The Duke of Barrington sighed as he looked around. He was waiting for his cousin, Charles, and Mr. Wethering to arrive, as Wethering was due to speak.
Eventually, he and Charles would make their way over to the House of Lords, and they would take their seats, but first he wanted to discuss his own intended speech with his friend.
The buzz of voices suddenly got louder.
Tempers seemed to be on the rise.
He was damned frustrated with politics. All talk no action.
On the battlefield it was the opposite.
While the duke mused on these thoughts, a man hurriedly made his way into the House of Commons. His name was Bellingham, and the duke’s eyes narrowed when he saw him. He didn’t know what it was, but all at once he had a bad feeling.
Bellingham had a personal grievance that the duke had heard about on more than one occasion. Looking at the man now, it appeared his grievance had boiled over.
Wildfire knew that Bellingham had been allowed to sit in prison in Russia. He had taken the only course open to him as an Englishman and appealed to his representative stationed there at the time—Granville Leveson Gower—who had done nothing to help him.
During the poor man’s incarceration he had gone bankrupt, and he’d returned to England a broken man. Nick felt heartily sorry for him, but … now … now something was up. Nick took a step forward, not sure what he should do. A state of frenzy filled the air around the man, and Nick actually felt the vibes across the room. Did no one else notice?
He was too far away from him, but nonetheless he started pushing through the crowd of men standing about in small cliques. The duke heard him ask for Gower only to be told, “Not here …”
“But he is due to speak,” Bellingham answered and then looked about as though crazed.
The duke saw it at once and started towards him, his hand outstretched.
“Well,” said Bellingham. “Here is England … here is our prime minister …” He waved the pistol he had shrugged out from under his cloak and brought it into line.
Charles had reached Nick by that time, but Nick had no time for him as he pushed through trying to reach Bellingham. “No! Hold!” he shouted, catching more than one man’s notice. However, it was already too late. The noisy room was brought to total quiet by the reverberating boom of Bellingham’s exploding pistol.
The prime minister, the Right Honorable Spencer Perceval, lay still and bleeding on the marbled floor.
The Duke of Barrington was aptly named, because like wildfire he was everywhere at once, doing everything. He had the gun in hand; he had Bellingham. He managed to instruct two sturdy gentlemen to take over in that regard as he bent to look over the prime minister’s wound.
Wildfire called for a doctor and for the beadles, sending men scattering to do his bidding. He took command and brought the hubbub into order around him.
But for the prime minister of England it was over, because he lay dead …
The duke closed his eyes. “This is a tragic affair … despicable …”
***
It was natural and quite inevitable that the prime minister’s murder would dominate drawing room conversations, and it did for some days afterwards. Tales of the duke’s quick-mindedness and ability to lead during a crisis were applauded and came to Lady Babs’ ears. She felt a swelling of pride, though why she should, she told herself, was more than she could understand.
Otto stood, his hands clasped at his back as he spoke to Lord Waverly and his sister, giving a lengthy discourse on the numerous problems that the prime minister’s murder had created.
Babs’ father tried to maintain a quiet interest, but his daughter (with a silent giggle) could see he was about to nod off.
Lady Jane would interrupt him from time to time to add her own epitaphs to the horrible events that had taken place, but Babs, in spite of her usual good humor, sighed and looked away.
Three days had passed since the Rutledge ball, and Babs was in a sorry state. She had not seen the duke since that night. Her mind was boggled with frustration and something else she could not name. What is happening, she asked herself. What was she feeling? She was too old for schoolgirl crushes … this was so much more.
Corry touched her hand, for she was fully aware of why Babs was in such a restless state. “Don’t, Babs … it is not like you to pine …”
“But, Corry … he showed an interest … and yet …?”
“My dear sweet friend, he is not the sort to feel a lasting—”
“You don’t know him,” Babs protested.