By the King's Design

by Christine Trent

  He set the glass back down and allowed her to minister to him.

  “Do you see the pain you cause me, my dear heart, my perfect match? I can hardly conduct myself as a man when my sweetheart beyond compare accuses me of a devious act when none is intended. Perhaps my affections are wasted here.”

  Isabella removed the diamond-head pin holding his cravat in place. She wiped off the gold stick and reinserted it back into the fabric. “Wasted? This many years I’ve spent in complete and total adoration of your person, and now my own tender feelings are called into question?”

  She bit her lip. That was a mistake. Never compete with the prince over injury. Now she would need to compensate for her transgression. Isabella brought his hand to her lips for a kiss, then put her cheek to it in submission. As well as to hide her impatience with this ongoing charade.

  Such deferent moves were typically sufficient to restore his good humor, but the prince was more prickly than usual. She couldn’t imagine why. Bonaparte was mired in downpours in Russia, his wagons sunk to their hubs and his horses dropping from exhaustion. Not to mention the dysentery and disease raging through his ranks. There was probably little hope for the French madman there. Of course, Tsar Alexander of Russia now needed watching, but the final defeat of his greatest enemy should have George feeling very expansive.

  But he wasn’t.

  “Ah, ah!” George stumbled away from her, clutching his heart. “I am overtaken!”

  His pain didn’t affect his ability to find her bed, climb the two steps up to her overstuffed mattress, and collapse heavily backward against her pillows, his hand still planted on his chest.

  “The pain you cause me, cruel woman, is exquisite. I’m quite certain I’m about to expire.” The prince tossed back and forth, no simple task given his girth. It amounted to a barely imperceptible rocking, but with his hands now flailing and grasping at unseen objects.

  Oh, honestly.

  Isabella went to his side and knelt on the bedside steps. “Prin, my dear, you mustn’t die! My world will collapse without you. I’ll ring immediately for a servant to fetch you a doctor.” She reached for a bell rope dangling next to the bed hangings.

  “No, no, sweetest angel, fairest of the fair, I believe the attack is subsiding now. It must be all of the anxiety you place me under.” The prince heaved himself up on Isabella’s arm. “Ah, much better. Really, you must watch your gross mistreatment of me. And this mattress—when did it become so uncomfortable? I believe your stoutness has practically flattened it into a custard. Have it replaced.”

  Isabella blinked.

  The prince placed his thick hand on her shoulder. “Never fear, my cherub. I forgive your unintended damage to my soul, which exists only to worship you to the exclusion of all other divinities. It’s relieving to know the depth of your sorrow for offending me over my sincere and well-meaning gift. For a prince cannot tolerate those who would intentionally harm his delicate feelings.”

  Indeed.

  “And since we are good friends once again, my lovely Isabella, and since I’m already perched here in our favorite place, why don’t you join me for an affectionate visit?” he asked, helping her into the bed.

  Although the prince thought he’d won the day, it was Isabella who was ultimately victorious. For during their secret caresses, she extracted a promise for the sapphire and diamond necklace she wanted, and she intended to see the Lord Steward first thing in the morning about the purchase. In fact, she’d tell the Lord Steward that George had promised a matching bracelet, as well.

  And that should compensate for having to look at George’s youthful doxy at the dining table every night.

  Belle was shown into Carlton House by a uniformed servant, who led her through the magnificent home into a drawing room. Her heels echoed against marble floors, reverberating against vaulted ceilings and exquisitely carved columns.

  She wondered if her gown was adequate for a residence such as this one, much less for presentation to the Prince Regent. There was no time to have a dress made from one of her own fabrics, so she visited a local dressmaker, who assured her that this dress, a reject from Lady something-or-another who decided at the last minute that she wanted a violet-trimmed gown, not this pink one better worn by a younger woman, was quite appropriate for such an occasion. Belle wondered now if the woman just wanted to get rid of it. The complementary embroidered spencer jacket was well made, and the flounces bordering the hem of the dress did add flair to the plain skirt. In any case, it required only a simple alteration to suit Belle’s thinner frame so it could be ready in such a short time.

