Page 5 of Rogue’s Holiday

Jack cocked a brow. “Tattersall’s in a few hours, oui?”

“I’ll be there. I’m in the market for a matched pair for my new curricle.”

After changing, Robbie took a hackney to Whitehall where he was ushered into Lord Sidmouth’s well-appointed office.

The Home Secretary rose from his desk to greet him. The statesman had thinning gray hair and aristocratic features. These rose above his lace-edged cravat and black suit, which pronounced him one of Lord Liverpool’s own. The Prime Minister’s Cabinet always dressed in somber fashion. “Have a seat, Powell. I won’t keep you long. It is not I who summons you, ’tis the king.”

Robbie experienced a ripple of trepidation as he doffed his beaver top hat and settled himself in the chair facing the desk. “I had hoped the conspirators could be arrested without all the gunfire…”

Ignoring his comment, the Home Secretary lifted The Times from his desk and tossed it toward Robbie. “I assume you’ve seen the newspapers. Thistlewood’s murder of that runner Smithers has everyone in an uproar.”

Robbie had seen reports of the Cato Street incident and his mother had spoken of the murder. Surely that was not his doing, however.

“We’re holding Thistlewood in the Tower, along with some of his co-conspirators, awaiting trial for treason.”

“You have found the others?”

Sidmouth shrugged. “Most. A few are still at large.”

Robbie worried the brim of his hat between his fingers. “Is the king displeased with the handling of the Cato Street Affair?”

A smile tugged at the corners of the Home Secretary’s mouth. “Hardly.”

Robbie experienced a surge of relief. “So, he is not angered…”

“Not at all. In truth, the king was smiling when he asked me to find you. Knowing your haunts, I had little trouble. Best run along to Carlton House. You are expected.”

With an inclination of his head, Robbie turned on his heels and departed, glad he wasn’t being called to account for the Bow Street officer’s death.

It was not his first visit to Carlton House, the home of the prince regent, now England’s king. Even so, the opulent rooms with their gilded and glistening mirrors, chandeliers and velvet upholstered walls never failed to captivate. Truly, it was a grand palace.

“If you will follow me, sir,” said an elderly servant attired in dark blue livery trimmed with gold lace.

Passing through several large chambers, the servant came to a halt at the door to the Blue Velvet Room. Robbie stood poised at the entrance, watching the corpulent king, now in his late fifties, sitting behind a magnificent mahogany desk, quill in hand, signing papers.

The room was on the garden side of the principal floor of Carlton House, the first of the reception rooms facing St James’ Park and one Robbie had been in before. He cast his gaze around the large room, noting the familiar blue velvet panels on the walls that provided a background for the magnificent art of the Dutch masters. One of the paintings, “The Passage Boat” by Aelbert Cuyp, was a particular favorite of his. What was notably missing from the room the king favored were any paintings of his parents.

The spring days were still cool so Robbie was not surprised to see a fire obediently burning in the fireplace, but the weather would not have mattered. Prinny’s rooms were always overwarm.

Owing to the good taste of his French mother, Robbie recognized the white marble chimneypiece as being of French design. The king had loved all things French until the Revolution that had seen that country’s monarch executed.

The dominant feature in the room, to Robbie’s mind, save the king himself, was the six-tiered crystal chandelier that hung suspended from the ceiling that was painted to look like the sky, complete with cherub. The crystals flickered in the light of the midday sun streaming into the room through the French doors.

When the king failed to look up from the papers in front of him, the servant cleared his throat and announced, “Mr. Robert Powell”. Then he bowed and departed.

Prinny looked up. “Come in, Powell, come in! You give me an excuse to leave this pile of papers I am forced to deal with.”

Robbie walked forward, wondering if, now that Prinny was king, he might expect a more formal address. He bowed. “Your Majesty.”

“I am too much in your debt, Powell, to insist on such niceties. Do sit down.” He gestured Robbie toward the gilded chair facing the desk. “I want to hear about the arrest of those men who plotted the demise of my ministers and, I dare say, myself.”

Robbie tried to be brief in his recitation of the events of that night on Cato Street. He omitted the fact the Coldstream Guards had been sent to the wrong place and did not describe the chaos that had briefly reigned in the stable. Nor did he mention that some conspirators had managed to escape. Others could supply the king with those details. “All their plotting came to a quick end,” he finished. That much was true.

“Well, then, there is nothing left for me but to reward you.”

Robbie started. “Sire?”

“Your quick instincts to follow Thistlewood and his band of rebels foiled a plot to assassinate the Cabinet. Think, man, what might have happened had they been successful! It could have been the beginning of a violent revolution, such as happened in France, and the end of the monarchy. I shudder at the thought. Of course, you shall be rewarded! And handsomely.”