“‘Then the Lord put forth his hand and touched my mouth. And the Lord said unto me, Behold, I have put my words in thy mouth.’”
Jarvis ostentatiously bowed his head as the glorious Stuart-era poetry of the King James Bible echoed around the soaring interior of the sixteenth-century chapel. He’d never been a particularly devout man, but he had a healthy appreciation for the role religion played in maintaining order and the hierarchy of being. And so he was careful to be seen attending services every Sunday, for it was important that members of the ruling class set a good example for the ignorant masses below them.
He often worshipped here, at the Chapel Royal in St. James’s Palace, both because its schedule was set to accommodate the late-rising habits of His Highness the Prince Regent and because he appreciated the exclusivity of its congregation. Attendance today was sparse, owing no doubt to the severity of the weather. But one of the few worshippers present was that abrasive Whig politician Phineas Wallace. And because Jarvis knew it would irritate the man, he found himself faintly smiling as the reading continued.
“‘See, I have this day set thee over the nations and over the kingdoms,
to root out, and to pull down,
to destroy, and to throw down,
to build, and to plant.’”
Unlike Jarvis, Phineas Wallace was not known for his regular church attendance. But the fiery Whig orator had been trying without success to arrange a meeting with Jarvis for days. And so Jarvis was not surprised when the Baron fell into step beside him as they left the chapel at the end of services.
“I take it you wished to speak to me?” Jarvis remarked pleasantly.
“I know about your scheme,” said Wallace, his voice pitched low.
Jarvis paused to extract his snuffbox from his pocket and flip it open. “I never imagined that you did not.”
Wallace threw a quick glance around and leaned in closer. “It’s madness, all of it. Why tie Britain to the Dutch in a way that will obligate us to come to their defense? The people of this land are on their knees after more than two decades of war; they need peace and prosperity, not more war. The cost of defending the Netherlands would break us in every way imaginable. Break us!”
Jarvis lifted a pinch of snuff to one nostril and smiled. “The Bourbons will not move against the House of Orange.”
Wallace gave a harsh, breathy laugh. “You genuinely believe that the French will meekly accept the Bourbons back on the throne? After twenty-five years of liberté, égalité, and fraternité?”
“After twenty-five years of liberté, égalité, and fraternité, there are scarcely enough Frenchmen left alive to sing ‘La Marseillaise,’ let alone object to anyone we should choose to place at their head.”
“It won’t always be so.”
Jarvis closed his snuffbox with a snap and stepped out onto the snowy flagway. “Then when that day comes we shall have our dear allies the Dutch as a bulwark against a resurgent republican France.”
Wallace kept pace with him. “This isn’t actually about the Dutch or even the French, is it? It’s about Prinny’s bloody crusade to rid himself of his wife. He thinks that with Bonaparte defeated and Charlotte forced to live most of the year in the Netherlands, Caroline will leave England for the Continent, and then he’ll finally be able to push through a divorce.”
“Do you blame him?”
Wallace’s thin nose quivered with his disdain. “She is his lawfully wedded wife and has borne nothing but insult and abuse from him since she first landed on our shores.”
“And you think that excuses her behavior, do you? What of the opprobrium he has borne as a result of her conduct?”
“Oh, please. Everyone with any sense knows he paid that Douglas woman to stand up and swear she saw the Princess give birth to an illegitimate son.”
Jarvis calmly slipped his snuffbox back into his pocket. “Are you so certain she did not?”
“When three different physicians who treated her during that period, her dresser, and the chambermaid who changes her sheets all swear it never happened? When the friends who saw her every week laugh at the possibility? When the Prince is now paying Lady Douglas a tidy pension for life? Don’t be ridiculous.”
Jarvis gave a negligent shrug. “Yet many people do believe it. In the end, that’s all that counts.”
“And the truth?”
“The truth has nothing to do with it.”
Wallace shook his head, his jaw set hard. “Charlotte knows of her father’s intentions. She will never allow herself to be forced to leave the country. She has been warned of the consequences to both her mother and her own position as heiress presumptive to the throne. And because she knows her father and the way he lies and feigns affection to get what he wants, she will insist that safeguards are written into the marriage contract before she signs it.”
“She’ll sign. She’s already agreed to the betrothal; these clever little machinations of yours are all too late.”
“It won’t be too late until the vows are said.”
“Perhaps. But they will be said. Make no mistake about that.”
“Not if I can help it,” said Wallace curtly. “Good day to you, sir.”
Jarvis smiled faintly as Wallace strode angrily away up St. James’s Street.
He was still smiling when his daughter, Hero, came to stand beside him.
“I thought I’d find you here,” she said.
“Oh?” They turned together to walk down Cleveland Row. “Do I take it from your scowl that you’ve learned something? Something you believe does not cast me in what you consider a flattering light?”
“You sent one of your men in a carriage to pick up Jane Ambrose as she was leaving Warwick House exactly two weeks before she was killed. Why was that?”
“And if I told you the woman was spying on Charlotte for me?”
“I wouldn’t believe you. Not unless you were forcing her to do so against her will.” When Jarvis remained silent, she said, “So were you?”
He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead.
Hero’s nostrils flared on a quick intake of air. “I would think you have enough spies around the Princess—including a certain very beautiful duke’s daughter with a gift for languages and the lethal instincts of a barracuda.”
“One can never have too many informants.”
“Perhaps not. Especially when you’re plotting to maneuver Princess Charlotte out of the country so that the Regent can replace Caroline with a new wife and beget a new heir.”
“Now, wherever did you hear that?”
“From Caroline.”
“Really? Interesting.”
“She’s no fool.”
“That’s debatable.”
“She says Prinny was virtually impotent nineteen years ago—which is quite believable given the rumors one hears about his current so-called mistresses.”
When Jarvis remained silent, she said, “If what she says is true, the chances of the Prince producing a male heir at this point are decidedly slim.”
“Slim, perhaps, but not impossible.”
“What’s wrong with Charlotte? She’s far more stable, responsible, and just plain likable than her father. And the people love her—they cheer her every time they see her.”
“She is a woman.”
“So was Queen Elizabeth.”
“Queen Elizabeth lived in a far different age.”
“Are you suggesting the Elizabethan era was more enlightened than our own? Or simply less challenging?”
Jarvis drew up and turned to face her. “The last thing the nineteenth century needs is a woman on the British throne—especially one who believes in Catholic emancipation and Irish independence.”
“Ah. So young Charlotte actually is a Whig, is she?”
“Fervently so. Her becoming queen would be an unmitigated disaster.”
“And so you’re marrying this innocent eighteen-year-old to a foreign prince with a known preference for handsome courtiers? How can you do that to the poor girl?”
“I’m not interested in what’s best for Charlotte. My concern is what is best for Britain.”
Hero studied him through narrowed eyes. “Why would someone kill Jane Ambrose?”
“I’ve no idea.”
He was aware of Hero’s gaze still hard upon him. “I don’t believe you,” she said.
At that, Jarvis laughed out loud and looped his arm through hers. But all he said was “So are you planning to bring your son to see your grandmother this afternoon? I’ve no doubt she’ll complain that he’s interrupting her nap and fatiguing her in every way known to man, but I doubt she’ll live to see many more of his birthdays. . . .”