Royal Regard

Chapter Thirteen, Part 1

Nick had spent all night and most of the morning addressing the concerns of the steward at his Irish estate, Rathemore, then re-reading current related bills in Parliament, then writing a floor speech in support of the downtrodden, who would surely, given no change in British policy, go the way of all peasants too brutally oppressed. Now, he was finally immersed in the day's papers, which were only making his arguments more difficult to support.

Nick's factotum, Blakeley, knocked lightly on the library door, interrupting his concentration. Nick's eyes never left the newspaper, but his thumb rested alongside the last line he had read.

"Yes?"

Blakeley had been with Nick since his earliest travels, his first stop being his old friend Adolphus' viceregal court in Hanover. Though Blakeley had been Adolphus' dresser since childhood, he had been intrigued by the idea of Nick's planned expeditions overseas. The Viceroy, holding both men in great regard, allowed Nick to take his valet into service. Though the two men had seen countless disreputable adventures together, once returned to England and having been trained to serve royalty, Blakeley's ideas of propriety had become far more stringent than Nick's.

"The Earl of Huntleigh to see you, Your Grace."

Nick let the newspaper fall slowly onto the desk. "Huntleigh?" he repeated, disturbed straightaway, as he had perhaps not been as discreet in his attentions to Bella as he might have been. The only other reason the earl would come calling was Nick's investment, also cause for concern at nine in the morning.

"Yes, Your Grace. Shall I show him in, or ask him to return at a more appropriate hour?" Blakeley's frown subtly displayed his displeasure at anyone disturbing the morning routine—whether the master's routine or Blakeley's, Nick couldn't determine.

"No, I'll see him now." Nick stood, stretching his back and legs, then donned his jacket. "Ireland will still be a tinderbox in an hour." If he read every one of the seventeen thousand, eight hundred, fifty-six books in this room—twice—he still wouldn't find the answer to the problem of violent revolution.

"I daresay, Your Grace. Will you be requiring refreshment?"

"Please."

Blakeley peered into the coffee pot and poured Nick the last, placing the empty ivory pot on Nick's breakfast tray, using the napkin to sweep nonexistent crumbs off the desk. After the man left the room, Nick drained the dish of lukewarm coffee, then added coal to the fire and stirred it, staring into the flames, wondering if he wanted to know what was about to occur.

Huntleigh was announced formally and entered, looking up at the clerestory windows. Above the secretaire where Nick had been sitting, overlooking the room from the second-story balcony, was another, much larger desk that Nick still thought of as his grandfather's, flanked by two leaded glass cabinets. Behind the glass on the left were illuminated manuscripts collected by every Duke of Wellbridge for four generations. On the right, dozens of curios from around the world, brought home from foreign ports by younger sons for generations, except Nick's mementos, which decorated his bedchamber.

Before Huntleigh could remark on the décor, Blakeley returned through a servant's door with a rolling cart carrying a silver service, a plate of pastries, coffee, tea, and various accoutrements. He placed the cart in easy reach of the grouping of chairs around the fireplace and installed himself in the corner.

Huntleigh bowed correctly and said, "Please forgive the interruption at such an hour, Sir."

Nick waved off the formality permeating the room. "No need for apology, Huntleigh. You know me well enough by now to forgo the protocol, and frankly, I prefer it. How may I help you? It must be a matter of some concern, or you would never be here so early."