Where Serpents Sleep

Chapter 13

George, Prince Regent of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, gripped a vial of smelling salts in one plump white hand and held it to his own nostrils.

“Perceval tells us there was another attack in Yorkshire,” said the Prince. “Luddites!” He inhaled deeply and shuddered, although whether it was in reaction to the smelling salts or the thought of the Luddites, Jarvis couldn’t be certain. “Carrying on like savages,” continued the Prince. “Hiding their faces. Smashing machines. Something must be done about this!”

“A number of arrests have already been made,” said Jarvis, privately consigning the Prime Minister to the devil. Whatever had possessed Perceval to regale the Regent with this tale? “Unfortunately, the lower orders are still infected by the events in France. They think they can remold society. Become uppity with their betters. But the more progress our armies make on the Continent, the sooner these Luddites and their ilk will see the error of their ways.”

“Yes, but are we making progress on the Continent?”

“We will,” said Jarvis resolutely.

The Regent shifted against his pillows, restless. A giant platter of buttered crab and four bottles of port after dinner last night had brought on the most alarming of the Prince’s symptoms—the bowel distress, the tingling in his hands and feet, the mental confusion. That episode—combined with a heavy bleeding by Dr. Heberden—had left George too exhausted to do more than totter between his bed and his dressing room couch. But not, unfortunately, too exhausted to receive his Prime Minister.

George said, “Perceval brought me a copy of his newest pamphlet. He seems to have discovered an alarming prophesy in the Bible. Something about a new satanic power rising in the west. The pamphlet is there, near the window.” The Prince waved one fat, beringed hand in a vague gesture toward a small table.

Jarvis generally tried to ignore the Prime Minister’s periodic attempts at elucidating godly intent. Religion had its place in society, reconciling the masses to their fate and assuring their docile acceptance of the rule of their betters. But this was taking things too far. “Don’t tell me Perceval has equated our former American colonies with this new satanic threat?”

The Regent took another sniff of his salts. “He fears it may be so.”

“Well, I’ll be certain to read this new pamphlet with interest,” said Jarvis. Tucking the offending publication beneath one arm, he bowed himself out of the royal presence.

A tall, muscular man had been leaning against the far wall of the Prince’s antechamber. As Jarvis crossed the room toward the corridor, the man fell into step beside him.

“About the matter we discussed earlier,” said Colonel Epson-Smith.

“Walk with me,” said Jarvis, turning into the corridor.

The two men’s footsteps echoed up and down the cavernous space. Epson-Smith kept his voice low. “It seems someone else has an interest in the event.”

“Who?” said Jarvis without breaking stride.

“Devlin.”

“Devlin? What is his interest in this?”

“He refuses to say. There’s a woman making inquiries, as well.”

“A woman?” Jarvis swung to face the man beside him, and whatever Epson-Smith saw in Jarvis’s face caused the Colonel to take a step back.

“I’m not certain yet who she is, my lord. But word on the streets is that a gentlewoman has been asking questions at some of the lodging houses in Covent Garden and—”

“Forget about the woman,” Jarvis snapped and continued walking.

Epson-Smith inclined his head and fell into step beside him. “As you wish, my lord. And Devlin?”

Jarvis paused at the entrance to his own chambers. A thin, nervous clerk leapt to attention. “My lord!”

Jarvis thrust the Prime Minister’s pamphlet at the clerk and said curtly, “Burn this.”

The clerk bobbed a frightened bow. “Yes, my lord.”

To Epson-Smith, Jarvis said simply, “I’ll deal with Devlin.”