This Duchess of Mine(86)

The question of Pitt’s legacy hung in the air, not to mention Cheever-Chittlesford’s.

“I doubt it,” he replied.

“Well, I doubt it would be anything near as dramatic!” Stibblestich blustered. “You’ll have us all in tears, talking of mothers and such. But the reality is that Londoners like a good hanging!”

“That they do. A man who’s been fairly caught and confessed—for they always appear to have written their confessions, even the ones who can’t sign their own names—London does enjoy a good hanging of that nature. But men chained to the walls, forced to die slowly, in terror and excruciating agony, for the crime of stealing a loaf of bread?”

Cheever-Chittlesford cleared his throat. “I am sure another solution will present itself.”

Elijah knew better than to show the slightest sign of satisfaction. He’d lost arguments, after winning them, by exhibiting pleasure in the outcome.

Cheever-Chittlesford’s eyes looked like old metal coins, dull and impenetrable. But Elijah knew he had him. Cheever-Chittlesford would not allow the firing of the hulks. Elijah looked deliberately at Stibblestich, and then back at Cheever-Chittlesford. “Statesmen are likely to be judged by those they have around them. Men of the highest integrity are a bulwark against depraved decisions.”

“Nothing depraved about it!” Stibblestich said. His voice was quieter now that he’d lost. He looked disappointed. He, for one, would have enjoyed standing on the riverbank and watching the ship burn.

“I suggest you investigate sending such petty criminals to Australia,” Elijah said. “It’s a large country, and far away.” Cheever-Chittlesford didn’t look convinced, so he added, “In years to come, it may be a thriving colony, capable of being taxed.”

That made Cheever-Chittlesford look even more thoughtful.

Suddenly Elijah wanted nothing more than for these men to be out of the house, with their ability to discuss burning men alive, as if such a thing could ever be a reasonable proposition. As his rage receded, exhaustion followed in its wake.

He bowed. “I’m afraid you must forgive me, gentlemen. I have a previous engagement.”

“Of course,” Cheever-Chittlesford murmured.

Finally, they left the library and were in the entry. Elijah heard Stibblestich’s voice, sharp and scornful. “Of course Bawdy Beaumont has an appointment. I hear he’s caught the whore’s disease. And you know where he caught that. Like father, like son. I always said it.” His voice faded as he and Cheever-Chittlesford walked out the front door.

Elijah didn’t even care.

There was a sound in his head, like that of a stream rushing downhill. He was so tired that his legs felt like bars of lead. He had to go back to bed.

But the distance between himself and the bedchamber upstairs seemed insurmountable.

Jemma could not see him like this. He forced himself to move, feeling his heart thump angrily in response. The only thing his body wanted was to lie down, to slip into the blackness that waited at the edges of his vision.

He walked up the stairs steadily, by an enormous effort of will. At his door, he slipped through and closed it behind him, leaned back, head against the wood. Something was wrong with his vision, though, and the walls seemed to undulate.

The thought crossed his mind that he might not wake up this time. He had felt this terrible only once, after fainting in the House of Lords a year ago. A wash of regret went through his mind, but he pushed himself upright. He had had one wonderful night with Jemma.

He put a foot forward, and then another. It wasn’t so far to the bed. The walls were turning gray and foggy, as if the solid wood were dissolving. He could feel his heart stuttering, dropping a beat, another beat.

He pushed himself forward. If he were going to die now, it would be decently in his bed. He could have been climbing a mountain, given the effort it took him, but he finally was at the side of his bed. He put his hands out and allowed himself to fall forward.

Then he thought about turning over for what seemed like a long time before he managed to do it.

It was only when he was lying there fully clothed, and the familiar darkness was gathering and billowing around him, that Elijah thought of his father. He had spent the greater part of his life hating his father for dying in the manner he did, for living his life in such a wayward fashion. The facts of his father’s death had shaped his life.

Yet if his father had not been immoral in such a flagrant fashion, would he himself have become a person whom statesmen visited for advice when they were considering a leap into cruelty?

He would have been merely another duke, trundling from his country estate to his town house, marrying the woman designated to be his duchess, going from cradle to grave without considering the impact of his own words, of his own life.