Newbury & Hobbes 04 - The Executioner's Heart Read Online Free Page B

formed a temporary alliance with her on another. Nevertheless, Lady Arkwell had continued to outwit him at every stage. It was at once infuriating and exhilarating, and he had vowed to bring the matter to a head.
    For now, though, Newbury was content to lounge on his sofa, smoke his opium-tainted cigarettes, and contemplate the universe. And he had to admit that he was in no real hurry to rid himself of such a worthy adversary. He was sure she felt the same, and she would make the next move in their little game when she deemed the time to be right. Newbury, for his part, would bide his time.
    There was a firm rap on the drawing room door. Newbury sighed. Scarbright. Time for another meal, no doubt. He glanced at the uneaten remains of his luncheon—a thick beef broth, now cold and congealing on the sideboard—and felt a sharp twinge of guilt. It did seem wrong to let so much food go to waste, particularly as Scarbright was such a superb culinary craftsman. He would make an effort, he decided, to consume at least some of Scarbright’s dinner, despite the fact that his appetite was practically non-existent.
    “Come,” said Newbury, his voice a low drawl.
    The door creaked open, and he heard Scarbright’s footsteps crossing the room towards him. Newbury felt more than saw the shadow of the valet as it fell upon him.
    Scarbright cleared his throat pointedly, waiting for Newbury to acknowledge his presence.
    Newbury turned slowly to peer up at the valet through half-open lids. The man looked a little peaky, as if he was feeling unwell or had just had a rather unpleasant surprise. He was not carrying a dinner tray.
    Newbury raised one eyebrow and removed the stub of the cigarette from between his lips. “What is it, Scarbright?”
    Scarbright took a deep breath before speaking. When he did, his tone was calm and measured, entirely at odds with his suspiciously nervous manner. “You have a visitor, sir.”
    Newbury frowned. “If it’s Charles, tell him to go away.” He paused for a moment, considering. “In fact, tell him I’ll see him at the White Friar’s this evening.”
    “It’s not Sir Charles, sir. It’s … well…”
    “It’s alright, Scarbright. I’ll rouse the scoundrel myself!” The voice was deep, commanding, and terrifyingly familiar.
    Newbury struggled to pull himself upright on the sofa. The sound of the man’s boots clacking on the floorboards was like an ominous drum roll as he strode purposefully into the room.
    “Get up, you damn layabout!” Newbury caught only the briefest glance of Scarbright’s apologetic face before the newcomer snapped out another command and sent the valet scuttling away. “Scarbright, open a window. I can barely stand this damnable smoke.”
    Newbury, head swimming, staggered to his feet and turned to regard his visitor. He groaned inwardly as his fears were confirmed: Standing there at the arm of the sofa, resplendent in a smart black suit, was Albert Edward of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, the Prince of Wales.
    The Prince had a stately aspect, and he carried himself with enormous confidence and poise. His balding pate gleamed in the low light and his grey beard and moustache were neatly trimmed. He was watching Newbury from beneath hooded eyes, his disapproving expression so similar to that of his mother—and Newbury’s employer, Queen Victoria, herself—that Newbury couldn’t help but shudder under its glare.
    For a moment the two men stared at one another, neither of them speaking. Finally, Newbury found his voice. “Good … afternoon, Your Royal Highness,” he said, hoping desperately that he’d at least managed to guess the time of day correctly. “You are most welcome. Although I fear you have me at a disadvantage.”
    “Quite,” said the Prince, glancing around at the state of the drawing room.
    Newbury winced, both at the sharpness of the Prince’s rebuke and the sudden intensity of the light as Scarbright pulled back the drapes, allowing sunlight to