"The sunspots are responsible for the cold," Lord Cravenhurst was saying. "Clearly there is something amiss with the universe."
Lord Davenport inclined his head sagely. "Nine groups of sunspots have been counted, plus several single ones scattered from the eastern to the western side of the sun. I fear they portend the end of the world. The sun is cooling off."
"I think not." James found himself half amused by these absurd theories, but his other half was rather disturbed to think the country was being run by the crackpots expounding them. "Sunspots are hardly new. Galileo noted them more than two hundred years ago. If you'll but examine the temperature records, you'll find Britain has seen both uncommonly cold and uncommonly warm summers since then, and such periods have nothing to do with sunspots."
Lord Hawkridge nodded. "Stafford is right."
James gave the man a subtle nod in return, glad to have another non-crackpot in the discussion. He knew Hawkridge from his Oxford days, although not terribly well—the man had been a much closer friend of Griffin's. A newcomer to Parliament and a fellow Whig, Hawkridge had impressed James so far on the floor. He seemed a true gentleman with a clear head and a keen sense of honor.
"I agree with Hawkridge and Stafford," Lord Haversham announced. "Sunspots aren't responsible for the cold. The moon is to blame."
"And how is that?" Hawkridge asked.
Apparently not scientifically minded, Haversham shrugged. "It's common knowledge that the cycles of the moon affect everything."
"Nonsense." Everyone turned to Lord Occlestone, a man who sadly—or fittingly, depending on one's estimation of the fellow—resembled nothing so much as a pink-faced porker. "It's not the moon or sunspots," he declared loudly, spewing sputum on everyone else in the process. "It's the fault of those upstart Americans."
James wiped his face. "How the devil can you blame this on the Americans?" Occlestone had been another classmate at Oxford—one James hadn't liked then and liked even less now. A staunch Tory and generally against any progress or reform, Occlestone was doing everything he could to block James's bill to make smallpox vaccinations government-funded and mandatory for infants.
"North America is suffering even colder weather than ours," Hawkridge pointed out. "Their newspapers have been predicting famine in the coming months due to crop failure."
"I've seen reports of famine in Switzerland as well," Davenport put in.
"Famine or not," Occlestone said, plainly disinterested in something so unlikely to affect him personally, "we can lay the blame at the feet of an American. Benjamin Franklin, to be precise."
"At the feet of Benjamin Franklin?" Incredulous, James blinked. "I expect Mr. Franklin's feet are decomposed by now. He's been dead more than twenty-five years."
The others laughed, but Occlestone's porcine eyes narrowed. "Dead or not, he invented the lightning rod, didn't he? I'll have you know that the interior of the earth is hot due to electrical fluids circulating about beneath the surface. That heat is usually discharged into the air around us, but because of Franklin's lightning rods—which are now being installed all over not only his country but ours as well—the earth's process of releasing heat into the atmosphere has been interrupted."
"That's not how I've heard it explained," Cravenhurst said. "Quite the opposite, in fact. Since lightning is heat, the lightning rods have taken the heat from the air. Hence we shall never again see summer."
Davenport rubbed his balding pate. "Either way, Franklin would be responsible. But I still blame the sunspots."
James decided that, Hawkridge excepted, they all had more hair than sense—even shiny-headed Davenport. Still, it wouldn't do to call them idiots to their faces.
"Like all of you," he said carefully, "I've given this much thought. And that, coupled with keen observation, has led me to dismiss these predictions of doom. There's been a haze overhead the last months. I believe that haze is temporarily blocking the sun."
Occlestone crossed his arms. "A haze?"
"Yes, a haze. Or a fog, if you will, or perhaps it's some sort of dust, since it appears to be dry. Unlike the way the sun easily dissipates a moist fog arising from the water, its warmth seems to have little effect on this haze. Therefore it logically follows that its rays aren't reaching the earth and warming it as usual."
"And to what do you attribute this haze?" Occlestone demanded.
"That I couldn't tell you. I'm a physician, not a meteorologist. But I see no reason to jump to the conclusion that the condition will continue indefinitely."
"Do you expect there's a haze above America as well? I think not." Occlestone's pinkish face was turning rather purple. "I was forced to listen to your damned two-hour speech in Parliament, Stafford, but I don't have to listen to you here." And with that, he walked off, muttering so loudly James suspected he was audible halfway across the ballroom.
"Good evening, Tristan," James heard a familiar feminine voice say behind him.
He turned to see Juliana, dressed in such a cheerful bright yellow she seemed to make up for all the missing sunshine. But he didn't like hearing her address Hawkridge by his given name, and he liked even less seeing her smile when the man walked closer, raised her hand, and pressed a kiss to the back of it. "You're looking lovely tonight, Juliana."
James didn't hear what they said next. He was too busy telling himself he had no business caring who courted Juliana, and she was entitled to have genuine suitors, and at least Hawkridge wasn't a prig and an ass. The next thing he knew, Hawkridge was gone—and Juliana was looking at him with a puzzled expression.
"Are you all right, James?"
He blinked. "Of course. Why shouldn't I be?"
"You just looked…odd."
He shrugged. "Hawkridge is a fine fellow, isn't he?"
"Yes. It's a shame he was shunned by society for so long. I'm very glad Alexandra managed to clear his
