Where Serpents Sleep

began to toll five o’clock. Men shouted and whips cracked. A donkey brayed. Ragged urchins and barking dogs darted past, the boys whooping and laughing. “Looks like it’s attracting the devil of a crowd.”

“What time’s the Prime Minister s’posed to arrive?”

“Five o’clock.” From up ahead came the crash of splintering wood as a landau hooked one of its wheels with a coal cart. “Bloody hell,” said Sebastian, grasping the seat rail with his good hand. “Pull up here. I can make better time on foot.”

He leapt from the curricle and started running. Pushing his way up Margaret Street, he cut across Old Palace Yard to the small former chapel that stood at right angles to Westminster Hall and served as the House of Commons. Bursting through the double doors, he found himself in a dark, low-ceilinged lobby crowded with a throng of spectators queuing patiently for a spot in the galleries. He knew a surge of relief. He wasn’t too late.

Glancing around, Sebastian snagged the arm of a self-important clerk bustling past and hauled him back. “Where is Perceval? Is he here yet? Tell me quickly, man.”

“I say, sir,” bleated the clerk. “You’re not allowed here in boots.” He blanched as his gaze traveled from Sebastian’s bare neck to his bloodied, hastily bandaged arm. “And neck clothes are mandatory. Have you an introduction from a member? Because you really should have entered through the Hall, you kn—”

Sebastian resisted the urge to shake the man. “Damn you, I’m not here to gawk from the galleries. Where is Perceval?”

A movement to one side of the lobby caught Sebastian’s attention. A dark-haired man had risen from a seat near an open fire and was now walking briskly toward the entrance, one hand resting conspicuously inside his coat. “Bellingham,” said Sebastian. Then he bellowed, “Bellingham. Someone seize that man!”

Shocked faces turned not toward Bellingham, but toward Sebastian.

With an oath, Sebastian surged forward. The clerk latched on to his wounded arm and held tight. “Sir, I must insist—”

The slight figure of the Prime Minister appeared in the open doorway. He had his head half turned away, speaking to someone behind him.

“No!” shouted Sebastian, shaking off the clerk just as Bellingham walked up to the Prime Minister and fired a single shot into Perceval’s chest from a distance of no more than three or four feet. As Perceval stumbled back into the arms of the man behind him, Bellingham turned calmly and resumed his seat beside the fire.

They carried the Prime Minister into the office of the secretary of the speaker. Someone called for a doctor, but one glance at the gaping charred hole in Perceval’s chest was enough to tell Sebastian the Prime Minister was beyond any doctor’s help.

Sebastian looked around. “You,” he said, his gaze falling on the self-important clerk hovering nearby. “Run to Downing Street. Tell his family what has happened. Run!” he said again when the men hesitated.

Perceval’s hand fluttered. “Spence? Is he here?”

“He’s coming,” lied Sebastian, grasping the Prime Minister’s hand. Already, it felt cold.

Perceval sucked in a gasping breath that rattled in his throat. “I would like to have seen him one last time before I . . .”

Sebastian leaned forward, straining to hear his words. But the Prime Minister only stared up with blank, unseeing eyes.

Chapter 60

Paul Gibson thrust his needle through the flesh of Sebastian’s forearm, stitching up the long gash left by Epson-Smith’s blade. “You’re lucky,” said Gibson. “He nearly sliced the tendon.”

Sebastian watched the Irishman work his needle in and out. “I think you sew better than my tailor.”

Gibson tied off his thread and reached for a pair of scissors. “You keep me in practice.”

Sebastian held out his arm to open and close his fist.

“It would be better if you rested it for a few days,” said Gibson, turning away to smear salve on a bandage. “Not that I expect you to pay me any heed.” He began wrapping the bandage in place. “What do you think they’ll do to Bellingham?”

“Hang him, I should think. Probably before the week is out.”

“The man is obviously insane.”

“Yes. But I doubt that will stop them.”

“One thing I don’t understand,” said Gibson, busy with his task, “is how the gentleman who stopped Miss Jarvis’s carriage on the way back from Richmond fit into all this.”

“He was probably another hussar officer. He obviously wasn’t at the birthday debauchery, but he must have been involved in the plot to goad Bellingham into shooting Perceval. I suspect it was the four of them—Epson-Smith, Somerville, Drummond, and the Richmond assailant—who attacked the Magdalene House. Epson-Smith killed him to keep him from talking.”

“You think there could be more mixed up in it?”

Sebastian thought about the men who had nearly lured Hero Jarvis to her death. But all he said was, “I doubt we’ll ever know exactly how many hussars were involved.”

“Particularly if the Crown continues to insist that Bellingham acted alone.”