“I have one already waiting outside, my lady.”

“Then we should go quickly.”

“I have taken the liberty of asking Mrs. Jessop to prepare a daybed in the library, my lady. It may be we are not able to … encourage His Grace up the stairs.”

I am shocked to hear my brother referred to by his new title. Something else I shall have to come to terms with. Like it or not, things have changed forever, and now, however poorly suited he is for the role, it is Freddie who is the duke of Radnor.

*   *   *

Nicholas Stricklend finds he often does his best work in the hours of darkness, when there are fewer people likely to interrupt his thoughts. Whitehall is, of necessity, a place of bustle and busy-ness, with so very many civil servants doing their best to manage the politicians who pass through their tender care. It was to avoid the mainstream of this mayhem that he secured himself a suite of offices, and of rooms, indeed, in the newly built Admiralty Arch which spans Pall Mall on the southwest corner of Trafalgar Square. Competition for such a prestigious workplace had been fierce, but Stricklend had never been less than completely certain that he would get what he wanted. His private accommodation is on the top floor, to the rear of the main arch, at its center, so that the windows look directly up Pall Mall and give a clear view of Buckingham Palace. He selected offices on the floor below, with windows at the front, allowing him to overlook the roofs of Downing Street, and the spires of the Houses of Parliament. Never has a building been so perfectly constructed, he believes, to demonstrate the point of power in the land: the confluence of monarchy and state. The royal family to the west, solid, ancient, and privileged. The government to the east, thrusting, dangerous, and clever. Both built upon the labor of the masses. Both kept in their fortunate positions by the love of those same beasts of burden. Both served, or ruled, depending on your view, by the cunning of those who bridged the gap, much as the Marble Arch does, between the two worlds. Where birthright meets public mandate, in the tension of that connection, stand invisible men who are able to manipulate both to further their own aims. Stricklend is just such a man. Ordinarily, of course, the petty desires of these Machiavellian figures are not of great importance to anyone but themselves. The rise of a civil servant through the ranks, the acquisition of a grace and favor property, the opportunity to make money on the stock market, or mingle with aristocrats on their country estates, none of these things make the slightest difference to the man following his plow, or the schoolboy reciting his tables. National security remains secure. The order of things will continue unchallenged. Ordinarily. But Stricklend is not ordinary, and neither are his plans.