“The lavender and gray stripes with the cream bonnet. And Jane?”
“Yes, milady.”
“Smile.”
Jane broke into a relieved smile and sniffed. “Henry will be ever so glad to hear we can stay.”
“Then you must tell him as soon as you have finished here.” Maddie thought for a moment. “I shall arrange a larger chamber for you both. I’m sure the single bed you have now is most uncomfortable.”
Jane flushed and ducked her head before disappearing into the dressing room.
Chapter Twenty-One
Hart’s hackney puthim down outside the Palace of Westminster in front of the row of crenellated arches on the north bank of the River Thames. He tipped his hat to the doorkeeper and made his way to the House of Lords among peers who crammed the halls summoned by the bell. Entering through the solid brass gates into the luxurious chamber where the Spiritual and Lords Temporal gathered for the presentation of Sidmouth’s bill.
Not all peers would make an appearance, but Hart hoped the man he wished to find would be here.
Voices rose in the long room already filled along the red benches of the Lords Temporal and the green of the Commons end. Beneath the ornate ceiling, the walls decorated with statues and allegorical frescoes, overlooked by the magnificent stained-glass window by Pugin. Hart searched the seats occupied by the Tories and Whigs, unsure of what he looked for. The mannerisms of a killer? He remembered the man shrugged one shoulder, as if it pained him. But none in the rows of peers sparked any recognition. On a dais, the Prince of Wales waited, seated on his gilded throne. In front of him, the Lord Speaker sat on his woolsack.
After Sidmouth’s impassioned speech, the Whigs spoke out against it, demanding better reform, but within the hour, the quorum accepted it and passed it back to the House of Commons with few changes.
When Tate joined the other members to file out of the chamber, he was still none the wiser as to the identity of the lord. Tate came to join him and agreed with Hart’s opinion on the bill. They made their way to the door, planning their evening at White’s.
Two gentlemen walked a little ahead of them in the corridor. Something about the taller of them caught Hart’s eye. He was speaking to his companion.
Gesturing to Tate to silence him, Hart moved closer to listen. Then he froze. Tate laid a hand on his arm, his eyes questioning, then turned at Hart’s instigation to the gray-haired man talking in a hoarse, whispering voice.
Hart slowed to allow the lord and his companion to get well ahead. “Know who he is?” he asked Tate.
“Lord Buchanan,” Tate replied.
“Has his voice always been that way?”
“For many years. Kicked in the throat by a horse when he was a lad.”
“What sort of man is he?”
“Don’t know him personally, but it’s said he’s well respected. But from what you told me about Wakeham’s death, it would seem that respect is ill deserved.”
Hart tried picturing the man giving the cold-blooded order to shoot Wakeham. It was difficult. His doubts remained until they approached the door, where Buchanan stopped to put on his tall beaver. Then, as they left the building, and as Buchanan said goodbye and walked away, he turned to look at Hart, then hitched up one shoulder beneath his ear. And Hart knew. “He’s the man I want,” he said after Buchanan disappeared. “I must inform Sir Joshua Fleming.”
They left Parliament walking away through Westminster to hail a hackney, and partly to escape the river at low tide, the rotten smells rising from the mud.
It had grown dark when the jarvie put them down outside White’s club in St James’s Street. The famous bow window once occupied by the infamous Beau Brummel was empty now, reserved for the Duke of Wellington. In the foyer, men gathered around White’s betting book.
Freddie Holgrove, always keen on a wager, turned to them to explain the latest bet which had piqued their interest. “Mills has bet Captain Fielding ten guineas to five that a certain gentleman understood between them marries a certain lady also understood within six months.”
“Sounds like a good way to lose money,” Tate said.
Refusing an invitation to a game of vingt-et-un, and another for billiards, they entered the library, where Hart ordered a bottle of whiskey from the waiter.
Seated in a leather armchair, his booted foot resting on his knee, Hart sipped his whiskey. “Is there anything more you can add about Lord Buchanan?”
“Not much. His estate lies southeast of Canterbury, and he has a townhouse in Mayfair. A wife, but no children. I’ve seen him here at White’s.”
“Perhaps he’ll appear tonight.” Hart shifted to gain a view of the busy hallway beyond the door.
“You’ll just advise the magistrate?” Tate asked with a worried frown. “Not wise to take on the fellow. Should he be the man you want, he’ll have a dangerous gang at his beck and call.”