Perdita's Prince: (Georgian Series)

by Jean Plaidy

  The Prince and Perdita went back to Cork Street. He was flushed not only with triumph for he had drunk more than usual.

  Perdita had drunk very little and was sober in both senses.

  ‘What an evening! By God, what a house! I declare ours looks like a cottage in comparison.’

  He looked round it disparagingly.

  ‘I would rather be happy in a cottage than unhappy in the finest mansion.’

  The Prince laughed: ‘Well, so would everyone else.’

  She stood there, arms folded across her breasts, very pretty but too dramatic, and the Prince was in no mood for histrionics. He had caught the mood of the people he had been with and they would have been very quick to ridicule sentiment – particularly if it were false.

  ‘Come here and stop acting, Perdita. You are not on the stage now. Come and be my turtle dove.’

  She came and sat beside him – all grace and willowy draperies.

  He kissed her with passion, but his thoughts were still with the company.

  ‘Fox is one of the best talkers I ever heard,’ he said. ‘And Sheridan’s another. By God, they are men I would be happy to call my friends.’

  She shivered. ‘You promised me once that you would not use bad language.’

  ‘Did I, by God.’ He laughed aloud. ‘What did you think of Fox?’

  ‘I thought his linen was … unclean.’

  The Prince laughed again. ‘You met the most brilliant man in London and the first thing you have to say about him is that his linen is unclean.’

  ‘I cannot see why his brilliance should prevent his putting on a clean shirt.’

  ‘How severe you are. And Sheridan?’

  ‘You forget I know him well.’

  ‘A damned fine fellow. Words! He has a way with them.’

  ‘They’re his trade.’

  ‘Perdita, one would think you did not greatly like the company tonight. I trust you did because I found it most diverting.’

  ‘There were some ill reputations among that company,’ she said, pursing her lips.

  ‘Ill reputations are often the most interesting.’

  She drew away from him. ‘I do not like to hear you talk like that.’

  He was startled. After all the approval he had had tonight this sounded like criticism. Perdita seemed to have forgotten that although he loved her he was still the Prince of Wales.

  ‘That,’ he said coolly, ‘will not prevent my saying what I mean.’

  She was alarmed; she saw the angry lights in his eyes. They were a warning. He had of course drunk more than was good for him. She must be careful, but she would do her utmost to prevent visits to Cumberland House. She did not trust the Duchess – nor the Duke for that matter. Ah, the Duke! How did he feel about her now? Did he remember the time when he had done all in his power to seduce her?

  If she told the Prince that, perhaps he would not think so much of his uncle. But not now. This was not the moment, when he was a little peevish.

  ‘No one could prevent the Prince of Wales doing what he wished,’ she told him soothingly. ‘And as he is a man of great good sense, none but fools would wish to.’

  She was on her feet, making a sweeping bow which was somehow reminiscent of a plump lady who had been at Cumberland House that evening. The Prince laughed – his good humour restored. Perdita laughed with him. She was so pretty when she laughed.

  ‘Come,’ he cried. ‘Let us have a song.’

  She sat at the harpsichord and he leaned over her. He had an excellent voice of which he was very proud; she sang well, for when she had decided to go on the stage Elizabeth Sheridan had given her lessons. Their voices mingled perfectly. She wanted to sing a sentimental song of love; but the Prince was not in the mood for sentimentality.

  With Sheridan in mind he began to sing the song from The School for Scandal:

  ‘Here’s to the maiden of bashful fifteen;

  Here’s to the widow of fifty;

  Here’s the flaunting extravagant quean,

  And here’s to the housewife that’s thrifty.

  Let the toast pass

  Drink to the lass

  I’ll warrant she’ll prove an excuse for the glass.’

  A little primness had returned to Perdita’s mouth; she did not want to be reminded of drink, for she had always known that the Prince was too fond of it.

  However, the Prince was in good spirits; and when he had enough of singing, he declared that there was no better way to end a perfect evening than by spending the night with Perdita.

