A footman entered with a letter on a silver tray. Braydon heard him murmur, “From Carlton House, my lord.” The Regent’s London residence.
An explosion there, too? Thank God the Regent wasn’t in residence.
Sidmouth waved the man out and broke the seal. “Good God.”
Braydon waited, aware of his heartbeats.
“He’s here,” Sidmouth said. “The Regent. Demanding my immediate presence.”
Not a new disaster.
“You’d better come, too.”
“I’m still rough from travel,” Braydon pointed out.
“So must he be if he’s hurtled here from Brighton. Come.”
Sidmouth hurried out, and with a moment’s wistful thought of his wife and his marriage bed, Braydon followed.
Chapter 26
Braydon was pleased to see that Carlton House was adequately guarded, though it was possible the number of soldiers had been increased today. They were challenged at the railings that barred the forecourt, and scrutinized as they left the coach beneath the massive portico and climbed the steps to go inside. In the hall Braydon saw only liveried footmen, but there could be other guards concealed by the elaborate architecture.
He’d attended levees here and one banquet, but never been admitted beyond the public rooms. Now he accompanied the Home Secretary through the famous octagon room into the back of the house and the more private areas. The decoration did not become simpler. The anteroom was hung with remarkable paintings. The furnishings were sparse but opulent, most probably obtained from the spoils of the French Revolution. Perhaps their former owners would be pleased to see them in a royal setting.
Bourbon visitors might also like the fleur-de-lis carpet, which continued into a salon, and at last, into the Regent’s presence. He was seated in a large chair with upholstered arms and seat, but it bore no resemblance to a throne. This room was smaller than the previous one, but just as fine—if one favored blue panels and hangings amid gilded walls, doors, and cornices. Thankfully, the grand chandelier was unlit, and the room was illuminated only by candelabra,but a great many of them. They and the large fire made the air unpleasantly hot.
No wonder the Regent was half-undressed and swathed in a silk banyan of blue embroidered with gold.Someone so very large should avoid strong colors.
“Sidmouth! At last. Who’s this?”
The Home Secretary introduced Braydon, with explanation.
“Hawkinville’s away?” the Regent said. “I like Hawkinville, even though he can be damned impudent. Wellington trusts him.”
Braydon was tempted to point out that Wellington trusted him, too, but silence seemed wiser. In private, people sometimes poked fun at the Regent for his extravagance, size, and folly over women, but he was the ruler, with a ruler’s powers.
As he and Sidmouth made their bows, Braydon assessed the man. There’d been optimistic reports in the papers that the Regent was recovering his spirits in Brighton and was seen out riding, but if they’d been true, he’d suffered a setback. His complexion was blotchy and his eyes almost haunted. A foot raised on a stool suggested gout, but even so, he had a decanter of port at his elbow and was drinking from a glass.
“Very well, very well. Tell me this tale.”
Sidmouth related the attempted assassination.
“Courtenay,” the Regent said. “Remember her. Always giving me sorrowful looks. Was she in on it?”
“I very much doubt it, sir.”
“Then who?”
Sidmouth went through their arguments. Braydon’s mind drifted. He could be much more pleasantly engaged. But, then, the journey had been taxing, and Kitty was probably fast asleep by now. Would she sleep in his bed and be there when he finally managed to get home? Adelightful prospect, but she’d probably prefer a bed of her own. She’d returned to her own bed last night.
“Balderdash!” The Regent’s exclamation snapped him back to the moment. “The succession?” the Regent continued. “Even if the plot had succeeded, there’d be no benefit from it for decades!”
He was right. Despite the Regent’s bulk and ill health, he was showing a sharp mind.
“M’father’s living a long life,” he continued, and Braydon thought he heard resentment. “And there’s no reason we shouldn’t all do so. Go odds some of my sisters’ll live to ninety. Could end up with a succession of doddery old virgin queens! Queen Augusta, Queen Elizabeth the Second, Queen Mary the Second, Queen Sophia...”
He laughed and swigged more port, but the laugh was bitter. None of his brothers and sisters could reign until he died. Perhaps he spent sleepless nights fretting that his father might outlive him, stealing his chance of coronation and kingship. From all reports, the mad king was in better physical health than his heir.
