Page 9 of A Problem Princess

No, he was here tonight for the welcome ceremony for the royal visit of the princely House of Renaldi for one reason and one reason only—

The regent had forced him.

“Why wouldn’t they want you as Home Secretary?” Marcus pressed. “You’re perfect for it. You’re a general now.”

“Exactly.” Clayton tapped Marcus on the shoulder with his glass to emphasize his point. “I’m a soldier, not a peer, and the king’s ministers are all peers.”

“The regent will surely make you one.”

“I’ve done nothing to earn it.”

“You think Lord Sidmouth earned his title?” Marcus accepted a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing footman. “Don’t think for one moment that every man here isn’t wondering who you are and what you’ve done to snag the regent’s attention.” Marcus narrowed his eyes on his old friend, the same way he’d done during all those years on the Continent when they’d discussed battle strategy before a fight. “Whatdidyou do, by the way?”

Stopped Scepter from assassinating the prince regent and prime minister, covered up the incident with a riot, and did it all well enough that no one but the regent and Home Secretary ever found out, including you and the men of the Armory…

Clayton shrugged. “Nothing special.”

He hid that lie by looking down to fuss with his cravat. He wasn’t allowed to tell anyone how he’d saved the regent’s life, not even his best friend. He’d surely end up in Newgate if he did.

When Marcus silently arched a brow at his attempted deflection, Clayton shook his head and added, “I only did my job.”

That was the God’s honest truth. But just like that, he’d been catapulted in status above half the aristocracy in England.

“If they offer the position to you, you can’t refuse it,” Marcus reminded him. “You’ve a duty to accept it.”

Duty.An invisible weight settled on Clayton’s shoulders. His entire life had been devoted to duty of one kind or another. Duty in providing for his mother after his father’s execution. Duty to his country while serving in the army and carrying out his superiors’ orders. Duty to the Home Office in carrying out the missions given to him by the Home Secretary. Duty to his father in uncovering the truth. Now duty to the regent in attending his parties when he’d rather have been anywhere else in the world. Duty colored every aspect of his life, every move he made.

Tonight simply epitomized it. The more he succeeded in bringing honor back to the Elliott name, the fewer choices he had regarding his own life. His Home Office career was simply the latest manifestation of it.

Unfortunately, Marcus wasn’t wrong. Clayton stood in a prime position to succeed Henry Addington, Viscount Sidmouth, as Home Secretary. It would only take one more grand success—or the death of King George—to put him there. The regent would appoint him then if for no other reason than to annoy the Tories.

“Most likely,” Clayton explained, “I was only invited tonight because the Home Secretary is suffering another bout of gout and couldn’t attend himself.” He grinned and lifted his glass in a mocking toast. “My job tonight is to do nothing more than stand here and look pretty.”

Marcus frowned and thankfully ignored that last bit of nonsense. “Since when is the Home Office concerned with royal visits? Why wasn’t this duty given to the Foreign Office?”

“I suppose because the visit has little to do with state business. The Monrovian prince has come to England to pay his condolences for Princess Charlotte’s death.” Clayton was happy to have the conversation anywhere but on himself and added thoughtfully, “Yet I’d bet my last penny that Monrovia will be asking for trade agreements within a fortnight.”

“And I’d bet mine that it isn’t a trade agreement Monrovia wants but a wedding.” When Clayton glanced sideways at him in surprise, Marcus explained, “Prince Ernest brought his niece along for the visit. She’ll make a perfect wife for one of the royal dukes.”

“So soon after the princess’s death?” Even though the official mourning period had ended, one look around the room proved the country was still in mourning. Lavender dresses draped from most of the women, and the men sported black armbands, above the elbow for most but below for those who held military commissions. Clayton knew it wasn’t all for show. The English people had dearly loved the young princess. She’d been a breath of fresh air compared to her debauched father and absent mother.

But he also knew Princess Charlotte’s death in childbirth had claimed two generations of presumptive heirs in a single blow. Great Britain stood at the edge of a succession crisis if one of the bachelor royal dukes didn’t discard his mistress and marry. Soon.

“There’s precedent,” Marcus answered. “The mourning period for Princess Amelia lasted only from November to March.”

“Yes,” Clayton murmured, not wanting to be overhead by anyone else as the room grew more crowded around them, “but her death also drove the king completely mad.”

Marcus stared into his glass. “I doubt he’s been told this time.”

And Clayton doubted it would make any difference even if he had, if the rumors of the king’s most recent behavior could be believed.

Marcus commented, “There’s already been a flurry of bets placed in the book at White’s on how many summer weddings the royal dukes will subject themselves to.”

“And?”

“I’ve got the Duke of Clarence by Whitsun.”

Clayton smothered a chuckle by raising his glass to his lips.