  *

  In the Duchess of Cumberland’s bedchamber she discussed the evening with the Duke.

  She curved her little white hands to make them look like claws and murmured: ‘We have him. He is ours.’

  The Duke nodded with satisfaction. ‘Wait!’ he cried. ‘Just wait until this gets to old George’s ears!’

  ‘He may forbid it to continue. Then I suppose we should have to obey?’

  ‘For a time.’

  ‘For three years. God knows what will happen to our little Prince in that time.’

  ‘You fascinated him. By God, he could scarcely take his eyes off you.’

  ‘Don’t play the jealous husband. It’s too difficult a role for you.’

  ‘I’ll tell you this if you’d like to hear it. I’ve never seen a woman to come near you for looks.’

  ‘What about Propriety Prue?’

  ‘Who in God’s name is she?’

  ‘She goes under the name of Mrs Perdita Robinson and I can tell you that she was not as pleased with our little entertainment as His Highness was.’

  ‘What! That little play actress.’

  The Duchess regarded him sardonically; she knew all about those visits to the theatre which had not been crowned with success as far as the Duke was concerned.

  ‘You will I know agree that she is a beautiful one.’

  ‘I don’t doubt she’s pretty enough.’

  ‘Pretty enough for a prince … if not for a duke?’

  ‘That was long ago. I thought she looked well in breeches.’

  ‘So did many others. But this is beside the point. P P does not like us, I fear; and she undoubtedly will have influence with H H.’

  ‘Propriety Prue! And openly living in sin!’

  ‘With a prince. You must admit that makes it a very venial sin.’

  ‘Don’t mock, Anne.’

  ‘I’m deadly serious. In fact so serious that I am reminding you of something you may have forgotten.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That women can beg and plead very prettily; they can also very slowly poison a man’s mind against those who would be his friends. All these little tricks performed at dead of night in a velvet curtained bed … and the curtains, so I have heard, are held together overhead by a coronet, if you please … these tricks can be very effective. And I repeat, you should know.’

  ‘Since it was in such circumstances that you forced me to marry you …’

  ‘Not forced. I never use force. Only persuasion.’

  He laughed. She never bored him in spite of his infidelities. He had given her what she wanted – marriage into the royal family, and she was content with that. He was a conceited little man – by no means the most attractive of the King’s brothers, but he had married her and she must be thankful for that. She was not of course of lowly birth like her sister-in-law the Duchess of Gloucester, whose origins were very questionable. They did not meet often; they had so little in common, except that they were married to brothers and had both made marriages which were unacceptable to the King. The Duchess of Gloucester, Lady Waldegrave that was, was dignified, and in spite of her birth played the part of Duchess to perfection. The daughter of a milliner some said and of Sir Edward Walpole – the elder brother of that gossip and writer Horace – her father had supervised her education and in due course married her to Lord Waldegrave; and when Lord Waldegrave had died, Maria, the pretty creature, had taken a fancy t
o the Duke of Gloucester, and he to her it seemed, for he had impetuously, without consulting his family, rushed into marriage with her.

  As for the Duchess of Cumberland – there was no question of her birth. She was the daughter of Lord Irnham and one of the Luttrells; she had married a country squire, Christopher Horton, who had died leaving her very young and ready for adventure. In London she had found it – in marriage with the dissolute Cumberland soon after he had brought scandal on the family through the notorious Grosvenor case.

  He didn’t regret it. She was the most amusing woman in London besides being one of the most beautiful. She was capable of acting hostess in Cumberland House and attracting all the most brilliant Whigs there – in opposition to the Tory friends of the King. For she agreed with her husband that since the King had refused to receive them at Court they must do everything they could to discomfit him. If they could, they would have set up a rival court; but this was not possible, for Cumberland lacked the intelligence and his Duchess while not suffering from this lack, while being extremely witty in a malicious way, was so coarse in her conversations that it had been said that one was forced to wash out one’s ears after visiting her. Nevertheless they did attract the Whigs to Cumberland House; and if they could only gather the Prince of Wales into their fold they could at once set up that rival court. The fact that the Prince had no establishment of his own but only an apartment in his father’s palace at Buckingham House was in their favour. They would strive to lure him to Cumberland House and keep him there so that until he had a house of his own, this might be his home. Then they could form the rival court, ‘The Prince’s Court,’ ‘The Cumberlands’ Court’ – what mattered what it was called as long as it was set up as a rival to the King’s Court and would distress that self-righteous old fool the King, who had banished them from his Court.

