Blackguard or no, Cheever-Chittlesford was a close advisor to Pitt, and Stibblestich was the liaison to the chief magistrate, so Elijah straightened his wig and prepared to go downstairs. Thankfully, his heart had settled down and was now dancing to a milder, if irregular, beat: not exactly steady, but not frightening either.
Cheever-Chittlesford was standing at the window; Stibblestich had accepted a glass of brandy. In the morning.
Elijah strode into his library. When he was one of Pitt’s advisors, he felt divided between himself and his rank. In the presence of Pitt, he was more an advisor than a duke.
Now he felt every inch the duke. And Cheever-Chittlesford, wily statesman that he was, realized it immediately. His bow was lower and more respectful than it was when they met in the House.
“Mr. Cheever-Chittlesford,” Elijah said briskly.
“Lord Stibblestich. What can I do for you?”
Cheever-Chittlesford was not a man to rush into speech; Elijah had seen him allow others to instigate conversations thousands of times. Even better, he would provoke a flagrant battle, during which both sides would pour out their best arguments. He would listen silently, saying nothing, and then decide precisely when to seize control of the subject.
Stibblestich, on the other hand, was the perfect man to launch an argument. He rarely thought before he spoke, and therefore his words were invariably insulting. “It’s the hulks,” he said importantly. “We’ve been tasked by the king himself with coming up with a solution to those floating monstrosities.”
Elijah kept his expression pleasant and uninterested. “A difficult problem, as we’ve already admitted,” he murmured.
“I’ve suggested that we fire them,” Stibblestich said.
“That’s the best solution. Fire ’em!” He gave a couple of vigorous nods. “There’s none but bloody-minded criminals aboard. They’re a floating pestilence for the city, like rats…like—like—like rats,” he finished, apparently unable to think of another word.
Elijah turned to Cheever-Chittlesford. “Of course, removing the warships from their current use as prison barges is an excellent idea.”
Cheever-Chittlesford looked discomfited, which was unusual. Elijah’s eyes narrowed. “Precisely what do you mean by ‘fire them’?” he asked, turning back to Stibblestich.
“Burn them down,” he said promptly. “It’ll take care of all our problems. We’ll start over with the same problem, of course, but we can find somewhere else to house the new ones. The king himself was in danger during the riots!” He opened his eyes so wide that his whole face seemed to stretch.
Elijah’s heart gave a great thump. “Do I take you to mean that you are considering burning the ships with prisoners inside?” He could hear the pendulum clock behind him ticking very hard, as hard as his heart was beating. It was inconceivable…it was barbaric. He could feel, deep in his body, the frown that had formed on his face, the fury that was making his back rigid.
Stibblestich started to bluster, something about pestilence. Elijah turned to Cheever-Chittlesford, who looked at him with the shadow of an apology in his eyes, so Elijah knew that indeed the government was entertaining that thought. Something in him raged and despaired at once. They were so stupid, so stupid and violent.
With an effort, he summoned up the logical, calm voice that he used to show madmen the error of their ways. “You intend to burn the hulks.”
“That’s right,” Stibblestich said. Satisfaction reeked in his voice.
“Burning them where they are currently anchored?”
“That’s the whole point! We need to make a lesson out of this uprising. We can’t just let it pass: the king’s own yacht was violated by dirty, criminal hands. The king’s noble subjects were fired upon. But that was not the worst.”
Elijah frowned. “What was the worst?”
“The Duchess of Cosway was on that yacht! She was caught by those criminals, manhandled, perhaps violated—”
Cheever-Chittlesford interrupted. “They held her briefly; she was rescued by her husband.”
“They pushed the Duke of Cosway into the water!” Stibblestich said, his voice rising even higher. “The duke and duchess had to swim to shore.”
“Dear me,” Elijah said, wondering if his wife knew that her friend Isidore had taken an impromptu bath in the Thames.
“We’ve had uprisings on the hulks in the past,” Stibblestich said, “but as I’ve told you before, this time they’ve gone too far! We must make an example of them! They touched—nay, they assaulted—a peer. Two peers!”