” Jarvis raised a pinch of snuff to his nostril. “In practice, things become considerably more complicated.”

A movement near the door drew Jarvis’s attention. A tall, military-looking gentleman in a riding coat and top boots spoke in a low voice to the attendants, then strode across the room to whisper in Jarvis’s ear.

“Excuse me, Your Highness,” said the King’s powerful cousin with a bow. “I shan’t be but a moment.”

Withdrawing to a secluded alcove, Jarvis snapped, “What is it?”

The tall, military-looking gentleman, a former captain in the 9th Foot, smiled. “The Bishop of London is dead.”

In the cool light of early morning, father and son trotted their horses companionably side by side through Hyde Park. Faint wisps of mist still hovered here and there beneath the trees, although the strengthening sun was beginning to burn off the fog rising from the nearby river.

“It’s been two months now since Perceval was shot,” grumbled Alistair James St. Cyr, Fifth Earl of Hendon. Mounted on a big gray gelding, the Earl was a powerfully framed man of sixty-six with a barrel chest, a thick shock of white hair, and vivid blue eyes. “Two months!” he said again, when his son made no comment. “And Liverpool is still acting more like an incompetent backbencher than a prime minister. This situation can’t continue. We’re already at war with half of Europe. The next thing you know we’re going to have the bloody Americans attacking Canada.”

Mounted on the neat black Arab mare he’d acquired during his years as an Army officer, the Earl’s only surviving son and heir, Sebastian, Viscount Devlin, ducked his head to hide a smile. Even taller than his father, the Viscount was built lean, with dark hair and strange, feral-looking yellow eyes. “You’re the one who turned down the Regent’s invitation to form a government,” he said.

“I should rather think so,” said the Earl, who for the past three years had held the position of Chancellor of the Exchequer. “Why should I spend my days fighting Jarvis for the loyalty of my own cabinet? Once, I might have been persuaded to do so. No longer.”

“I should think you’d jump at the chance,” said Sebastian, “if for no other reason than to spite Jarvis.” The King’s formidable, eerily omnipotent cousin intimidated most men, but not Hendon. The two had been at loggerheads for as long as Sebastian could remember. Yet as powerful as he was, Jarvis would never form a government himself. The big man preferred to exercise his authority discreetly—and more effectively—from the shadows.

Hendon blew out a long breath. “I must be getting old. I find I’ve better things to do with my time.”

Sebastian raised one eyebrow.

“You heard me,” said Hendon. “I’d like to spend my declining years surrounded by a passel of lusty grandsons. Unfortunately, my only surviving son has yet to condescend to give me any.”

“You have a grandson. And a granddaughter.”

“Bayard?” Hendon dismissed the children of his only legitimate daughter, Amanda, Lady Wilcox, with a wave of one hand. “Bayard’s a Wilcox, and half as mad as his father besides. I’m talking about St. Cyr grandsons. The kind only you can give me. Heirs. You’re nearly thirty years old now, Sebastian. It’s high time you settled down and started a family.”

Sebastian kept his gaze firmly fixed between his horse’s ears and said nothing. The estrangement that had arisen between father and son the previous autumn had eased these past few weeks, but Hendon was straying into dangerous territory.

There was a moment of tense silence; then the Earl grunted, his eyes narrowing as he stared across the park. “I see you’re still employing that impertinent pickpocket as a groom.”

Sebastian followed his father’s gaze to where a sharp-faced boy dressed in the Devlin livery and mounted on one of Sebastian’s hacks pelted inelegantly toward them, one elbow cocked skyward to hold his hat in place. “What the devil?”

Tom, Sebastian’s young tiger, reined in hard beside them. He was thirteen years old, although he looked younger, with his gap-toothed grin and slight frame. Bobbing his head to Hendon, he said breathlessly, “Beggin’ yer pardon for the interruption, yer lordship.” He turned to Sebastian. “Ye’ve visitors awaitin’ ye at Brook Street, gov’nor. Yer aunt, the Duchess of Claiborne, and the Archbishop of Canterbury!”

Devlin said, “The Archbishop of Canterbury?”

“Henrietta?” said his father, eyes widening with incredulity. “At this hour?” The Duchess of Claiborne was famous for never leaving her bed before noon. Hendon sniffed the air. “The boy is obviously foxed.”

“I ain’t been drinkin’,” said Tom, bridling. “It’s ’Er Grace, all right, sittin’ up there in the drawing room with the Archbishop ’isself.”

Hendon’s suspicious frown deepened. “The last I heard, Archbishop Moore was essentially at death’s door. Why, Jarvis is already maneuvering to line up the man’s replacement.”

“Well, ’e don’t look none too ’ale, that’s fer sure,” agreed Tom. “But I reckon that’s to be expected, given what’s ’appened.”

“What has happened?” said Sebastian.

“Why, someone’s done gone and murdered the Bishop of London. Last night, in the crypt o’ some church near ’Ounslow ’Eath!”