  ‘But to get back to Propriety Prue,’ went on the Duchess. ‘We must watch that young lady or she will persuade our little Prince that Cumberland House is not for him.’

  ‘You think she could?’

  The Duchess lowered her eyes and then lifted them – a trick she had long practised to call attention to her eyelashes. If she had persuaded a dissolute Duke to marry her in the face of tremendous opposition, surely a beautiful actress could persuade a susceptible young man to discontinue visiting his uncle.

  ‘He was impressed with Fox … no doubt about that,’ said the Duke.

  ‘There are other places where he could meet the people he met here tonight.’

  ‘But … I am his uncle.’

  ‘That old mollycoddle up at the Palace of Piety is his father, but I don’t fancy he is yearning to spend his evenings there.’

  ‘By God, you’re right. That woman could spoil our chances.’

  She leaned towards him. ‘And you know, my dear ducal lord, that we can only have one answer to that.’

  He waited for it. He accepted her as the leading spirit.

  ‘Spoil hers,’ she spat out venomously, and her green eyes scintillated with malice.

  *

  Mrs Armistead had overheard the conversation between the Prince and Perdita.

  What a fool that woman is, she thought. How long can it last? Didn’t she understand the Prince at all? He had an eye for a pretty woman. She had even caught his gaze on herself. Of course, thought Mrs Armistead, if I had gowns of silk and satin and velvet, even muslin and lawn, I could be a fair rival to Perdita.

  But who is going to look at the lady’s maid? Some would, was the answer, providing the maid was good looking enough. And she was. There was no doubt of it.

  And if the Prince was going to tire of Perdita, if they no longer mixed in the highest society, what of Mrs Armistead?

  There was Mr Fox. She smiled, rather fondly, and she told herself foolishly. It would not serve to be foolish. She had a good example of folly before her now. She would never be guilty of that. Mr Fox would always have a special place in her life; she knew that. He had wanted to reward her but she would not accept money. Was that foolish? Did she not need money more than most. What would become of her when she was no longer young enough to work, when she had lost her handsome looks? No, she could take nothing from Mr Fox. What she gave him she gave freely.

  She would tell him of course every detail of tonight’s conversation and that she believed that the Prince was beginning to tire a little of Perdita – although he was too sentimental to realize this and she too vain and stupid. And when he had tried to give her money she had always refused it. She believed he understood and in a way applauded this. She was his mistress … in a casual way. What a strange relationship, yet she would not be without it. It made her in some way long for independence. And how could a woman in her position achieve that? She must either serve a stupid woman, concern herself with rouge and powder, ribbons and patches – or seek to please some gentleman. Was one more degrading than another? It was the end which counted perhaps not the means. She was too young for a celibate existence. Mr Fox had taught her that – and of course Mr Fox was the last man to expect fidelity.

  Her opportunity to win independence was now. How could she say how long it would last?

  Here in Cork Street the richest men in England would be congregating. A clever woman who kept her dignity, could have a chance to win independence and a gracious middle age. All she must do was stifle a few scruples and handle the situations which arose with tact and care.

  There was a young gentleman whom she had noticed and who had noticed her. He was Lord Dorset; and she did not think she would demean herself if she allowed the attraction to ripen … providing she did so gradually and above all with dignity.

  Mrs Armistead had made a decision.

  Now before she retired she would go over the report she would take to Mr Fox in the morning. Then to bed. But first to take out of her cupboard the white satin gown with the silver tissue and one or two other dresses which had come her way.

