Death at St. James's Palace Read Online Free PDF

erupted into the group. She turned to John, glancing a smile at Emilia, but no more.
    “Is it not wonderful news about my uncle, Mr. Rawlings? But not before time I am sure you will agree.”
    “I certainly do. It is an honour he should have received years ago,” John answered, giving her a small bow, knowing that anything more might be misconstrued by the minx.
    The vulture George spread his wings. “Will you not introduce me,” he said in a glutinous voice.
    The Blind Beak, whose hearing had sharpened to a fine degree, said, “My niece, Mary Ann, now my adopted daughter. She has been in my care since she was six and is growing more of a handful with each passing year. Mary Ann, this is Mr. George Goward, soon to be Sir George.”
    She dropped a flirtatious curtsey and John realised to his horror that the little beast would trifle with any male, however old and unattractive. She was, in short, a born coquette and simply couldn’t help herself. A surreptitious glance at Emilia told him that she had realised it too and was now quite definitely growing tired of the whole gathering.
    “Of course, I am young to receive such an honour,” George continued, lying through his teeth, “being but eight and thirty.”
    “John,” said Elizabeth Fielding, rather pointedly, “has just celebrated his fortieth birthday, this very month in fact.”
    As always, the Apothecary was slightly shocked, even though he knew that the Magistrate was much younger than he looked. Probably because of his height and powerful build, to say nothing of the strong features of his face, he thought of the Blind Beak as being permanently fifty years old, or thereabouts.
    “And you have already achieved, Sir, more than most do in a lifetime,” John said, then bowed. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you will forgive me, my wife and I will bid you farewell. We have another appointment.”
    Emilia gave him a rather dark look, “Yes, we do,” she said, but as they left the group, muttered, “Really, John, I am quite capable of speaking for myself. I may be with child but I have not lost my tongue.”
    The Apothecary rolled his eyes and sighed silently. He had the most uncomfortable feeling that this was going to turn into one of those days when he could do little right.

    Despite his fears, the evening brought a wonderful calm. Emilia, contented with the fact that Dr. Grant of Kensington also believed her to be pregnant and had confirmed that her fall had brought about no damage, had retired early to bed. So, as they had done so often in the past, the Apothecary and his father sat on either side of the fire, listening to the melodious chimes of Sir Gabriel’s longcase clock, which had been brought by cart from Nassau Street, along with his most precious possessions, the best beloved of which was a portrait of Phyllida Kent, John’s mother, who had once begged on the streets of London with her bastard child before Sir Gabriel had taken her into his home and married her. It hung over the fireplace of the room in which they sat and John looked at it now.
    “I wonder if the baby will take after her.”
    “It would be a gift from God if it did. She was, after all, one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen.”
    “Throw Emilia’s good looks in, to say nothing of your distinguished features, and the child should be the handsomest creature on earth,” John added without thinking.
    Sir Gabriel laughed softly. “My appearance will have nothing to do with it, my dear. You forget that I am not really your father.”
    The Apothecary’s smile vanished and a look of great sincerity came in its place. “Yes, I forget because you mean far more to me than he, whoever he was, could ever have done.
    But because the baby will be Phyllida’s grandchild it will be part of you, please remember that.”
    “I already consider it my flesh and blood. Yet how strange m it is to think that a little person is growing, quite unknown to any of us, who is destined to