When Gods Die Read Free

here whenever he could, to bathe his bloated body in seawater and host an endless round of musical evenings and card parties, and plan a new series of extravagant extensions and decorating schemes for his Pavilion.
    At the moment, Jarvis’s rooms were fitted out with dragon-encrusted chandeliers, faux bamboo furniture, and peacock blue wallpaper decorated with gold-leafed exotic beasts. But before the end of the summer, the look might well have changed, perhaps taking on the lush aura of a sultan’s harem or a maharaja’s temple. Jarvis himself had little affection for the oriental styles with which the Prince was so enamored. But Jarvis understood better than most that the Pavilion—like Carlton House, the Prince’s residence in London—was the equivalent of an ornate set of building blocks in the hands of a fat, overindulged child. The endless rebuilding projects might be expensive, but they amused the Prince and kept him safely occupied so that wiser, saner men could get on with the business of running the country.
    Standing well over six feet tall and now, in his fifty-eighth year, comfortably fleshy, Jarvis was an imposing man. His size alone would have been impressive. But it was the power of Jarvis’s intellect that intimidated most men—his intellect, and the amoral ruthlessness of his dedication to king and country. The position of prime minister could have been his in an instant, had he wanted it. He did not. He knew well that power was far more effective and satisfying when wielded from the shadows. The current Prime Minister, Spencer Perceval, understood precisely how things stood, as did most of the other members of the cabinet. Only two men in the government ever dared to stand against Jarvis. One was the Earl of Hendon, the Chancellor of the Exchequer. The other was this man, the Earl of Portland.
    Drawing a delicately carved ivory snuffbox from his pocket, Lord Jarvis eyed the nobleman now pacing back and forth across the chamber’s green-and-gold Turkey carpet. A tall, loose-limbed man with an abundance of nervous energy, Portland had been Home Secretary for the past two years. He was generally considered a clever man. Nowhere near as clever as Jarvis, of course, but clever enough to be difficult.
    “Why are you doing this?” demanded Portland, the candles in the wall sconces gleaming on his auburn head as his long-legged stride carried him across the room again. “The magistrate has cleared the Prince of all involvement. Let that be the end of it! The longer this thing drags out, the harder it will be on the Prince. The doctors have already had to sedate him.”
    Jarvis lifted a delicate pinch of snuff to one nostril and sniffed. The Prime Minister, Perceval, had taken himself off to the chapel to pray, content to leave the sordid affair in Jarvis’s hands. But not Portland. The man was becoming more than a nuisance; he was becoming a problem.
    “The magistrate is an imbecile,” said Jarvis, closing his snuffbox with a snap. “As is anyone who seriously thinks the people will believe Lady Anglessey committed suicide by stabbing herself in her back.”
    Portland had unusually fair skin, nearly as fair as a woman’s, with a faint dusting of cinnamon-colored freckles across his high cheekbones. His skin often betrayed him as it did now, flushing with annoyance. “It is theoretically possible. If she positioned the dagger just so and then fell on it—”
    “Oh, please,” Jarvis shot back. “Half the people out there tonight already believe the Prince killed that woman. If we let the magistrate release this finding, all we’ll do is convince the other half.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous. No one could actually believe the Regent capable of…” Portland’s eyes widened as if on a sudden thought, and his voice trailed away.
    “Precisely,” said Jarvis. “Everyone will be reminded of Cumberland’s valet. The inquest on his death returned a verdict of suicide as well, if you’ll remember.