Chapter 23
Wednesday, 26 July
The next day Sebastian joined Alistair St. Cyr, the Fifth Earl of Hendon and longtime Chancellor of the Exchequer, for an early-morning ride in Hyde Park.
The Earl was in his seventies now, his eyes the deep, unusual blue that characterized the St. Cyr family, his hair white, his body thick, and his face jowly. The two men were known to the world as father and son, although they were not. The painful revelations of the last few years had at one time strained their relationship nearly to the breaking point. But the affection they felt for each other was real, and they were slowly working their way toward a new understanding.
The morning had dawned sunny and pleasantly warm, and the two men posted along the Row in a companionable silence for some time. But after casting a few appraising glances at his heir, Hendon said, “That leg is still bothering you, isn’t it?”
It had been some four months since Sebastian nearly lost his leg to a serious gunshot wound in Paris, and the truth was the wound still hurt more than he liked to admit. But all he said was, “Not too much.”
“Bullocks,” said Hendon, and Sebastian laughed.
After another pause, Hendon said, “I hear you’ve involved yourself in these murders out at Richmond Park. Is that wise?”
“You think I should sit at home nursing this damned leg while some madman roams the city killing women and girls, do you?”
“What I think,” said Hendon with a low growl, “is that you should leave such matters to Bow Street.”
“They’re the ones who asked for my help.”
Hendon growled again, louder this time.
“Enough about that,” said Sebastian. “Tell me what’s to be done with Napoléon.”
“Ah. Well, at the moment, the ship carrying him is being transferred to Plymouth. But after that? It’s still up in the air.”
“Any chance he’ll be allowed to buy a tidy estate in Devon or Cornwall and settle down to the life of a country gentleman?”
“Not bloody likely. Prinny’s all for turning him over to the Bourbons to be boiled in oil, but hopefully wiser heads will prevail.”
“So you’re in agreement with Jarvis?”
“In this, yes. Marie-Thérèse and Artois are nasty, vindictive fools. And while the French King himself is neither nasty nor a fool, he’s too weak and lazy to stand against his niece and brother. Between the two of them they’re going to unleash a vengeful bloodbath on France—worse even than what King Ferdinand has been doing in Spain.”
“Of course they will, and it’s not going to end well. We might have succeeded in restoring that ugly, repressive collection of Continental monarchs to their thrones for now, but we’re not going to be able to keep them there forever. Their people will eventually rise up to get rid of them again—whether it takes fifteen or a hundred and fifty years.”
“Nonsense,” said Hendon. “We’ve spent twenty-odd years and more lives than I like to think about to reach this point, but it’s been worth it. Europe is more stable now than it’s ever been.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Hendon swung around in his saddle to stare at Sebastian, for the Earl was well aware of his heir’s political philosophies. “Do you?”
Sebastian met Hendon’s hard stare. “Of course I do. You think I want to see Simon marching off to war in another twenty years to save the Bourbons again?”
“Hopefully, Simon will have more regard for what is due his position as a future Earl of Hendon than to do any such thing. But I wouldn’t put it past this next lad to be as army mad as you always were. When exactly is he due? December?”
“Early November. But this one is going to be my girl, remember?”
At that, Hendon simply shook his head and smiled.
An hour later, Sebastian and Hero were about to rise from their breakfast table when a messenger arrived from Lord Salinger. The liveried footman who delivered it was breathing hard, his face glazed with sweat and flushed, as if he had run the entire distance from Down Street.
“Bloody hell,” whispered Sebastian as he broke the missive’s seal and read through it.
“What is it?” asked Hero, watching him.
Sebastian looked up. “Someone attacked Percy and Arabella.”