There was an uneasy tension throughout the country. Mr Pitt and his Tories did everything in their power to vilify the Prince of Wales and his brothers. It was not difficult. It was true that the Princes indulged in wild living, their gambling debts were enormous and their amours the main theme of court and town gossip. The cartoonists and lampoonists delighted in these and exaggerated and ridiculed them to public pleasure and their own good profit.

Every little indiscretion was exaggerated. Every prominent person was pilloried it was true, but the most profitable cartoons were those which libelled the royal brothers and in particular the Prince of Wales.

John Walter of The Times was known as one of the most scurrilous writers of the day. His comments on the conduct of the King’s three eldest sons were outrageous, and exaggerated beyond all endurance. They were having an effect on the public and as the Prince of Wales was the principal target and he was constantly being held up to ridicule, he was becoming increasingly unpopular. It was no new experience for him to be treated to a hostile silence in the streets but when his carriage was pelted with mud and rotten fruit it was the time to take some action.

A prosecution was brought against Walter for libelling the Duke of York; he was found guilty and sentenced to a fine of fifty pounds, an hour in the pillory at Charing Cross and a year’s imprisonment in Newgate. There was another charge to be answered – a libel this time jointly on the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York which brought a further fine of one hundred pounds and another year in Newgate. The Duke of Clarence had not escaped, for Walter demanded of his readers why it was that the son of the King was allowed to desert his ship and return home to be rewarded with a dukedom and twelve thousand pounds a year.

The heavy sentences imposed by the judges on John Walter angered the public. Mr Pitt, delighted at any circumstances which brought criticism to the Prince of Wales, declared that he was astonished that he and the Duke of York should have brought their cases against Walter; he believed that the Prince of Wales had declared himself for the freedom of the press. Was it a different matter when he himself was attacked?

Never had the unpopularity of the Prince of Wales been so great. It was incredible that this was the same man who had once delighted the people with his charming manners, his elegance and romantic adventures.

It was particularly alarming when it was considered what was happening on the other side of the Channel. The Bastille had fallen; it was said that the French Monarchy was tottering; an unpopular Prince, such a near neighbour, could not help feeling somewhat uneasy.

The only place where the people seemed to have any regard for him at all was Brighton, which had every reason to be grateful to him since he had turned the remote village of Brighthelmstone into the most fashionable town in England.

The Prince affected not to care and continued to concern himself with his tailor, his beautiful houses – Carlton House in London, the Pavilion in Brighton – with art, music and literature, gambling, horse racing, his own stables and women.

He liked the theatre and one day drove his phaeton down to Clarence Lodge to tell William about the play he had seen the evening before.

‘The Constant Couple – very amusing,’ he said. ‘Dorothy Jordan takes the Wildair part as I never saw it played before. She looks well in breeches. You should go and see her, William.’

William told his brother about the plays they had put on on board ship and what fun they had had.

‘We had a fine fat Falstaff,’ said William. ‘I think his name was Storey… That’s it, Lieutenant Storey. We had to improvise quite a bit and I remember in the bucking scene we used a hammock for the basket. The river was represented by a heap of junk and we were to topple our fat lieutenant out of the hammock and into the junk. It was a sight to be seen, I can tell you. This fat fellow sprawling there. It was the most successful moment of the play.’

The Prince said he could well believe it. He liked a good practical joke himself and had once contrived it that Sheridan was challenged to a duel by a Major Hanger and he and his fellow jokers had gone to great pains to put dud bullets in the pistols and Sheridan had fallen down and pretended to be dead. The Prince often said it was the best joke he ever remembered seeing played on anyone; and even Major Hanger had thought so too and because of it had become one of the Prince’s special cronies. So he laughed heartily at the joke William and his friends had played on his plump Falstaff.

‘We threw a lot of pitch over the junk heap,’ said William. ‘ “We must be realistic,” I said, “for if Falstaff were tipped into a muddy river he would not come out unsoiled.” Well, we tipped him into the junk heap and you should have seen him – rubbish of all sorts sticking to him and to our young two middies who played Mistress Page and Mistress Ford.’