  She held them against her. Yes, a woman was a fool who did not use the gifts a munificent nature had bestowed upon her.

  *

  Visits to Cumberland House had whetted the Prince’s appetite for gaiety. A circle was quickly forming round him. It was a wide circle, for he was ready to welcome into it men who were talented in any direction. He had quickly become on intimate terms of friendship with Charles James Fox, Edmund Burke and Richard Sheridan; but men like Lord Petersham and Lord Barrymore were also his close friends. Petersham was the best dressed man in London who would discuss for hours the right cut of a coat or what trimming should be used. He applauded the Prince’s taste and assured him that the shoe buckle he had designed was in his opinion the most elegant he had ever seen. Barrymore was a great practical joker and the Prince found this form of releasing his high spirits to his taste. But he had discernment and would not try his practical jokes on Fox any more than he would talk politics or literature with Petersham. The world was opening out for him and with his great gift for falling violently in love, he was in love with his new life. He often said that one should go to the French for fashion and the English for sport; he enjoyed both. He took lessons in boxing and fencing and excelled in them. He rode well and would drive himself in his phaeton at a startling speed. He even drove his Tilbury through the Park with his groom sitting beside him. He was beginning now to be seen not only in various houses but in public, and the people greeted him with affection wherever he went; he was always gorgeously attired and spent a great deal of time planning his toilette, very often with the help of Petersham. He could dance well, sing well, talk well; and he was undeniably handsome. He was, it was said, the finest gentleman in Europe, and the English were proud to own him as their prince.

  He kept a mistress, it was true, but very few held that against him. It all added to the gaiety of life and after years of old George – who was not so old but had always seemed so – with his virtuous but oh so dull Queen who did nothing but bear children for the state to support … after these two, young George was a
source of great amusement and delight.

  He was imbibing Whig politics at a great rate from Fox and Sheridan; they had become his closest friends, with Burke a good third. Elizabeth Sheridan was growing more and more anxious at the turn in her husband’s fortune. They had been in debt before, but how could they afford to entertain the Prince of Wales? For the Prince insisted on visiting his amusing friend and was enchanted by the beauty of his wife and her singing in which he joined her for many a musical hour. A simple evening at the Sheridans the Prince might call it; but Elizabeth was aghast to realize what it cost to give such an evening to a prince. And there was Mr Fox with his careless attitude towards debts. Money was something neither of the three ever gave a thought to. It was merely a word … a magic sesame to give them what they wanted. One bought and forgot that it was necessary to pay.

  The Prince had become a frequent visitor to Cumberland House. Perdita did not care for Cumberland House so she was not often asked, but that was not going to prevent the Prince visiting his own uncle. Fox took him along to Devonshire House where he met the beautiful Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, another of whom the King would call ‘those damned Whigs’.

  The Prince was delighted with the Duchess as he had been with his aunt; she was gay, she was witty and there was the same sort of welcome for him at Devonshire House as there was at Cumberland.

  Hostesses were vying for his company. He was half in love with Georgiana, half in love with his aunt; and it seemed to him that he was surrounded by beautiful women. If it were not for Perdita …

  Perdita herself was drawn into the gay world. It was no use thinking she could hide her position. Everyone knew that she was the Prince’s mistress and the interest in her was at fever pitch. The papers mentioned her every day. Stories were told of her which at worst had little truth in them and at best were grossly exaggerated.

  Tradesmen were constantly at the door with beautiful materials to be made into clothes for her; she bought lavishly. She had always had a passion for clothes and now recklessly unleashed it, for she believed there was no need to consider the expense. Several seamstresses were working for her night and day; newspaper men called to ask Mrs Armistead what her mistress would be wearing that day. Descriptions of her dresses were given to journalists and according to their accounts she was always decked out in diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds. ‘Gifts,’ the public avid for news of the Prince and his affairs were told, ‘of his Royal Highness.’