  Even with her fashionable white satin bonnet trimmed with ostrich feathers, accompanied by matching gloves and a simple cross necklace—the only jewelry she could presently afford—she wondered now if she wasn’t appallingly underdressed.

  This prince had a reputation for exquisite taste and high fashion standards. Surely he would take one look at her and be instantly repulsed.

  Courage, Belle.

  Another soul was already waiting in the round drawing room where she was escorted. An elderly tradesman by the look of him, dressed neatly but simply, and not troubling to cover or disguise his balding head. She nodded politely to the man, and sat on a red velvet gilded chair on the opposite side of the room.

  As the minutes ticked by and still no summons came for either of them to see Prince George, she became bored and walked to the center of the room to get a better look at the décor. She realized the room was actually an oval. Fantastic crystal chandeliers were impossibly suspended from the center of the ceiling and from various points around the perimeter of the room. The light fixtures reminded her of lightning hurtling down from the sky in explosive bolts.

  They were really quite hideous.

  As were the fringed seat covers on many of the big, stout benches around the room.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Belle whirled around on the voice coming from over her left shoulder. It was the tradesman.

  “Oh, no sir. I was just admiring the room.”

  The man smiled kindly. “I would hardly call it admiration. Perhaps you see a problem in here?”

  “Not really a problem, no.” How horrifying that he may have read the distaste on her face. But it couldn’t hurt to pass the time talking to this man, though, could it? “I’m just not sure that these particular benches belong here.”

  He nodded. “I see. What about them is an affront to you?”

  “They’re too ... bulky. They aren’t right for the airiness of the space.” She frowned. “And this shade of blue fabric on them just isn’t right inside a room with so much gilding in it. Not that I would have overdone the gold leafing in this way, either.”

  “You have very clear opinions on matters of design. Is your husband perhaps an architect?”

  His words mocked, but the twinkle of his eyes suggested he meant no offense.

  “My family owns a cloth shop in Yorkshire, so I’ve always been interested in fabric use in décor. I had some red and cream brocade that would be dazzling on these seat frames.”

  “Hmm, I see. So, in your opinion as a draper, are there other fabrics in here that require changing?”

  She looked at the massive windows swathed with layered, fringed draperies. The marine blue draperies extended out to cover half the walls.

  “The windows are covered in a way that is certainly grand, but look at the ceiling. It is painted in soft pastels to give the illusion of clouds gently floating past the room. It suggests light and cool breezes. The draperies are better suited for protecting the occupants against a gloomy thunderstorm, don’t you think? Whoever designed the room should have used a botanical print, to represent the green earth beneath the English sky, and in a much lighter fabric. This silk is too heavy. I would pull them off the ground more, perhaps tying them up more with tassels, to give a look of grandeur without depressing visitors to death.”

  “I believe the intent was to imitate a Roma
n tent.”

  “Truly?” Belle, don’t show your disbelief so obviously.

  The man was too lost in contemplation to notice her bad manners.

  “I presume you have other fabrics in your shop more suitable to the room?” he asked.

  “Actually, the shop is why I’m here today to see the prince. Our new gig mill was destroyed by some Luddites, and I want the prince to help me.”

  “Help you? How? Do you expect the prince to pay for your broken machinery?”

  “Yes. And to force Parliament to take action against these gangs of wild men.”

  He looked at her thoughtfully, much like a loving uncle would at a wayward niece. “You’ve never actually met the prince, have you? Don’t know anything about him?”

  “Well, no, but—” Her words were interrupted when a cream and gilded door opened, and in entered a man whose cologne descended upon her before he had fully crossed the threshold. His girth explained the size of the benches.

  Next to her, the tradesman made a shallow bow. This must be the prince! She dropped into a curtsy, keeping her head down and hoping she was accomplishing it properly.

