Chapter Two
The Right Hon. William Pitt’s country home
Cambridge
March 26, 1784
The Duke of Beaumont had been trying to extricate himself from the Prime Minister’s house for the better part of an hour. A group of men, among the most powerful in the kingdom, had spent the last fortnight discussing strategies and laws, ways to thwart Fox’s schemes and defeat his proposals, the case for and against every conceivable argument that a man could voice.
Elijah had spent the weeks fighting long hours for the causes he believed just, such as the ongoing effort to halt England’s slave trade. He’d won some battles and lost others; it was the nature of politics to weigh inevitable failure against possible gains.
“I will convey your concern to His Majesty,” he said now, bowing before the Prime Minister, the Right Honorable William Pitt. “Tactfully, of course. I agree that it is perilous to hold a royal fete in such proximity to the hulks.”
“Tell him that those floating monstrosities were never meant to be prisons,” Lord Stibblestich put in. He was a florid man with eyes that glinted from the little caves shaped by his plump cheeks. His body was no more than brawny; his face was bloated in comparison. Even his nose appeared engorged in contrast to his shoulders.
Elijah bit his tongue rather than indulge the impulse to snap at Stibblestich. His Majesty was fully aware that the decommissioned warships anchored in the Thames were never meant to be used as prisons. The hulks were aging warships, as tired and broken down as the English navy.
But the presence of hundreds of criminals housed on those ships was a problem that His Majesty was not yet pleased to face. And in truth, Elijah knew it was the Parliament that should be finding a solution.
“There was an attempted prison break just last week,” Stibblestich added shrilly, apparently under the illusion that he was saying something original.
“My butler informs me that your valet is recovering from his stomach ailment,” Pitt said to Elijah, ignoring Stibblestich. “I will send him to London as soon as he is able to travel.”
“I apologize for the inconvenience,” Elijah said. “I know that Vickery is also grateful for your forbearance.” He bowed again and turned to go. His carriage would go straight to the king’s yacht, the Peregrine. Where…
Where he was due to meet his wife. Jemma.
Tired though he was, exhausted by a fortnight of late nights spent arguing, trying to get his own party to understand the unethical side of their deliberations, he couldn’t wait to be aboard. Tucked into the corner of the carriage, he fell asleep, waking only when the wheels started jolting over London’s cobblestones.
He pulled his watch from his waistcoat and glanced at it. He had forty minutes to board or the Peregrine would launch without him. The king had a mind to take his revels into the middle of the Thames and then float downstream, the yacht blazing with light and music pouring through the open windows.
At that very moment the carriage lurched and came to a halt. Elijah summoned his patience. London streets were crowded, and obstructions were common.
He waited two minutes before he banged on the roof. “What the devil is going on, Muffet?” he shouted.
“We’re through Aldgate, but the street is blocked ahead, Your Grace!” came the shout back from his coachman.
Elijah groaned and pushed open the carriage door. The grooms were off the vehicle and standing at the horses’ heads. A crowd was milling about the street, making it hard to see the source of the disturbance. “What’s going on?” he demanded, pushing his way to the front.
“We’re not entirely sure,” Muffet said. “See, Your Grace, they’ve barricaded Sator Street. And they’re still working on the blockade.”
Sure enough, entry to the street was barred by a growing wall of furniture, beer barrels, and debris. People milled about cheerfully, handing up a stuffed armchair, ducking out of the way as a barrel came free and bounced around the street. There were a couple of small fires burning to the side, and what looked like a lively trade in baked potatoes.
“Anyone in charge?” Elijah asked.
“Not that I can see,” Muffet said. “And Your Grace, it’s going to be a proper mess getting ourselves out of here.” He jerked his thumb, and Elijah realized that their carriage was merely the first of a tangled mess of carriages streaming in from outside London, now caught inside the city gate. Some people appeared to be backing their carriages, or trying to, but they were hampered by others who had apparently decided to scold their way to the front of the line.
Elijah glanced down at himself. He was dressed in full court attire, as befitted an event held on the king’s yacht. His coat was a deep yellow-gold, embroidered with mustard flowers. His buttons were gilded. He would stand out in the crowd like a damned marigold.
He strode toward the flickering but bright light cast from the fires at the foot of the barricade.
The moment he came into the light, the cheerful calls and shouts died. A young man with lank black hair and a mouth like a trout’s froze in the very act of hoisting a wardrobe to the top of the barricade. The sturdy fellow hauling it up recovered faster. “Evening!” he shouted down.
“Good evening!” Elijah shouted back. “May I ask for the reason for the barricade?”
“Riots in the city tonight,” the man shouted back. He jerked a thumb behind him. “Limehouse ain’t never been rioted in, and it ain’t going to happen tonight either. We’re not letting any of those hellhounds into our houses, nor yet into the square neither.”
Elijah eyed the barricade. “It looks remarkably sturdy.”
The man beamed. “Like I said, we’ve never been rioted in yet. I learned me barricading from me pa. We can put it up in under twenty minutes and we does it whenever we thinks it needful. The Watch knows,” he added a bit defensively. “They’re all back there behind the barricades.”
“Is the rioting sure to happen tonight?” Elijah shouted.
“We’ve never been wrong yet. You’d best get your carriage out of sight. There’s many a bastard in these parts would love to snatch those matched grays of yers, yer lordship.” He started to haul on the wardrobe again.
“You put that up in twenty minutes?” Elijah bellowed.
“That’s right,” the man shouted back. He had the wardrobe now, precariously balanced on top of the armchair.
It was going to fall. Elijah moved back. It fell, with a great, splintering crash. Luckily the fish-lipped boy scrambled out of the way.
Elijah cast a glance behind them. The narrow street was entirely blocked by vehicles. Aldgate would be jammed for hours, if not all night.
If there was a riot, he would lose his horses. Unless…he eyed the blockade. Minus the wardrobe, it wasn’t as high as it might have been. Six feet perhaps. He could smell the riot coming, smell it in the excitement of the men, in the frenzy with which they were piling up furniture, and in the utter absence of children.
“You!” he shouted up at the stout man, who was staring down at the wardrobe and cursing in an extremely creative manner.
“Got no time for chatter matter!” the man bellowed back.
“Get off the blockade. I’m bringing my horses over and my men as well. Clear space on the other side!”