Page 8 of What Cannot Be Said

The Prince’s lip thrust out in a pout. “But if we wait, then we won’t be able to combine the two celebrations, each one enhancing and emphasizing the other.”

With falling wages, spiraling food prices, and the gloomy shadow cast by a decades-long war that had recently ended so spectacularly at Waterloo, Jarvis suspected “the people” were in little mood to celebrate the accession of the Hanovers. In fact, the previous year’s ruinously expensive extravaganza—which included not only a massive fireworks display but also a mock naval battle staged on the Serpentine and a fanciful Temple of Victory erected in the park—had ended in a riot. But all he said was, “Then two hours it must be.” Chewing the inside of his cheek to hide a vaguely malicious smile, Jarvis shifted his shoulders against the wall. “I hear the people are expecting to see Princess Charlotte in London for the festivities.”

The Regent’s nostrils flared in annoyance. Nineteen-year-old Charlotte might be his only legitimate child and the heir presumptive to the throne, but he viewed her more as a rival and a source of aggravation than as a daughter to be loved and cherished. The previous summer he had forced upon her an unwanted betrothal to the Prince of Orange as part of a nasty scheme to get her out of the country. When she ultimately rebelled, the Regent reacted by flying into a frothing rage, dismissing her entire household, and banishing the disgraced Princess to a damp, cramped, unpleasant house deep in the woods of Windsor Castle.

And he was still furious with her.

“Ungrateful brat,” muttered the Prince, frowning down at a fifteenth-century Dehua piece. “What the bloody hell does she have to do with anything?”

What indeed? thought Jarvis. She’s only the future of the House of Hanover and the people love her. But Jarvis knew his prince, so he didn’t say it, for the Regent was as jealous and vindictive as he was vain and selfish, and the knowledge that his daughter was beloved while he himself was universally reviled ate at him.

The Prince’s corset creaked again in protest as he leaned over to study the pattern on the side of a particularly large vase. “I’ll never understand why Our Heavenly Father should have seen fit to bless me with some half dozen fine bastard sons and yet make my only legitimate offspring a headstrong, willful female totally lacking in any sense of what is owed either to her sire or to her royal house.”

Given her parentage and the way she’d been raised, those who knew the Princess tended to be amazed she’d turned out as well as she had. That she existed at all was something of a miracle, given that the Prince had spent one night in his wife’s bed and then never returned. Rumor had it the newly wed Princess of Wales had criticized both her drunken bridegroom’s performance and his anatomy, with disastrous results.

Carefully keeping his features utterly bland, Jarvis said, “Lord Liverpool has suggested it might be appropriate to invite Her Highness the Princess of Wales to return to England and attend the festivities.”

The Prince straightened with a jerk, his eyes bulging, his full, florid face darkening to an angry crimson. “Good God! Whatever can the man be thinking? Caroline?”

“I told him I didn’t think it would be necessary.”

“It’s beyond unnecessary; it’s madness!” The Prince stepped back from the table and waved a languid hand over the array of exquisite pieces, the cost of which would no doubt feed the poor of England for quite some time. “I’ll take them all—except for the red bowl.”

The dealer executed a deep bow. “Yes, Your Highness.”

Jarvis pushed away from the wall. “Liverpool also expressed a desire to meet with you to discuss what he and Sidmouth believe is a growing threat posed by the Spenceans.” As followers of the late Thomas Spence, the Spenceans were an annoying group of radicals who not only opposed the ongoing enclosure of traditional common lands but also advocated for any number of shockingly revolutionary concepts, from equal rights for all to universal suffrage.

“Damn rabble-rousing insurrectionists,” muttered the Regent. “What is there to discuss? Simply find something to charge the rascals with and hang them. How difficult can it be?”

Once again Jarvis hid a private smile, and bowed. “As you wish, sir.”

Chapter 6

The sun was hovering low in the summer sky by the time Sebastian made it back to his house on Brook Street, in the district of London known as Mayfair.

He paused at the base of the steps leading up to the shiny black front door, his gaze drawn to the distant swath of green that was Grosvenor Square. The light was fading fast from the day, the shadows in the narrow, affluent street deepening, the air heavy with the scents of delicate dinners being concocted by expensive French chefs up and down the street. He could hear the laughing shouts of children mingling with the clear, sweet notes of a swift singing somewhere out of sight. Normally the simple beauty of the moment would have filled him with quiet joy. Now he found it served only to accentuate the disquieting ache in his heart.

The image of the dead mother and daughter—the woman cut down in the prime of life, the girl only just emerging from childhood—tore at him. He’d spent six years at war, yet he still found violent death disturbing and the senseless loss of the young particularly so. But there was something about the careful posing of those two innocent victims that transcended both tragedy and loss, that hinted at a level of human malevolence that reached beyond hate, beyond revenge, to something he could only understand as evil.

He was not a religious man. He’d lost his belief in the teachings of his youth long ago in the smoke-obscured charnel house of some half-forgotten battlefield. And yet he believed in good. And while he rejected the idea of evil as a personified external force, he knew it when he saw it. Still felt the intensity of its animus when he was in its presence.

And he’d felt it today, like a breathless chill lingering in that sun-warmed glade.

?The two little boys sat side by side on the rug before the drawing room’s empty hearth, trying to arouse the attention of the big, long-haired black cat that lay curled up on a nearby chair, pretending to ignore them. Both boys were tall for their ages, tall and unusually lean, with their fathers’ almost black hair and strange yellow eyes. Except for a slight difference in their heights, they looked enough alike to be twins, although they were not even brothers. Only Simon, now two and a half, was Sebastian’s own son; Patrick, slightly older, was the orphaned child of a man who’d looked enough like Sebastian to be his brother—and died because of it.

“Papa!” the boys cried in unison, bounding up to run toward Sebastian when he walked into the room.

“I didn’t expect to find you two still up,” said Sebastian, hunkering down to wrap his arms around both boys and hold them tight.

“They wheedled me into letting them stay up a few more minutes in the hopes you might come,” said his wife, Hero, rising from one of the chairs near the room’s bow window. Like her son, she was tall—almost as tall as Sebastian, with warm brown hair and Jarvis’s aquiline nose, piercing gray eyes, and extraordinary intelligence. She was now nearly six months pregnant with their second child, and Sebastian had passed many a sleepless night worrying about the dangers to come, for Simon’s delivery had not been easy. When he’d first met her, Sebastian had thought her as cold, hard, and enigmatic as her father. Now he couldn’t imagine living without her.

“I think I hear Claire coming,” said Sebastian, and laughed when both boys chorused, “No!”

He gave them another hug, then rose and said to Hero, “Morey tells me you’ve pushed back dinner, as well. I fear Madame LeClerc may never forgive me.”

Hero’s eyes crinkled with a smile. “Praise her trout meunière effusively enough and she’ll forgive you.” The smile faded. “Was it Laura?”

“It was, yes. I’m sorry. And her daughter Emma.”

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