  “Ah, Nash, welcome to the Circular Room. Think you that Mr. Holland does work as fine as yours?” the prince said.

  Nash? Where had she heard that name before? Belle rose when she sensed the man next to her doing so.

  The prince’s gaze turned to her. He must have been handsome in his youth, but folds of flesh obscured his past good looks, and instead revealed only blue eyes that squinted as he broke into hearty laughter.

  She dropped back into a curtsy.

  “This must be the bewitching Miss Stirling. Please rise, my dear, so I can look at you. Why, you’re as exquisite as Lord Liverpool described you. I see you’ve met my esteemed architect, Mr. Nash. He’s responsible for my favorite projects, although Carlton House is Mr. Holland’s work.”

  Now she remembered. Nash was the one responsible for the street renovations that had engendered discussion in Parliament. And here she was, insulting his competitor’s work inside the prince’s house. No wonder Nash was so bemused by her assessment.

  “I, I think it’s quite, um, lovely,” Belle faltered.

  “Actually, this young lady was offering me her candid opinion of the room, and I’m pleased to say that she was simply overwhelmed by it all.”

  “Ah, so the lady shares my excellent good taste, is that so, Nash?” The prince winked at Belle. At least, that’s what the twitch on his face appeared to be. “This room is my inner sanctum, if you will. I bring only my closest friends here to visit.”

  The prince invited them to be seated, and he lowered himself down heavily on one of the enormous benches Belle had just criticized.

  “Ahh. So, Miss Stirling, I understand you have a grievance you wish me to hear.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” She looked uncertainly at Nash. Would she be forced to petition the prince in front of him?

  Apparently so, for the Prince Regent merely nodded at her to continue. Once again, she explained what had happened in Leeds, leaving out the details about her fiancé and her brother. So caught up was she in her story that she found herself pacing and gesticulating as she relayed her tale of woe. She sat down again, once again discomfited at her own poor etiquette.

  “And so I come to you, sir, for your great influence on Parliament, to have restitution made to me and to bring action against the Luddite mobs roaming the countryside. These brutes are not good for the loyal millers and drapers of England, and they’re not good for the Crown’s reputation.”

  The prince again nodded at her. Did that mean he would take action on her behalf? He turned to Nash. “I say, doesn’t Miss Stirling give the most impassioned speech you’ve ever heard? Sweet as a kitten about it, but I sense ten deadly claws behind her delightful demeanor. What should I do?”

  “I think you wish to help her, Your Highness.”

  “Indeed, a pleasure it would be to help such a winsome lady in distress. Yes, it would. So, Nash, what have you heard about moving forward on the new street? Or Regent Street, I’m proud to say it will be called.”

  And from there, the prince and Nash absorbed themselves in talk about the demolition and rerouting of London streets that would provide for a direct promenade route from Carlton House to Marylebone Park. The prince’s excitement for the project was palpable. The two men talked as if Belle didn’t exist anymore. Being ignored was almost as bad as the members of Parliament mocking her.

  When George finally looked up again and noticed she was still sitting there, he dismissed her casually, as though she were a servant. Her cheeks flamed as she retreated backward out of the Circular Room, and into the presence of another servant who stood waiting outside to escort her out of Carlton House.

  Had she been completely disregarded by both Parliament and the prince in just a few short days?

  It didn’t matter. She still retained enough anger and fervor to return and fight another day.

  As the door clicked behind Belle, Nash looked knowingly at his patron. “She is an interesting girl, isn’t she?”

  “Quite. Positively enchanting. Lots of pluck.” The prince laced his fingers across his belly, contemplating.

  “She would be an entertaining guest to have about at the Pavilion.”

  “Yes, but she’s no one. No connections. Just a tradeswoman. Different from you, of course.”

  “Of course. And quite different from my wife, Mary Ann, yes?”

  “Ahem, yes, different there, too. But Mrs. Nash holds reign in our hearts well. As do her children.”

