Any spasms the Prince was likely to suffer would owe considerably more to the pile of crab and two bottles of burgundy he’d already consumed than to the demands of his royal responsibilities. But Jarvis bowed and said, “Yes, sir.”
He’d almost reached the door when the Prince said, “Oh, and Jarvis? I trust the arrangements for the formal opening of Charles I’s coffin are all in place?”
Jarvis paused. “The opening is scheduled for the first of April, the day following your aunt the Duchess’s funeral.”
“Excellent.” George gave a wide, slightly greasy smile. “What a treat it will be.”
Jarvis bowed again and withdrew.
He spent the next half hour soothing the outraged Russian Ambassador’s ruffled sensibilities and averting a minor diplomatic crisis. Then, feeling in need of a good, strong drink, he returned to his own chambers to find his son-in-law, Viscount Devlin, leaning against the sill of the window overlooking the forecourt, his arms folded at his chest and his boots crossed at the ankles.
“What the devil are you doing here?” demanded Jarvis, going to pour himself a glass of brandy.
“Have your men made any progress in their efforts to track down Charles I’s missing head?”
“They have not. Have you?”
“No.”
Jarvis eased the stopper from the crystal decanter and poured a healthy measure into one glass. “I won’t offer you a brandy since you’re not staying.”
The Viscount smiled. “When’s the formal opening to be?”
Jarvis set aside the decanter and turned to face him, glass in hand. “Next Thursday.”
“How many people know Charles’s head is missing?”
“The Dean and the virger of St. George’s, and the two men I’ve tasked with the item’s recovery. Why?”
“I assume all have been sworn to secrecy?”
“Naturally.”
“I plan to drive out to Windsor Castle in the morning and take a look at the royal vault. It might be helpful if you sent a message instructing the Dean and the virger to cooperate with me.”
Jarvis took a long drink, then paused a moment before saying, “You’ve found evidence to suggest these rather macabre murders are indeed linked to the theft from the royal crypt?”
“Evidence? No.”
Jarvis grunted. “I’ll send the message. But you will keep me informed.” It was not a question.
Devlin pushed away from the window. “Of course.”
Jarvis waited until the Viscount had taken himself off. Then he rang for his clerk.
“Send Major Archer to me. Now.”
Chapter 32
T hat evening, Sebastian and Hero were sitting down to dinner when a peal sounded at the front door.
His gaze met hers. “Expecting anyone?”
“No,” she said, just as Morey appeared in the doorway with a bow.
“Lord Sidmouth to see you, my lord. I have taken the liberty of showing his lordship into the library.”
Sebastian found the Home Secretary pacing back and forth before the fire, his hands clasped behind his back, his chin sunk into the folds of his snowy white cravat. He wore the silk knee breeches, white silk stockings, and buckled evening shoes of a man dressed for a formal dinner or a ball. But when he turned toward Sebastian, his face was pinched and pale.
“My lord,” said Sebastian. “May I offer you some wine? A brandy?”
“Thank you, but no; I won’t keep you long. My apologies for interrupting your evening.”
“Please, have a seat.”
Sidmouth drew up with his back to the fireplace and shook his head. “I looked into the incident in Portugal you told me about—the one involving the convent.” He sucked in a quick, jerky breath. “My God. How could anyone do something like that?”
Sebastian had never had much respect for Sidmouth. He was typical of the sycophants who hung around the court: ambitious, venal, and opportunistic. Yet it said something for the man that he still recoiled in horror from an act of such calculated cynicism.
Sebastian walked over to splash brandy into two glasses and held one out to the Home Secretary, who took it without comment and downed half the contents in one long, shaky pull.
Sebastian said, “Tell me what happened between Oliphant and Stanley Preston.”
Sidmouth brought up a hand to rub his eyes with one splayed thumb and forefinger. “Most colonial governors find ways to use their positions for personal gain. It’s virtually expected, actually. But some . . . some go too far.”
“Bribery? Corruption?”
The Home Secretary nodded and blew out a long, harsh breath. “I began hearing about the problems between James Preston—Stanley’s son—and the new governor almost as soon as Oliphant arrived in Jamaica. It seemed as if every other week brought a different complaint from Stanley. For the most part I ignored them—you know what Stanley was like. But then, things became more serious. Oliphant confiscated a valuable stretch of the Prestons’ largest plantation. He claimed the land was needed to build a public road, although everyone knew the road was solely for the benefit of one individual—a large landowner who paid Oliphant handsomely for his efforts.”
“When was this?”