‘Come on! To Venice then!’ cried George William.

‘There to forget the future while we revel in the present.’

‘Yes, we’ll revel, for I have a notion, brother, that if I am married to that woman nothing will ever be the same again.’

It was not even the same in Venice.

Signora Buccolini surveyed him with suspicion, as he did her. He believed she had been taking lovers during his absence.

He was changed, she told him. He was remote. His thoughts were elsewhere.

‘You are in love with someone,’ she accused him.

‘No,’ he cried. ‘I’m not. I wish to God I were.’

Such a cryptic remark did not ease matters; there was an attempt to recapture the old passion, but it would not come, and the bedchamber of the beautiful Signora seemed to be haunted by the Princess Sophia.

He could not stop thinking of her. She came between him and his passion. How could I ever make love to her? he asked himself. Other princes did in such marriages. But he was different. He was at heart a romantic; he was a man of taste and elegance.

Oh, God, he thought, I could never make love to that woman!

Marriage! The thought of it haunted him.

‘I would do anything … anything,’ he told Ernest Augustus, ‘to escape it.’

Little Lucas, his son, was his only consolation during those days. The boy was growing up – proud and handsome; he asked questions about his father’s – country. George William guessed that his mother had been talking to him too freely – perhaps putting the questions into the child’s mouth.

All the magic had gone from Venice. The flower-decked gondolas seemed tawdry, and the canals smelt unpleasantly. Even the women had lost their mystery; they were very little different from the German women. And he suspected his mistress was unfaithful to him.

In any case he was no longer in love with her. He had returned hoping to start again where he had left off. It was a mistake.

He awoke one early morning to find his mistress missing; he was waiting for her when she crept in before daybreak.

‘So,’ he said, ‘what I suspected is true.’

‘And why should you think I should remain faithful to you? Have you been faithful to me?’

He said: ‘I did not ask for fidelity while I was away. But now I am here you prefer another man.’

‘Oh, you and your fine stories of your rank and greatness in Germany! Germany! What of Germany? And where is the money you promised me for your son?’

‘Our son will be cared for, never fear.’

‘So far he has had to rely on his mother rather than his father … albeit she is a woman of no standing and he is a Prince. Who is going to keep him when you go back to your Germany? Tell me that. Oh, I’ve heard rumours. There’s going to be a marriage. I know. And then we shall not see our precious Duke again in Venice. He will be living cosily with his lawful wife in his German castle and I shall be forgotten, and Lucas with me.’

‘It is true that I have to go back home, but I’ll leave a settlement for you.’

‘And the boy?’

‘I’ll take him back with me.’

He had spoken without thought. How could he take the boy back to his new wife and say: ‘This is my son!’ He was becoming impetuous. He spoke without thought. This was what came of being forced into marriage.

‘Go as soon as you like,’ she snapped. ‘Or as soon as you’ve made your settlement. And take the boy with you. You owe it to him.’

He was astonished. He had expected a passionate quarrel and the even more passionate reconciliation; but there was no doubt of it: she had her new lover and she wanted to be rid of the child. It was a sign that their relationship was at an end.

I am betrothed to a woman who does not attract me, thought George William, and I must go back to Celle with my little Venetian bastard.

Rarely had he felt so depressed.

He returned to bed and lay thinking. There was a way out of his predicament.

When he rose from his bed that morning he knew himself for a desperate man, and he was going to take desperate action.

He dressed carefully, and went out into the sunshine. He stepped across the terrace and down to the water’s edge, signing to his boatman.

Along the odorous waters of the canal, through the disenchanted city to the establishment of his brother, Ernest Augustus.

Sleepily satisfied. Ernest Augustus lay in the sun on the terrace of his palazzo but he started up when he saw his brother, realizing from his expression the seriousness of his mood.

‘Where can I talk to you in private?’ demanded George William.

‘Here. Why, brother, what has happened?’

‘We might be disturbed here. We might be overheard. This is of the utmost secrecy.’

