“Beaumont.”
“Yes, Your Grace?”
The Duke picked up a letter that was lying on top of the dressing table.
“If you have any time left today,” he said, “you can draft out an answer to the Prime Minister.”
He threw the letter and it spun in the air to fall at Mr. Beaumont’s feet and, as he bent to pick it up, the Duke said,
“Tell him I will be very honoured for him to put forward my name to Her Majesty for the appointment of Viceroy of Ireland and that I and my wife will do our best for that long-suffering country.”
There was a smile of gratification on Mr. Beaumont’s face as he went from the room, carrying the Prime Minister’s letter in his hand, but the Duke did not see it.
He had walked to the window to look out once again at the sunlit garden.
He knew that what he had read in Le Jou
