And as if that were not enough, Cumberland had tired of Lady Grosvenor by the time the scandal broke and was having an intrigue with the wife of a timber merchant – a very wealthy one it was true and fortunately for the royal purse, the timber merchant was too flattered by the royal Duke’s attentions to his wife to make trouble; but no sooner had that affair been freely discussed in the coffee and chocolate houses than Cumberland had a new love and this had turned out to be the most serious matter of all, for Mrs Anne Horton, who was the daughter of Lord Irnham, was intent on marriage, and as she had according to that gossip, Horace Walpole, ‘the most amorous eyes in the world and eyelashes a yard long’, Cumberland was fool enough to marry her.

This had caused the King so much anxiety that he had done what his mother had urged him to do before her death; he had set about bringing into force the Royal Marriage Act which forbade members of the royal family to marry without the King’s consent. Too late for Cumberland … and for Gloucester it seemed, for no sooner was the Marriage Act passed than Gloucester came forward to announce that for some years he had been secretly married to Lord Waldegrave’s widow – a mésalliance if ever there was one, for the lady was not only the illegitimate daughter of Sir Edward Walpole but her mother was said to have been a milliner!

‘Banish them from Court!’ George had cried. And Charlotte had declared that she would receive no daughters of milliners. So there was an unsatisfactory state of affairs with his brothers; and since his sons were so wild, the King did wonder what trouble would come through them.

Worry, worry, worry! thought the King, whichever way one turned. Oh, if only life were just living at Kew with Charlotte and the little ones, what a happy man he would be! Well perhaps not happy; he would always think of women like Hannah and Sarah and Elizabeth Pembroke with longing, but while he remained a faithful husband and lived according to his code of honour he could be serene.

The Queen was not listening to Mr Handel’s excellent music; she was thinking how handsome her eldest son was looking in his frogged coat and hoping the King would not notice how elegant he was and question the price of his garments. Charlotte was alarmed when she saw the lights of resentment against his father flare up in her son’s eyes. She had to face the fact that the relationship between them was scarcely harmonious. She had adored the Prince of Wales from the first time she had first held him in her arms – ‘A perfect specimen of a Royal Highness, your Majesty …’ Oh yes, indeed. He had bawled lustily, this wonder infant, and his health had always been of the best – except of course for the customary childish ailments. At the age of four it was true he had given her a great scare by contracting the smallpox. But he was such a healthy little rascal, he had even shrugged that aside. She liked to tell her attendants how when he was kept in bed someone asked if he were not tired of lying abed so long and he had replied: ‘Not at all. I lie and make reflections.’ The brilliance of the child! There was no doubt that he was a genius. He was clever at his lessons. He spoke and wrote several languages, French, German and Italian, fluently; he was familiar with Horace and delighted in Tacitus. He learned with ease and had a command of English which astounded his mother and dumbfounded his father on those occasions, which were becoming more frequent, when they were involved in verbal battles. The Queen was a little anxious about this beloved son and his relationship with his father. Oh dear, she sighed, I hope they are not going to follow the family custom and yet another Prince of Wales is going to quarrel with the King. Not George, she assured herself, not her handsome son George.

She often looked at the wax image on her dressing table and thought of him as a baby. He was no longer that. She sighed, wishing that he would visit her more often and now and then ask her advice.

What would she advise him on? On the sort of shoe buckle he should wear? He was mightily interested in shoe buckles. Or on the colour of his coat? Or about those matters which her woman Schwellenburg was always hinting at – his amours. ‘De Prince very much interests selfs in mädchens …’ declared Schwellenburg in her execrable English. ‘Nonsense, Schwellenburg, he is a natural gentleman.’

Was he too interested in young women? No, of course not. She refused to believe it. She refused to believe anything against George; and though she deplored the passing of his childhood when she had had some control over him, she was glad in a way that he was too old for whippings, for she had suffered to think of that delicate flesh being slashed with a cane.

