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.”