The Prince laughed and told of his own experiences in the theatre, but he said nothing of his love affair with Mrs Perdita Robinson, because that matter had so humiliated him when she had threatened to publish his letters, and still rankled.

Perhaps he should warn William, he pondered for a while. There was something innocent about William in spite of his travels and adventures.

The Prince hesitated and the moment passed. And talking of the theatre filled William with an urge to see a play; and he decided there and then the very next night he would go along to Drury Lane.

He went and that night Dorothy Jordan was playing Little Pickle in The Spoiled Child.

Dorothy and William

Royal courtship

DOROTHY JORDAN HAD no idea on that autumn night in the year 1790 that it was going to be the most significant of her life. Strangely enough she was feeling depressed and was heartily wishing that it was one of her free nights. Nothing would have pleased her more than to stay at home with the children.

While she sat before the looking glass in the bedroom she shared with Richard her eldest daughter came in and started playing with the articles on her dressing table.

‘Fanny, dear, pray don’t touch my rouge. You will make such a mess.’

Fanny scowled. She looked remarkably like her father when she did so. She had a quick and vindictive temper and Dorothy was rather afraid she was unkind to Dodee who was only three. Fanny was eight. Was it only nine years since that dreadful time when she had been the slave of that odious man? It seemed longer. But then so much had happened. An obscure actress had become a famous one and the mother of three little girls as well.

She thought of darling Lucy just over a year old and wished once more that she might have a quiet evening at home instead of facing an audience.

Fanny was dabbing rouge on to her cheeks and Dorothy looked at her daughter and burst out laughing. ‘You don’t need it, my precious.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’re young and pink enough without it.’

‘Why aren’t you?’

‘Because I am not so young and not so pink.’ She bent over, took the pot from the child and kissed her. She always felt she had to be especially gentle with Daly’s daughter.

‘Mamma, what are you playing tonight?’

‘Henry Wildair.’

‘Is that a breeches part?’

‘Oh, Fanny, where do you hear such talk!’

‘From all the people who come here. Shall I go on the stage? I want to go on the stage. Would I be a good actress?’

‘I should think it likely. You have the theatre in your blood.’

‘Have I? Has Dodee?’

‘You are both my little girls,’ said Dorothy quickly. But it was more likely she thought that the daughter of Richard Daly should become an actress than Richard Ford’s.

And neither of them legitimate! she thought, with sudden bitterness. Since her mother’s death she had often considered her position. It was humiliating, for although most people accepted her as Richard’s wife it was widely known that she was not.

And for what reason? Why did Richard live with her openly and yet shy away from marriage every time she broached the subject? What could the reason be except that he did not consider her worthy to be his wife? And yet he was not averse to using her money. He had pleaded his father’s wrath as an excuse. He had said that he would be disinherited. He might as well have been for all he got from his father; he was not too proud, though, to live on her salary!

For she was rich – or she would have been if there had not been so many calls on her purse.

Her sister Hester came in carrying Lucy, with Dodee clinging to her skirt. Dodee flung herself at Dorothy.

‘Mamma is going to read to us.’

‘Not tonight, my darling, Mamma has to go to the theatre.’

‘Naughty old theatre,’ said Dodee.

‘Don’t be silly, Dodee,’ said Fanny. ‘It’s a good old theatre.’

‘It isn’t. It isn’t. It takes my Mamma.’

‘And gives her lots of money for us.’

Dorothy laughed. ‘You think that’s a good exchange, Fanny?’

‘Well, of course it is,’ retorted Fanny. ‘It gives us plenty of money so that Papa can have a new velvet coat and we can have sweetmeats – one after our dinner every day.’

‘So now you see, Dodee,’ said Dorothy.

‘I don’t want the theatre to have my Mamma,’ said Dodee, her lips beginning to quiver.

‘Don’t be a cry-baby, Dods,’ said Hester briskly. ‘I’ll sing you a song while you’re having your supper.’