His lordship had a natural taste for festivities, and during his late spell of office as Ambassador to King Louis, had acquired the habit of planning his own parties on a lavish scale. His first in Brussels was a brilliant affair, comprising a dinner at the Hotel de Belle Vue to his more important guests, including the King and Queen of the Netherlands, followed by a concert, ball, and supper at the Salle du Grand Concert, in the Rue Ducale.

It quite eclipsed the Court party, held some days previously. Everything went off without the smallest hitch; the Catalani was in her best voice; the Duke was the most affable of hosts; his staff seconded him ably: and the Salle was so crowded with distinguished persons that it became at times quite difficult to move about.

The invitation list was indeed enormous, and had cost the staff many a headache, for besides the English in Brussels all the Belgian and Dutch notables had received elegant, cream-laid, gilt-edged cards requesting the honour of their presence. Nearly all of them had accepted, too: the Duc d'Ursel, with his big nose and tiny chin; cheerful little Baron Hoogvorst, and Madame; competent M. van der Capellan, the Secretary of State; the Duc and Duchesse de Beaufort, and Mademoiselle; bevies of Counts and Countesses and Dowager Countesses, all with their blushing daughters and hopeful sons; and of course the Royals: King William, and his lethargic spouse, with their splendid young son, Frederick, and an extensive suite. The Prince of Orange was present as well, but could hardly be included in the Royal party, since he arrived separately, was dressed in the uniform of the Prince of Wales's Own, talked nothing but English, and consorted almost exclusively with his English friends and fellow-generals. He had quite forgotten his huff at being superseded in the command of the Army. He was going to be given the 1st Corps, Lord Hill having the 2nd; and his dread mentor was treating him with so much confidence that he had nothing left to wish for. "For ever your most truly devoted and affectionate William, Prince of Orange," was how the Prince subscribed himself exuberantly in his letters to the Duke. All he ever received in return was "Believe me, & etc., Wellington." His lordship was never fulsome. "Je supplie Votre Altesse d'agreer en bonze les sentiments respectueux avec lesquels j'ai l'honneur d'etre, Vlonseigneur, de Votre Altesse le tres humble et tres obeissant serviteur," would write some Prussian general painstakingly. "Write him that I am very much obliged to him," scrawled the Duke at the foot of such despatches.

But the Prince of Orange was too well acquainted with his lordship to be cast down by his chilly letters. In fact, the Prince was in high fettle. His personal staff was composed of just the men he liked best: all English, and including his dear friend the Earl of March. He was very happy, sparkling with gaiety, looking absurdly young, and just a little conscious of the dizzy military heights to which he had risen. Sometimes he felt intoxicatingly important, and was a trifle imperious with the generals under his command; but when he found himself in Lord Hill's presence, and looked into that kindly face, with its twinkling eyes and fatherly smile, his importance fell away from him, and he was all eager deference, just as he was with the Duke, or with the veteran Count Alten of the German Legion, whose bright, stern gaze could always disconcert him. Sir Charles Count von Alten was under the Prince, in command of the 3rd Division, which was formed of one British brigade, under Sir Colin Halkett; one brigade of the German Legion, under Baron Ompteda; and one Hanoverian brigade, under Count Kielmansegg. Count Alten was fifty-one years of age, seasoned in war, and rather grim-faced. He was an extremely competent general - so competent that even the men of the Light Division had approved of him when he had commanded them - and a somewhat alarming person for a young gentleman only twenty-four years old to have under him. He was very polite to the Prince, and they got on really very well together, but his Royal Highness was glad that the rest of the 1st Corps, with the exception of the Guards, was composed of Dutch-Belgian troops under two generals who, though experienced soldiers, naturally had a respect for their Hereditary Prince which the English and the Germans could not be expected to share. His bete noire, and late second-in-command, Sir Henry Clinton, was commanding a division in Hill's corps; and that much more alarming person even than Count Alten, Sir Thomas Picton, was destined for the Reserve.

Sir Thomas was not expected to arrive in the Netherlands for quite some time, but it was certain that he was coming sooner or later, for the Duke, although he did not much care for him in a personal way, had made a point of asking for him.

The latest important arrival was Lord Uxbridge. A General Order instructing brigade commanders of cavalry to report in future to him had been issued from the adjutant-general's printing office on the day of the Duke's ball. He was to have command of all the British and German cavalry, and was reputed to be a very dashing leader.

He had arrived in the Netherlands in time to attend the Duke's party, and was present at the preceding dinner. When he appeared in the Salle du Concert he attracted a great deal of attention, for the men were anxious to see what sort of a fellow he was, and the ladies could hardly drag their eyes from his resplendent person.

