Lord Ponsonby! thought the King. He had heard when he had first become friendly with Elizabeth that Ponsonby had been one of her lovers. He had not paid a great deal of attention. A woman like Elizabeth would be certain to have had many lovers.

And Ponsonby was back in England and Elizabeth was suffering from constant minor ailments which prevented her from sharing the King’s company as frequently as in the past.

‘Ponsonby is a most handsome man,’ went on Madame de Lieven mischievously.

‘I have heard that opinion expressed before. Was his wife with him?’

‘No. She was not present on this occasion. So … he had more opportunity of renewing his acquaintance with old friends.’

Stupid Elizabeth, he thought. Did she think he would not hear? And if she wanted to go … let her. She was a foolish woman in any case.

‘He is a clever fellow, this Ponsonby.’

‘He is said to be.’

The King was silent for a while and then he went on: ‘Madame de Lieven, I can talk to you very confidentially.’

‘Sir, I am honoured.’

‘I have always respected your intellect, Madame de Lieven, which is a great attraction when one is surrounded by somewhat stupid people.’

‘Stupid people, Sir?’

‘A stupid woman,’ said the King in a sudden anger against Elizabeth Conyngham because his gout had started to be very painful and Elizabeth did not care and he should never have allowed Maria Fitzherbert to leave him.

‘Your Majesty cannot be referring to … Lady Conyngham?’

‘I am,’ said the King shortly.

‘But … she is Your Majesty’s very good friend. I believed … and so did others …’

‘Things are not always as they seem. I find the woman a stupid bore. She is handsome, physically attractive but mentally she is an ignoramus; she bores me with her chatter. I am tired … tired … tired …’

‘Your Majesty!’

He laid his hand over hers. She was an attractive woman. She was a woman of the world. She did not possess the fair good looks which he had always admired, but her conversation and wit would make up for her lack of beauty. Not that she was an unattractive woman by any means. There were rumours of her very romantic relationship with Prince Metternich. She was elegant and worldly.

Yes, he would be pleased to replace Lady Conyngham by her.

Madame de Lieven was alarmed. She had merely been maliciously amused by the King’s mistress who couldn’t make up her mind what to do – stay with the King and enjoy the glory or leave the King and enjoy herself. The silly empty-headed creature had been debating that for some time; but she would not do so much longer because the handsome Ponsonby, romantic figure from the past, had come forward to make up her mind for her.

Poor King! thought Madame de Lieven. But no woman in her right senses would agree to become his mistress just because Elizabeth Conyngham had decided she was bored with the job. And that it was indeed boring Madame de Lieven was well aware. He was leading the life of an invalid – bed till the afternoon, a little drive in the forest, cards. Ugh! thought Madame de Lieven.

‘I have long admired your elegance and wit,’ said the King.

‘How gracious of Your Majesty to say so.’

‘I have often thought how delighted I should be if ours were to become a closer relationship.’

‘Your Majesty does me too much honour.’ She had skilfully removed her hand. What a scene, she thought. She would embellish it a little (writer’s licence) and tell her Prince, in one of her amusing letters, all about it.

But how to extricate herself? It should not be so difficult with the King as with some men. He was so quick to catch an inflection of the voice, the meaning behind the words. He had had many adventures with women, although it would be a rare occurrence for him to be told that he was not wanted.

‘We must talk of this,’ he went on.

‘I had meant to tell Your Majesty that I may be obliged to leave Court for a few weeks.’

He had taken the hint. He had withdrawn but with the utmost ease. He would never forget his courtly manners.

‘Your Majesty will understand how exacting it is to be the wife of a diplomat.’

Of course she was not going to leave Court. She would merely keep clear of him for a few weeks. She could not openly refuse the King’s advances but at the same time she need not accept them.

The King began to talk of his building plans. They were most intricate and he was eager to see them put into practice. One day when she returned to Court he would arrange for her to see them.

His Majesty was indeed gracious, said Madame de Lieven.

