Death Comes to London Read Online Free

see you.” Robert transferred his stick into his left hand and shook Broughton’s hand. “What brings you here today?”
    “I’m selling my commission.” Broughton made a face. “There’s no point in remaining in the service if the regiment is bound for the Americas or India, and I don’t want to sit around on half pay.” His gaze swept over Robert, lingering on his walking stick. “I heard you were badly injured at Waterloo.”
    “As you see, I’m probably going to be selling out myself.”
    Broughton glanced up the steps. “Do you have an appointment?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then I won’t keep you.” He paused. “Would you consider meeting me at my club when you’re done? It’s Fletchers on Portland Square, a new meeting place for those of a scientific bent.”
    “I would be delighted.” Robert had always liked Broughton’s no-nonsense approach to life, although some of the other officers had thought him lacking in social graces. Lacking them himself, Robert had never taken offense at the man’s blunt manners. “I shouldn’t be too long.”
    “Where are you putting up?”
    “Fenton’s.”
    Broughton tipped his hat. “I look forward to seeing you again very shortly.”
    Robert laboriously made his way up the steps and inside the dark paneled entrance hall with its massive portrait of the Prince Regent dressed in an even more glorified version of the uniform of the Royal 10th Hussars. A man rose to greet him from behind a desk.
    “How may I help you, Major?”
    Robert saluted. “I have an appointment with Lieutenant Colonel Sir George Quentin. I’m Major Robert Kurland.”
    “Yes, sir, I’ll show you right up.”
    Robert followed the man into the shadowy depths of the house and into another anteroom, where the lieutenant colonel’s aide guarded his master’s door.
    “Major Kurland.” The aide snapped to attention. “The lieutenant colonel will see you now.”
    Robert saluted again and was taken through into the lair of the lieutenant colonel. He was an interesting man of Germanic origins who had been famously court-martialed for excessive brutality to his men in 1814 and had survived to continue his career. Privately, Robert thought him something of a tyrant, but also understood that when dealing with common men, especially soldiers after a battle, displaying superior strength was as necessary as breathing.
    “Major Kurland.”
    Robert saluted and stood to attention. “Sir.”
    “Please sit down.” His commanding officer grimaced. “I see we both still bear the scars of our victory at Waterloo.”
    “I’m recovering, sir, but I doubt I’ll ever return to the regiment.”
    “That’s a shame, Kurland. You were an excellent officer.”
    “Thank you.” Robert wasn’t sure if he was relieved or terrified by the thought of the permanent end of his army career. “I intend to sell my commission.”
    “I don’t think you’ll have any problem finding a purchaser. Due to our royal patron, this regiment is still considered a prime place to advance a military career.” The lieutenant colonel looked down at some papers on his desk. “Now, as to that other matter—”
    “May I ask how the Prince Regent heard about my so-called heroic exploits?” Robert interrupted him. “I did nothing more than any other commissioned officer during that battle.”
    “I beg to disagree, Major. You led the charge that took out that French gun position that had half a brigade pinned down in the ruins.”
    “I hardly remember, sir. It still doesn’t explain how I came to the prince’s notice.”
    “Ah, that would be because your secretary replied to a dinner invitation directly to the Prince Regent’s private secretary rather than to our office here. The Regent happened to take a personal interest in who was attending the reception. Sir John McMahon showed him the letter sending your regrets and mentioning your injuries. The prince tends toward the sentimental, as we know, and ordered Sir John to