“And now, treasure trove,” he said quietly.
Chapter Eleven
London
“THE KING'S INSANE, PRINNY'S AN ARROGANT DUNderhead, and the rest of ‘em are clods.”
This succinct, wholesale condemnation of the royal family was received in a gloomy, accepting silence. The speaker took a deep draft of his wine and glared around the table in the square chamber in the palace of Westminster as if challenging potential dissent. He was a man in his late sixties, black eyes hard and sharp as flint beneath bushy gray brows and a mane of iron-gray hair.
“And they're demmed expensive into the bargain, Penhallan,” one of his three companions rumbled, leaning back in his chair, loosening a button on the striped waistcoat that strained over his ample belly. “Prinny's monstrous fantasy pavilion in Brighton! I've never seen anything like it. All those domes and dragons.”
Cedric Penhallan snorted. “Hideous monstrosity. And Society nods and beams and congratulates the fool on his taste and imagination and Parliament foots the bill.”
“Quite so.” The agreement came from the prime minister, who sat up straight in his chair with an air of resolution, as if deciding it was time to take control of the meeting. “That is precisely the issue, gentlemen. We have Wellington demanding money on every mail ship from the Peninsula, the Admiralty needs more ships, and the palace grows greedier by the day. We cannot defeat Napoleon and indulge every bizarre whim of Prinny's… not to mention the demands of his brothers on the civil list.”
Cedric Penhallan took an apple from a chased silver bowl on the table and carefully peeled it with a tiny dessert knife, frowning as he took the peel off in one perfect spiral. The conversation at this dinner with the prime minister and his few closest intimates had taken a familiar turn: how to balance the conflicting needs of a country at war, with the financial demands of an idle, autocratic regent who saw no reason why his demands shouldn't be instantly gratified by a servile Parliament.
“The Stuarts learned their lesson the hard way,” he said with a cynical curl of his lip. “Maybe we should give the House of Hanover a taste of Stuart medicine.”
There was a moment of stunned silence; then an awkward laugh rippled around the table. Men who dined with Lord Penhallan learned to expect the sardonic harshness of his opinions and remedies, but to hear Penhallan recommend revolution and regicide, even ironically, was a little too much even for his intimates.
“You've a dangerous sense of hum or, Penhallan,” the prime minister said, feeling a slight reproof was required.
“Was I jesting?” Lord Penhallan's eyebrows lifted, and a disdainful amusement sparked in his eyes. “How long does the British government intend to pander to the vulgar extravagances of a German lout?” He pushed back his chair. “You must excuse me, gentlemen. My lord.” He nodded at the prime minister. “An excellent dinner. I look forward to your presence in Grosvenor Square next Thursday. I've a consignment of burgundy I'd like you to try.”
Having made his farewells, Cedric Penhallan left his companions still at the table and walked out into the chilly March evening. The conversation had irked him, but he'd made his irritation felt and hopefully sowed a little seed in the corridors of power that might bear fruit. At some point someone had to put a rein on the royal family's profligacies. It was high time to remind the government that the king and his family were merely foolish mortals who could be controlled by Parliament.
He smiled to himself as he walked briskly through the streets, his step surprisingly light for such a big man. He'd enjoyed shocking them with that insouciant reference to Charles I's execution. Of course, he'd never seriously advocate such a course, and they knew it… or at least they thought they knew it.
His smile broadened as he climbed the steps to his own front door. He worked his own political influence behind closed doors, more with whispers and innuendo than with direct statements. In the House of Lords he was rarely seen on his feet, but Lord Penhallan's power was many-tentacles and had a long reach.
His front door swung open before he could put his hand on the knocker, and the butler bowed him into the hall.
“Good evening, my lord. You had a pleasant evening, I trust.”
Cedric didn't respond. He stood frowning in the candlelit hall. A high-pitched squeal came from the library, followed by a burst of drunken male laughter. “My nephews are home for the evening,” he commented acidly. It was the butler's turn not to respond.
Cedric strode to the library door and flung it open.
His lip curled at the shambolic sight within. Three women, wearing little more than the paint on their faces, were standing on a table, performing a lewd dance for a group of five men, sprawled over couches and chairs, glasses in hand.
“Governor, wasn't expecting you back so soon.”
One of the men stumbled to his feet, a fearful note underpinning the drunken slur.
“Clearly not,” his uncle declared in disgust. “I've told you before I'll not have you whoring in my house. Get those harlots out of here and conduct your business in the stews, where it belongs.”
He stood to one side, watching with searing contempt as the men lurched to their feet with mumbled apologies and the women stepped off the table,.hastily scrambling back into skirts and petticoats, their eyes glazed with drink yet haunted with the predatory hunger of the desperate.
One of them approached David Penhallan with a deprecating smile. “A guinea apiece, sir,” she whined. “You promised, sir.”
She went reeling as Cedric's nephew backhanded her. “You think I'm fool enough to pay a guinea for a drunken dance by a scrawny bag of bones?” he demanded savagely. “Get out of here, the lot of you!” He raised his hand again and the woman cowered, her hand covering the mark on her cheek.
“Oh, we should give them something for the dance, David,” his twin said with a chuckle that sounded more menacing than humorous. Charles reached into his pocket and threw a handful of pennies at the women. His aim was true and vicious. A coin struck one woman in the eye and she fell back with a cry of pain, but then she bent with the others, scrabbling to pick up the coins amid the laughter from the men, who all joined in the new game, bombarding them with coins-an assault that they couldn't afford to run from.
With a disgusted exclamation Cedric turned on his heel and left the room. He despised his nephews, but he wasn't interested in their puerile little cruelties. The women they were tormenting meant nothing to Lord Penhallan; he just didn't want them in his house.
He marched up the stairs, pausing for a minute to look at the portrait of a young woman hanging above the half landing. Silvery fair hair, violet eyes, she gazed down at him with the same defiantly mischievous smile he remembered across the mists of more than twenty years. His sister. The only person he believed he had ever cared for. The only person who had dared to challenge him, to mock his ambition, to threaten his position and his power.
Cedric could still hear her voice, her chiming laugh as she told him how she'd overheard his discussion with the Duke of Cranford, how she believed that Williarn Pitt would be most interested to know how one of his most trusted advisers was working behind the scenes to oust him. The price of her silence was her own freedom from her brother's authority. The freedom to pursue whatever little adventures she chose, and, when she was ready, the freedom to choose her own husband without thought to whether he might be useful or a liability to her brother's ambition.
Pretty, lively little Celia had made herself too dangerous.
Shaking his head, he went on upstairs, ignoring the renewed shrieks and gales of drunken laughter m the hall as the women were chased from his house followed by the revellers heading out in search of new entertainment.