When she left the King she could not wait to pick up her pen. What a story! The King was tired of Conyngham; he thought her a bore and a fool. He had sought to replace her – and by none other than the wife of the Russian ambassador!

How fascinating! And how delightful to tell it. The Prince would realize what a femme fatale he had for a friend.

That night the King felt very melancholy.

Madame de Lieven had told him quite clearly that she would not consider being his dear friend.

He pictured himself making advances to attractive women who would imply politely that they had no wish to share his life. Who would have believed it in those days when he was merely Prince of Wales and he only had to signify his desire to speak to a woman and she was ready to give all he asked.

And now he was a king. But of what importance was rank when one had lost youth.

He must not lose Elizabeth.

He sent for his foreign secretary.

George Canning was a man who had once been a supporter of Caroline, but the King had learned to trust him.

He said when he arrived: ‘I heard Ponsonby is back from Corfu.’

‘That is so, Your Majesty.’

‘A clever fellow, I believe.’

‘I have seen no evidence of it, Sir.’

‘But somewhat personable. How old is he?’

‘Oh … in his early fifties I should think.’

Younger than I, thought the King.

‘It seems to me that he has the necessary qualifications for service abroad. Good ambassadors are not easy to find.’

Canning knew, of course, of Lady Conyngham’s interest in Ponsonby. The King’s affairs were common knowledge. He was not at all sure that he approved of selecting the country’s ambassadors in order to remove them from the field of the King’s amatory adventures. But the King was sick and in need of the comfort a woman could give. Lady Conyngham was not the person best suited to minister to the King, but he had chosen her; and it was important to keep the King happy.

Canning thought: If he dies there is York, who sometimes seems even more of an invalid than the King; and then Clarence whom everyone knows is a fool – and he is not very young at that. And after him … the child Victoria, who must be just about seven years old.

No, the King must be kept happy.

‘We could use Ponsonby in South America,’ he said. ‘I will sound him.’

‘Offer him an attractive post.’

‘Your Majesty may rely on me.’

So it was arranged tactfully.

All through the year the King alternated between dangerous illness and recovery. He could on occasions appear at functions charming everyone, laughing, quipping and consuming large quantities of wine; then he would go to Brighton and shut himself away, not leaving his bedroom for several days. He would have to be wheeled from room to room and it was reported that the water was rising in him and he could not last much longer.

The Duke of York suffered from the same complaint. He too was said to be near to death on more than one occasion.

In the fashionable clubs bets were taken. Would the Duke of York ever be King of England? One day the King was said to be the ‘favourite’; the next the Duke.

William had decided to take his wife abroad again that year; and he took some of the family with him. All the old haunts were visited; they called on Adelaide’s mother, on the Queen of Würtemburg and Ida at Ghent. William found it most enjoyable and he believed that the waters at the spa of Ems were good for him.

When news reached him about the illness of the King and the Duke of York the enormity of what this could mean was brought home to him. He discussed it with Adelaide.

‘You see?’ he said. ‘I always thought that Fred would be King if George went. And there is not much difference between our ages. Two years to be precise. But if they both went …’

‘You would be King, William.’

‘King William,’ he repeated.

There was a strange look in his eyes. He was realizing that he was ambitious.

‘I’d never really faced the fact that George could die. He’s been there all my life. The first person I was aware of was George. We are great friends, Adelaide.’

‘I know of your fondness for the King.’

William nodded. ‘Oh yes, George has been a good brother to me.’

‘And still is.’

‘But he’s a sick man, you must realize. He can’t live for ever and Fred is a sick man, too … and if he goes … By God, Adelaide, I shall be King.’

It seemed strange that he should react in this way. He had always known that there was a possibility that one day he could be King. But it was coming nearer and now it seemed almost a certainty.

‘You see, Adelaide, they’re both ill. They’re both sick men. At home … they are asking which one will die first. You see, Adelaide …’

She was alarmed by the excitement in his voice; and she noticed the wild look in his eyes.

‘It could come … soon. Perhaps even now … Adelaide, perhaps even now …’