One would think,” grumbled the Prince Regent, his lip thrusting out as he touched one plump hand against the floral porcelain teapot that graced his breakfast table, “that a man could get a hot cup of tea.”
“Unforgivable,” said Jarvis, signalizing one of the hovering footmen to take away the offending pot and replace it with a fresh one. Jarvis himself had broken his fast hours earlier, but the Prince rarely breakfasted before midafternoon.
George took a bite of toast, chewed, and thought of another source of aggravation. “We had Liverpool at us again last night, prosing on endlessly about these bloody Spenceans. I thought you were going to do something about them.”
“We’ve set a few things in motion,” said Jarvis, making a mental note to give Liverpool a cold warning. “But these affairs do take time. One must first identify men willing and able to be used as agents provocateurs, then get them solidly in place before they can begin to make the necessary moves.”
“Arrogant upstart traitors,” muttered the Regent, shifting his gouty leg. “In George II’s day, the bastards’ heads would have been on pikes decorating London Bridge by now.”
“Effective, no doubt. But also decidedly barbaric in addition to being rather malodorous, wouldn’t you say?”
The Prince grumbled again. “I’m hearing from Rhodes that Devlin is still harassing him.”
“Is he?” Personally, Jarvis wished the tiresome royal bastard would take himself back to Jamaica and stay there—although a convenient shipwreck would be more permanent. But all he said was, “Oh, dear; can’t have that, can we?”