It was fun riding through the streets. What a lot of people there were about!

‘God bless the good Princess Charlotte.’

Good? Well, perhaps that was a bit too much. But it was pleasant, particularly as, when the Regent’s magnificent carriage drove by, they were silent. She had heard that when he left his coach outside the Hertfords’ house it had been pelted with mud and rotten eggs. Who was he to tell her how to live when he lived so scandalously himself? All the same he was the most exciting man in the world and if only he would let her into his confidence just a little, if only he would let her see that he was a loving father …

But how her thoughts ran on!

‘God bless Charlotte. Our queen to be. And may it not be long.’

How shocking, and yet in a way pleasant because it would show him that if he did not appreciate his daughter they did.

Here they were at Carlton House, through the vestibule, to marvel at what Horace Walpole had called ‘its august simplicity’ and into the music room with the lovely view of the garden’s winding paths.

The Prince Regent was in a rage. First the accident had upset him and then his reception by the crowds. He had been fully aware of the disloyal looks directed at him and the cheers whch had come his daughter’s way.

He took off that wonderful cocked hat and threw it on to a chair. The poor Old Girls looked terrified. Charlotte was expectant.

‘That farce is over, thank God. I should be glad to retire to the country and have done with these boring ceremonies. I am plagued on all sides.’ He looked at Charlotte and the tears came into his eyes. She had a mad impulse to throw herself into his arms and cry: ‘Papa, don’t let us be a plague to each other. Let us love each other. It is what I’ve always wanted.’ But how could she do such a thing? He would think she had inherited poor Grandpapa’s madness and despise her more than ever. He strode past her. ‘And you …’ he turned back to glare at Charlotte, ‘aggravate me. I know of course who encourages you in this. Do not think I do not understand. Of course I know. It is that woman … your mother. Ever since I married her there has been trouble. It was the greatest mistake of my life. That woman … that loathsome woman …’

Poor Aunt Mary shivered and Aunt Augusta uttered a little cry of protest but he dismissed them with a look. He was weary of pretence. He was going to let this wayward daughter of his know what a mother she had, that the source of all his troubles came from her.

He seemed to lose all control. ‘She is vulgar; she is immoral. Let us not pretend. We know the kind of life she leads. We know she keeps that gross creature with her … and why. She says he is the son of some low woman … but that is not so. He is her son and the father is Smith, Manby, Lawrence … what does it matter which?’

Charlotte said in a high excited voice: ‘It was proved this was not so.’

He turned on her in anger. ‘Indeed it was not. It was simply not proved that it was so … which is a very different matter. By God, one day I’ll have the proof I need and when I have it I’ll be rid of her.’

Charlotte felt that irresistible urge to protect her mother. It was always so. When in the presence of one she always felt she owed her allegiance to the other. ‘She is my mother …’ she began.

But he would not let her speak. He cried: ‘You shall see all the papers. You will have no doubt then. Have you ever heard of the Delicate Investigation?’

‘Y … yes, I’ve heard of it.’

‘And very indelicate were the facts revealed. If you feel you must speak for her there is only one thing to be done. You must read the papers. And you shall. You shall know what sort of woman you have for a mother. No doubt we know only half the truth but what we do know is reason for divorce and if it were not for my accursed enemies …’

Tears of self-pity filled his eyes; the Old Girls stood by shocked, unable to speak. In front of Charlotte! Mary was thinking; but Charlotte herself put an end to the scene. All ceremony forgotten, she ran from the room. She imperiously summoned Lady de Clifford and demanded that she be taken to Warwick House without delay.

She heard the Prince’s ejaculation as she ran: ‘By God, she grows more like her mother every day.’

Back at Warwick House she started to shiver. Lady de Clifford was flustered. She must be put to bed. The doctors must be sent for. What was this mysterious ‘attack’?

Charlotte lay thinking of them both – hating each other, producing her. They had hated each other even then. She had been born simply because there was a need – in his opinion a revolting need – to produce an heir.

And I am that, she thought.

And then: I hate him. He is cruel. I must help her because he is going to try and rid himself of her.

She believed in that moment that it was to her mother that she owed her allegiance; and today it had become clear to her that she could not be the friend of both of them.

