Page 26

T he scent of brewed coffee mingled with the tang of the nearby market as William stepped into the Albion. He scanned the room, ignoring the clatter of cups and murmur of conversation, searching for the man who had disrupted Parliament and haunted Thornley's sleep.

How did one reason with a man like Farley?

William was used to negotiating with peers—men who respected hierarchy and restraint. But what common ground could he find with a radical who risked everything for impossible relationships?

The server gestured toward a corner table. William turned—and blinked.

No flamboyant curls or Byronic flair. Just a lean man in a sagging suit, his hair neatly combed back from a face that looked tired, too sharp for his youth.

Farley.

William's instinct was to command the conversation, to assert control—but he halted, Helene's voice echoing like a soft caution. Don't start with demands.

"May I have a word?"

"The Silent Sovereign, what honor." Farley pointed to a chair.

William declined Farley's cigar offer and pointed to the book he was reading. "Wordsworth? I would not expect a radical to read the Poet Laureate."

Farley blushed. "You caught me. I endorse Keats and Shelley's ideas, but poetry? Wordsworth's ability to capture the sublime haunts me."

"Then we have that in common," William said, surprised at the ease in his own voice. "During my summers in Albemarle Park, I had copies of Wordsworth, Goethe, and Coleridge hidden in all gazebos and summer houses."

His mind would fly, searching the blue skies for the sprite.

Farley leaned in, his eyes sharpening with interest. "So you were a dreamer once."

The words hit harder than they should have.

William looked away, fingers tapping lightly against the tabletop. He had been once. Not just dreaming of the sprite in the forest, but of change—of ideals. He remembered devouring Rousseau and Locke in secret, imagining a gentler world, one shaped by reason and progress rather than lineage and war.

Then came the French Revolution. The terror. The riots in London.

"Briefly," he said at last. "Until duty chased it out of me."

"That's the tragedy, isn't it? They always teach us that duty is what makes a man. But what if it's the dream that does? Freedom, or the lack thereof, is what drives us all. To break free from societal expectations, to live truly as oneself… That's what I fight for."

William shifted in the chair, his hand going to the chain in his pocket, to the broken links. Not all could break free.

Farley smiled, relaxing back in his chair. "But what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Your Grace, or should I say, Your Majesty? Forgive me, but I'm not used to dealing with royalty."

"Albemarle will do."

Farley chuckled. "Who is the radical now?"

William shrugged. "Radicalism is relative. Notions that once sparked outrage, like free trade, today are basic economics."

"As the radical of the day, I should expect to be tomorrow's moderate, then? Who knows? Perhaps I was only born at the wrong epoch." Farley's smile faded, and pain flickered in his gaze.

William cleared his throat. "We have tight schedules, so I'll cut through the pleasantries. Wellington is on the brink of success against the French. You must stop your opposition to our efforts on the Peninsula. At least until after Parliament approves the military expenditures. You are an intelligent, sensible man. Can I count on your love for our country?"

Farley frowned, his cigar forgotten. "It is because I love my country that I won't stay quiet. I can't condone the desire to restore regimes that stifle the people. Napoleon challenges the old establishment. I'm a champion of freedom, not oppression."

William exhaled, preparing for a long discussion. "Monarchy may be flawed, but it ensures order and peace. Napoleon's fervor will plunge Europe into chaos."

Farley set his jaw. "Sometimes fervor is needed to bring change. True liberty means allowing people to live fully, not stifling them under the guise of stability."

"Freedom without restraint is dangerous." William gave him a pointed look, hoping the innuendo would be enough to convince him. "What the country needs now is your silence."

"Have you ever thought, Your Grace, that the country needs to change? And that the Silent Sovereign is in the way?"

The words struck deep—not just as a political jab, but as something personal. Uncomfortably personal.

He wanted to laugh. To dismiss the notion outright. The Silent Sovereign in the way? He had spent his adult life holding the line—keeping the chaos at bay. He was the reason the country still had a crown, a Parliament, a spine.

And yet... he couldn't find the words to reply.

He reached into his pocket, his fingers curling around the chain. Cold metal. Familiar weight.

"Without silence," William said carefully, "there is only noise. You confuse structure with oppression. I assure you, they are not the same."

"As much as I enjoy pointless discussions, I'm needed elsewhere." Farley caught his novel under his arm and rose.

William stood up abruptly, clenching his fists. "I cannot allow you to ruin the war efforts in the peninsula."

Farley's eyes widened. "Your lawyer and the threat of jail didn't stop me. What makes you think this conversation will? You have compelling blue eyes, Your Grace, but not nearly enough."

"I know about Rose Street." As the words left his mouth, bile burned in his throat.

His mind raced, telling himself this was necessary. If left to Thornley, Farley would be convicted without hesitation.

Farley froze, the color draining from his face. His breathing became shallow, his gaze unfocused—a man staring into the abyss. "Who told you?"

William splayed his hands over the table. "This is not an idle threat. If you don't stop, you will be arrested for sodomy."

"The Silent Sovereign shows his claws at last." Farley's voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. "You disappoint me, Your Grace. Thank you for the warning, but I won't change my position."

How could Farley be so resolute? Was it foolhardy? Bravery? Or blind conviction?

Visions of Helene invaded his mind—her graceful figure dancing in the mirror, trembling before him on her knees, the moistness of her tears… It's not the same, damn it.

William held Farley's arm. "Is this passion worth risking your life?"

Farley met his gaze unflinchingly, his expression resolute.

"My passion is what I am. I refuse to live half a life."