The River of No Return by Bee Ridgway (best novels of all time txt) 📕

ArmaLite AR-10. He chuckled. “You want to ride the coattails of my eminence, don’t you, Kirklaw? And if you cannot, you will bring me down in a fit of pique.”

“I will not be the one to bring you down, Falcott. I only warn you that fame is a fickle mistress. Your fair-weather friends downstairs might come to learn of Jemison’s association with Lady Clare. They might come to learn that he served with you in the Peninsula. That he fought side by side with you. It could be said that you sent Jemison on from Spain to be the steward at Blackdown. It could be said that you are a radical, like Byron, who wishes to see his own class degraded, destroyed. Like Byron, you think the mob speaks the sentiments of the people.”

“That clubfooted reprobate has fathered a child on his own sister,” Blessing said. “If you don’t stand against Jemison soon, people might say that you are little better than he, that you condone Jemison’s corruption of Lady Clare. That you would welcome the issue of a tallow chandler into your family. For that is what Jemison is. A tallow chandler’s son.”

Nick laughed out loud at that one and twitched his cuffs into place. “Between the tallow chandlers and the incestuous noblemen, it’s a wonder Albion hasn’t sunk beneath the waves. I’ll have you know, Kirklaw: Byron will be remembered when we are all rotting away in our family vaults. As for the tallow chandler, Jemison the Elder provides candles to the navy. His candles have illuminated the battle plans of Sidney Smith and Horatio Nelson. He is a wealthier man than any of us here.”

Kirklaw curled his lip. “Our great admirals use waxen candles, surely.”

Nick clapped his hands. “Oh, well done, Your Grace. You have bested me. How dare I suggest that the great Nelson ever had to smell burning fat!” He got to his feet. “My Lord Gossip.” He bowed to Blessing. “My Lord Calumny.” He bowed to Delbun. “And Your Grace of Slander.” He made an elaborate leg to Kirklaw. “I believe we have said enough to one another this evening. I thank you for your hospitality, and I bid you good night.” He drained his brandy balloon with a flourish.

“One moment before you go, Blackdown.” Kirklaw went to a leather writing case sitting on an escritoire, opened it, and drew out a heavy sheet of paper. He spent a moment perusing it, then handed it to Blessing, who handed it to Delbun, who handed it up to Nick. It read: “George Augustus Frederick, the Prince of Wales, Regent of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, To Our Right Trusty and Well Beloved Nicholas Clancy Falcott, Chevalier, Greeting.”

Shit.

A Writ of Summons.

Nick looked up to find Kirklaw watching him with a smirk, pinching at that wretched cigar. “You are to appear in the House of Lords in your robes the day after tomorrow,” he said. “Whereupon you will take your oath of allegiance and make your maiden speech in favor of the Corn Bill.” He reached into the case and extracted a sheaf of papers. “This is your speech. It repudiates Jemison and those like him, and calls for immediate passage of the bill. It praises me, your old friend.” He shuffled through the pages and found a passage, which he read out loud. “‘I fought in Spain, at the head of a gallant company. I can tell you from experience that Jem Jemison is a coward. But I can also tell you, as a leader of men, that I know how to recognize courage and fortitude in any man.’” Kirklaw looked up. “And here you gesture at me. I shall look surprised, and you shall ask me to stand. Then you say, in ringing tones, ‘The Duke of Kirklaw is just such an exemplar of British manhood! I put my faith in him, the faith of a soldier and an Englishman!’”

Nick suppressed a smile. “You expect me to read that, out loud, in the House of Lords.”

“I do. And I believe, when you consider the alternatives, that you will.” The duke handed the papers to Blessing, who handed them to Delbun, who handed them up to Nick.

“I don’t have robes.”

“You will find that Ede and Ravenscroft have your father’s robes put away. Like your title and the duties you owe to your family, your estate, and your class, Ede and Ravenscroft have been waiting for you.”

“And if I do not appear?”

“The choice is entirely yours, of course.”

“Oh, of course.”

“May I offer you another drink, or have you had enough?”

Nick looked down at his empty balloon, then up and into the eyes of his former friend. “Oh, fill her up,” he said. “Smuggled brandy makes blackmail go down much more smoothly.”

Kirklaw bowed, acknowledging the hit. Finally flicking his shredded cigar into the fire, he grabbed the bottle up from the table where it had been left and strolled over to Nick. “Welcome home, my old friend,” he said, tipping brandy into Nick’s glass.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The house was silent, except for the patter of raindrops on the windows. Julia lay on her bed, trying to distract herself with a novel. She had declined an invitation to join Clare, Bella, and the dowager marchioness on a visit to their second cousin Lydia. It hadn’t been hard to say no: Lydia was a famously bad-tempered old woman who lived in unfashionable Kensington. She had many cats, three parrots, and a silent husband. Bella said the husband was probably stuffed, for he always sat in the same place and never said a word. Julia had waved them off without a shred of regret.

Thinking herself alone in the house, she had gone into the drawing room to read, only to find Count Lebedev stretched out asleep between two gold bergère chairs that he had pulled into position, his knees ridiculously supported by the harpsichord bench that he had placed between them. There he lay, snoring, his boots casually ruining the