Page 7 of Who Will Remember (Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery #20)

G eorge Augustus Frederick, His Royal Highness the Prince Regent of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, was in the sort of petulant mood that worried his physicians and alarmed everyone from his servants to his cabinet ministers.

“You’ve heard what people are saying, haven’t you?” the Prince demanded, the corset he wore hidden beneath his exquisitely tailored evening clothes creaking as he paced up and down one of Carlton House’s vast gilded chambers. “That if not even the brother of a duke is safe walking the streets of our city, then no one is!”

The Prince might be only fifty-four, but between the heat of the room and his several hundred pounds of excess weight, His Highness was puffing and red in the face when he swung back around. “How could something like this have been allowed to happen?”

Of the two gentlemen to whom these remarks were addressed, only one—the Prince’s cousin and most powerful advisor, Charles, Lord Jarvis—ventured to reply. Personally, Jarvis thought that any gentleman unwise enough to take an evening stroll down Swallow Street was asking for trouble, but all he said was, “It’s beyond shocking, sir. I knew you’d be interested in hearing directly from Sir Nathaniel himself.”

The Prince turned his rather protuberant blue-gray eyes toward the second gentleman in the room. “Well?”

Sir Nathaniel Conant, Chief Magistrate of Bow Street Public Office, cleared his throat and bowed low with the subtle obsequiousness that helped explain how a man who’d begun his career at sixteen as a bookseller’s apprentice had somehow managed to rise to his present exalted position. He was more than ten years the Prince’s senior but looked younger, his hair a thick, dark gray, his body stout but still strong and agile. “I would like to assure you, sir, that we are moving quickly to apprehend the fiend responsible for this appalling outrage. My colleague Sir Henry Lovejoy has personally taken charge of the investigation and is already making great progress. Yet one can’t help but reflect upon the unfortunate fact that if Parliament had created the centralized municipal police force for which Lord Preston and I have long advocated, this might never have happened.”

He paused long enough to allow his listeners to remember that it was Sir Nathaniel himself who had drafted the bill that became the 1792 Middlesex Justices Act, establishing the seven London public offices that came after Bow Street. Then he said, “Rest assured that we already have a prime suspect and anticipate being able to have him remanded into custody within days.”

“Good,” said the Prince, tugging a silk handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the sweat beginning to trickle down his plump cheeks. “See that you do.” To Jarvis, he said, “What with harvests failing all over the Kingdom, riots in East Anglia, naval mutinies in Newcastle and Lyme Regis, and rumblings in every part of London from Rotherhithe to Clerkenwell, this is the last thing we need. Liverpool confided to me just this morning that he thinks the realm is in greater danger of revolution now than at any time since 1792.”

“Lord Liverpool has always had an unfortunate tendency toward alarmism,” said Jarvis dryly, making a mental note to warn the troublesome prime minister to watch his bloody tongue.

The Prince pressed the handkerchief to his damp forehead. “You don’t agree?”

Jarvis gave a careless shrug. “Crime always rises when soldiers and sailors are released from service at the end of a war, just as wages always fall and people complain. There is no doubt the next year or two will be painful as the government works to reduce spending and retire the debt run up during the wars with France and the United States. But I see no dire threat to the realm.”

“Yes, of course.” The Prince tucked away his handkerchief. “You relieve my mind, Jarvis.”

Jarvis bowed his head and signaled to the magistrate to withdraw with him.

“You truly believe that?” said Sir Nathaniel quietly as their footsteps echoed down the vast marble-floored corridor.

“Of course not. We’re in a worse place now than we’ve been in our lifetimes. But what the devil was Liverpool thinking, blurting out something like that in front of Prinny?” He nodded to a bowing liveried footman as they passed, then said, “I trust you have enough informants in place?”

“Almost, my lord. We’re working on it.”

“Work harder,” snapped Jarvis as they turned the corner. “And the other matter?”

Sir Nathaniel allowed himself a tight smile. “That is progressing nicely.”

“Good.” Jarvis paused before the doors to the chambers reserved exclusively for his own personal use in the palace. “As for this Farnsworth business, I don’t care who you hang for it; just make certain you don’t let it drag out too long.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Sir Nathaniel with another low bow.

But Jarvis was already gone.