Oh, George, come and speak to your mother, she implored silently. Not just as a duty. Not to bow, kiss the hand, murmur a few meaningless words and be off as quickly as you can. Not that, George, speak as a son to a mother.

She thought of the next child she would bear; but such happenings were commonplace with her. The thirteenth!

A boy or a girl? she wondered. What did it matter now? She already had seven boys and five girls. No one could say she had not given the country heirs. But she had not felt so well with this pregnancy. Perhaps it was time to give up child-bearing. The King would never agree to that, she was sure, and yet what had she been doing in the nineteen years since she came to England? Bearing children, was the answer. Thirteen of them. Oh, yes, the time had certainly come to call a halt. Not that she could bear to part with any of them. But with fine strong boys like George, Frederick and William at the head of the family – surely they had enough.

The Prince of Wales was pensive tonight. Was he wrapped up in the music? Frederick was beside him. They were inseparable those two and it was pleasant to see two brothers such friends. They seemed now as though they were sharing some secret. They were both watching one of the maids of honour who was in attendance. The Queen heard an echo of Schwellenburg’s voice: ‘De Prince very much interests self in mädchens.’ Oh, no, thought the Queen. George is a boy yet. He has always been taught such restraint.

George did not hear Mr Handel’s music, though he shared the family fondness for it. He was thinking: She is exquisite. So dainty. Such little hands and feet. He pictured her delight when he made known to her the fact that he was in love with her. He had discovered her name. It was Harriot Vernon. Harriot, Harriot, he murmured.

Fred nudged him gently with his foot because he had spoken her name aloud.

The music had stopped. The King led the applause and, under cover of it, George threw a glance at the young maid of honour which made her lower her eyes and smile. It was enough for the ardent Prince. His invitation was accepted. They must meet. Where?

‘You are watched,’ whispered Frederick.

‘Always, brother,’ sighed the Prince.

He turned to his equerry and friend, Lord Maiden, heir to the Earl of Essex.

‘I wish you to take a message to a lady,’ he murmured.

‘At Your Highness’s service.’

‘Come to my apartments,’ said the Prince. ‘I will give you all instructions there.’

Frederick listened with admiration. This time George was about to involve himself in a real love affair.


* * *

‘And how?’ asked Frederick, ‘can you possibly meet Harriot Vernon? You would be noticed. And you know we are forbidden even to speak to the maids of honour.’

George laughed.

‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘I already have an assignation with the lady.’

‘Can that be true, George?’

‘Indeed yes. Maiden has taken a message for her from me and brought one back from her. We are going to meet in the gardens tonight.’

‘Where?’

‘Why do you wish to know, brother?’

‘Because I fear you will be seen.’

‘Not us. We shall meet in the most secluded spot … not far from the river. You know where I mean. We were saying only the other day few ever go there and you remember I remarked it would be a good spot for a lovers’ meeting.’

‘You think she will come?’

George drew himself up to his full height and looked most princely. ‘I know she will come, Frederick. I have her promise.’

‘And when she does …?’

George threw a kiss to his reflection in the mirror.

‘She can no more wait with patience for the encounter than I can.’

‘So tonight … at sunset …’

‘Tonight at sunset,’ echoed the Prince of Wales.


* * *

Mr Papendiek was playing the flute in the Queen’s drawing room at the request of the King. Not all the family were present. The Prince of Wales for one was absent. Frederick, seated next to his brother William, was thinking of George sneaking out to that remote spot in the gardens not far from the river. He was going to wear a greatcoat of Maiden’s to disguise himself and there he would await the coming of Harriot Vernon and then … Frederick’s eyes glistened. He hoped that all would go well and George would not be discovered. He wondered what would happen if he were. He looked at his father caught up in the music, and the Queen sitting placidly by. The child’s entry into the world could not long be delayed. It has been going on like this for years, thought Frederick; the family assembled here listening to the King’s favourite pieces of music; the only difference being that there was a new addition to the family. A new child to sit on the footstool at the Queen’s feet while the child who had just vacated it would sit upright on a chair and try not to fidget. So dull! thought Frederick. No change at all.