In Carlton House the Prince had grown a little calmer.

He said: ‘Charlotte’s manners are disgraceful. What is Lady de Clifford thinking of? She is no use at all. As for Charlotte, she is no longer so young. It is time I found a husband for her.’

The Prince paced up and down his bedroom in Carlton House. There was no doubt that he would be happier in his mind if Charlotte were married. That would be one burden less. Let a husband be responsible for the girl. And if it were a husband who could take her out of England, so much the better. He’d have his brothers’ support for such a plan. They often hinted that it was a sorry state of affairs when England’s heir was a girl and the daughter of such a mother. If he could rid himself of her and marry and produce a son what a happy solution that would be! But his brothers would doubtless like to see him tied to that woman and Charlotte out of the way and one of them take the crown. Fred had no children and never would have. And the others – there was not one of them who was respectably married. They had never attempted to make suitable marriages; that burden had fallen on him. Suitable! My God! he thought.

But he had been over that many times.

The outlook was a little brighter than usual. Napoleon was bitterly engaged in his campaign against Russia and from the accounts that were coming in all was not going well for him. Wellington was scoring successes in Spain. If things were as bad as rumour declared this could well be the beginning of the end for Napoleon. The Regent regretted as he had so many times that he was not able to prove himself a military hero. Reflected glory was the next best thing and he was proud of Wellington, as he had been of Nelson.

Now what he must do was to find a husband for Charlotte and he believed he knew the ideal suitor. He had hinted to the Dutch Stadholder William VI that a match between the Stadholder’s son William, Hereditary Prince of Orange, and his own daughter Charlotte might be desirable.

The Dutch were all in favour and a Protestant match would be bound to have the approval of the English. Young William had distinguished himself on the field, had been educated at Oxford – for the possibility of such a match was not a new one – and he was in all ways ideally suited.

Not least of his attractions in the mind of the Regent was the fact that if she married him Charlotte would be expected to reside in Holland.

And that, thought the Regent, would be one of them out of the way. Caroline might even wish to live in Holland to be near her daughter; and if she were away from England, heaven alone knew what indiscretions she might be capable of.

It was an excellent scheme; and the brothers would be in favour for they would feel that once the Princess was settled out of the country it might follow that the crown would pass to the King’s other sons should by some unfortunate accident the Regent be no more.

The Regent did not see why some proposals should not be put to the Stadholder.

The Queen was not insensible to the fact of Charlotte’s growing maturity.

‘There are faults in her household,’ she said to her daughter Mary. ‘That woman de Clifford seems to me a poor helpless creature.’

‘There is no doubt of it, Mamma,’ replied Mary. ‘She hates Windsor and is always complaining of the cold. She says that her rheumatism grows worse every time she is there.’

‘I am sure,’ said the Queen, ‘that she is responsible for Charlotte’s dislike of the place. She has taught her to dislike it. Most reprehensible.’

‘Indeed, yes, Mamma. I have even heard rumours that she is so lax as to allow Charlotte all kinds of undesirable liberties.’

‘And with such a mother one must be very careful of the girl. What undesirable liberties, pray?’

‘Well, Mamma, I hesitate to mention it, but Charlotte is inclined to flirt.’

The Queen looked intensely shocked.

‘Yes, Mamma. I have even seen her myself. With people like George Fitzclarence and young Captain Hesse.’

‘Both the results of indiscretions themselves! Oh dear, I cannot understand why your brothers behave as they do.’

‘And with William …’ Mary flushed a little. ‘With the Duke of Gloucester.’

‘Oh!’ The Queen spoke sharply. She knew of Mary’s penchant for her cousin. There was some suggestion that they wanted to marry. Ridiculous! thought the Queen. As for Mary she was decidedly piqued. Charlotte was a flirt and she behaved towards many in a manner which Mary could only call arch. Her uncles for instance – so perhaps that was why she behaved in that manner to William. But it had wounded her because of that very special understanding and the fact that they hoped to be allowed to marry one day. And to see that young girl – scarcely out of the nursery – attempting to flirt with William, was well … it had shaken her; and for that reason, perhaps, she was now speaking of her in this way to the Queen.