  “Of that, she and I have no doubt. Miss Stirling did have very insightful ideas about décor, though. It’s too bad she isn’t working with me on the Pavilion project, for then she’d be passing through the halls regularly.”

  “Yes, it would be a divine happiness to listen to her righteous passion as she claps those delicate little hands together to make her points. Most unlike the braying and carping of my supposed wife.” The prince shuddered. “I’ve restricted that harpy Caroline’s movements and her access to our daughter in order to curb her foul disposition and to show her that I am her master, but still she plagues me. You’ve heard the rumors of her paramours, I presume? Disgusting for a princess of England to behave so immorally.”

  “Most distressing for you, I’m sure, to have your wife acting in a most unbecoming manner.” Nash and everyone else in London had listened to the prince’s complaints about Caroline of Brunswick for years. The couple had spent only the first twenty-four hours of their 1795 marriage together. George hated Caroline on sight for her poor hygiene, and spent their brief time together drunk. She returned the sentiment because of his obesity and unchivalrous manners, and was stoic through two nights of rough fumbling in the dark in an attempt to get an heir. They parted mutually almost immediately afterwards.

  The miraculous result of their brief, loveless union was a daughter, Charlotte, whom George kept sequestered away from her mother, in order to teach Caroline vague and incomprehensible lessons.

  But the prince was becoming diverted from the point. Nash must bring him round.

  “True enough, the princess cannot compare to the charming Miss Stirling. If only Miss Stirling had some sort of role at the Pavilion, so that I could bring her there on working visits.”

  George sat up straight. “D’you know, I have an idea. Have Mr. Crace use her as the Pavilion’s exclusive draper. Let her pick out fabrics and trims and other decorative gewgaws. I should definitely like to spend more time in Miss Stirling’s company.”

  “An excellent idea, Your Highness. I’ll take care of it straightaway.”

  And so John Nash knew he had secured himself even further in the prince’s affections. Presumably he could convince Frederick Crace of the great wisdom in bringing Miss Stirling into their merry band of players.

  His only problem would be holding the prince at an acceptable length away from Miss Stirling. Even their brief enco
unter was making the prince’s favorite architect fond of the young woman. If he wasn’t careful, he might consider her his own daughter. He hoped he wasn’t making a mistake in giving the girl too much royal exposure.

  3

  It was a pleasing gay Retreat,

  Beauty, and fashion’s ever favorite seat:

  Where splendor lays its cumbrous pomps aside,

  Content in softer, simpler paths to glide.

  —Mary Lloyd, “Brighton: A Poem,” 1809

  July 1812

  London

  Belle resigned herself to the idea that she’d accomplished nothing for all her efforts thus far, other than to acquire a shop location. And if Wesley didn’t send her any inventory, her new plans might be terminated quite soon. She’d had no word at all from home, and didn’t know if her brother had burned her letter, shared it in laughter with Clive and his friends, or in his own anger burned the letter along with the shop while standing around fanning the flames with his friends. But she was ecstatic when a long wagon piled high with her belongings rolled up in front of her lodgings.

  Surprisingly, he’d sent her goods.

  Even more unexpectedly, Wesley himself accompanied the wagon.

  His sheepish appearance nearly melted her hardened heart on the spot. Perhaps he really had been influenced by Clive and had come to his senses. After all, they were family. The only family they had was each other with both parents gone and neither one of them married.

  Belle now had no intention of ever encumbering herself with a husband if it meant he would be another Clive: an enemy clothed in a friend’s warming cloak.

  Wesley begged her forgiveness to the point that it embarrassed her. “Sister, I was a complete idiot. Just extend me some grace, and I swear to you I will never, ever again be misled by men like Clive Pryce. I can’t imagine what I was thinking to agree to do something that would destroy our livelihood and dishonor the memory of our parents.”

  But as much as she was glad to be reunited with her brother, she’d learned a hard lesson.