The Peninsula Army had been accustomed to Stapleton Cotton, now Lord Combermere, but the Earl of Uxbridge was the better cavalry general. He had served with distinction under Sir John Moore, but two circumstances had prevented his being employed under Wellington. He had been senior to the Duke, and had further complicated the situation by absconding with the wife of Wellington's brother Henry. This unfortunate affair put the Pagets and the Wellesleys on the worst of bad terms. Henry had been obliged to divorce Lady Charlotte, and any scheme of sending Lord Uxbridge out to Spain had naturally been felt to have been out of the question. Five years later, in 1815, it was understood thing that Combermere would again command the Cavalry: the Army wanted him, and was certain that the Duke had applied for him. But to everyone's surprise the Horse Guards sent Uxbridge instead. It was said they had done so at the instigation of that meddlesome person, the Prince Regent, and was generally felt that the appointment would not only cause grave scandal in England but must also offend the Duke. But the Duke, like the Regent, was not remarkable for holding the marriage tie in any peculiar degree of sanctity, and upon a friend's saying to him that Lord Uxbridge's appointment would give rise to much scandal, replied, with one of his high-noses' stares: "Why?"

A little disconcerted, his well-meaning friend stammered: "Well, but - but your Grace cannot have forgotten the affair of Lady Charlotte!"

"No! I haven't forgotten that."

"Oh! Well - well, that's not all, you know. They say Uxbridge runs away with everyone he can."

"I'll take damned good care he don't run away with me!" replied the Duke caustically. "I don't care about anyone else."

The Army, like the Duke, did not care a button for Lord Uxbridge's amatory adventures: it merely wanted a good cavalry leader. Lord Uxbridge was said to be a veritable Murat: it remained to be seen whether this was true. He was also said to be very haughty. He did not seem so, at first glance: his manners were most polished, his smile ready, and his handshake freely given. His mouth had, indeed, a slightly disdainful curve, and his brilliant dark eyes were rather heavy-lidded, which made them look a little contemptuous, but he showed no signs of snubbing junior officers (which rumour accused him of doing frequently), and seemed, without being over-conciliatory, or in any way affected, to be bent on getting on good terms with his people.

Like the Prince of Orange, he wore full-dress hussar uniform, but with what a difference! No amount of silver lace, swinging tassels, rich fur, or shining buttons could invest the Prince's meagre form with dignity. In that most splendid of uniforms he looked over-dressed, and rather ridiculous. But Lord Uxbridge, tall and most beautifully proportioned, carried it off to perfection. He was forty-seven years old, but looked younger, and was obviously something of a dandy. His white net pantaloons showed not a single crease; over a jacket sitting tightly to the body and almost obscured by the frogs that adorned it, he wore a furred and braided pelisse, caught round his neck with tasselled cords and flung back to hang negligently over his left shoulder. Under the stiff, silver-encrusted collar of his jacket, a black cravat was knotted, with the points of his shirt collar just protruding above it. Several glittering orders, very neat side-whiskers, and fashionably arranged hair completed his appearance. He had not brought his lady out from England, but whether he had left her behind out of tact or from the circumstance of her being in theexpectation of a Happy Event was a matter for conjecture. Two of his aides-de-camp were with him: Major Thornhill, of his own regiment, the 7th Hussars; and Captain Seymour, supposed to be the strongest man in the British Army. He was certainly the largest: he topped even the Life Guardsmen, and had such a gigantic frame that he was a butt to his friends and an object of considerable respect to everyone else.

As usual, the military predominated at the ball. Lord Hill was present, with all three of his brothers; General Maitland and Byng; old Sir John Vandeleur, very bluff and affable; General Adam; Sir Henry Clinton, with Lady Susan on his arm; General Colville, who had come all the way from Oudenarde to attend the function; Sir Hussey Vivian, with his shattered hand in a sling, but still perfectly capable of leading his hussar brigade in any charge; Sir William Ponsonby, newly arrived from England with the Union Brigade of Heavy Dragoons; handsome Colonel Sir Frederick Ponsonby, of another branch of the family, with his sister, Lady Caroline Lamb; both the gallant Halketts, Sir Colin and his brother Hew; the adjutant-general, sharp-faced and fiery-spirited; Colonel Arendtschildt, talking to everyone in his incorrigibly bad English; General Perponcher; and genial Baron Chasse, whom the French, under whom he had served, called Captain Bayonette; Baron Constant de Rebecque, a favourite with the Peninsular officers; Count Bylandt, from Nivelles; and a cluster of Dutch and Belgian cavalry leaders: Baron Ghigny, a little assertive; Baron van Merlen, a little melancholy; General Trip, a heavy man, like his own carabiniers.