Ernest Augustus led the way into a room; after locking the door, he drew the blinds, shutting out the bright sunlight.

‘I cannot go on with the marriage,’ declared George William.

Ernest Augustus shook his head sadly.

‘I know you think you have heard this before. But you have not. I have made up my mind. I will not marry Sophia. In fact I won’t marry at all.’

‘You must. There’s no way out of it.’

‘There is. That’s what I want to talk to you about. You shall marry Sophia in my place.’

‘I!’

‘Pray don’t stand there looking stupid. I said you shall marry her – if you will. And why should you not? As long as one of us marries, as long as one of us produces the heir … what does it matter?’

‘But you are betrothed to Sophia.’

‘I think I must have had this in mind even then, because I insisted the betrothal should not be made public knowledge just yet. Listen to me, brother. You shall take my place at the wedding.’

‘I could not afford to marry.’

‘You could if I made over certain estates and money to you.’

‘And you would do this?’

‘Ernest Augustus, if you would but take this woman off my hands I will do much for you. Brother, for my sake … do this.’

Ernest Augustus was thoughtful. Take his brother’s place. Step up from the youngest brother to the head of his house – for that was what he would be if he produced the son who would inherit the family estates. Christian Lewis had a sterile wife; George William would not marry; John Frederick would not be allowed to, either … and he, Ernest Augustus would have the honour of fathering the heir of Brunswick-Lüneberg.

But suppose at some time George William did marry?

He shook his head, but George William had seized him and was shaking him gently to and fro.

‘You must save me from this woman.’

‘There are too many complications.’

‘Nonsense! What complications?’

‘I’m the youngest.’

‘Our father was the sixth of seven sons and yet he became head of our house.’

‘That was agreed on by all his brothers when they drew lots.’

‘It shall be agreed on between us all … in just the same way.’

‘Would you swear never to marry?’

‘I would swear it.’

‘John Frederick would have to swear the same.’

‘He shall swear it.’

‘And Christian Lewis would have to agree.’

‘My dear brother, have no fear. This shall be done in such a way as shall give you no qualms … no fears of the future. Marry this woman and you shall have the means to settle yourself and start a family. You shall be the head of our house, I promise you.’

‘In that case,’ said Ernest Augustus, ‘it will be necessary for us to return to Celle without delay. There we will draw up the documents, for much as I trust you, brother, this is a matter which must be signed and sealed, and our brothers must be present at the signing-sealing ceremony.’

George William clapped his brother on the back. ‘You are become a man of affairs already.’ Then he embraced him. ‘How can I thank you! It is as though a great burden has fallen from my shoulders.’

In a few days’ time the brothers left Venice and travelled northwards, little Lucas Buccolini going with them. George William was planning to put him with foster parents; his education and future would be well looked after; his name would be changed – perhaps to Buccow – because it would be a handicap to the boy to go through life with an Italian name. He should have a place in his household, but that was for later. At the moment George William must give his mind to settling this little matter; and once Ernest Augustus was married, he, George William, would go off on his travels again. It would be different though. He would miss Ernest Augustus; and he would not want to return to Venice. Yes, everything would be a little different, for Ernest Augustus had already changed. He carried his head a little higher; he gave orders to his servants in a more peremptory manner; he had acquired a new dignity even before he took on his bride and his new estates.

Christian Lewis was thoughtful.

‘I see no harm in it,’ he said. ‘Ernest Augustus is willing to take over your responsibilities and if you will agree to his terms then, for the love of our house, let us get the terms settled without delay. We are no longer children and this marriage should take place as soon as it can be arranged.’

‘I will prepare my statement at once,’ said George William.

‘There is one point that you have not considered,’ added Christian Lewis. ‘What of the lady? How will she take the change?’

George William agreed this was a matter which would need delicate handling. ‘A pity,’ he said, ‘that we did not come to this arrangement before I made the proposal. Never mind. It’s not a man she wants but marriage. You must admit that our young brother is a fine figure of a man.’