Читать книгу Succession - Douglas Schofield - Страница 4

In a thunder of hooves and flying gravel, a chaise carriage raced through the deepening night. The driver, riding postillion astride the lead horse, thrashed the animal’s flanks, urging more speed.

Behind him, on the prow of the speeding carriage, a mahogany window blind dropped. A man’s bewigged head appeared. The pale face below the wig was middle-aged, its thin features sharp as chert.

John Stuart, the Third Earl of Bute, scanned the blackness ahead. His bloodless lips were pursed with anger… but his sweating forehead and staring eyes betrayed fear.

A milestone slid past, gleaming in the moonlight. It bore a black-painted number: 12.

Reluctantly, he settled back onto his seat. He plucked a lace handkerchief from the sleeve of his silk coat. He dabbed his brow. His normally crisp and devious mind was in a chaotic tumble.

One dread thought kept surfacing:

The King will have me hanged.

The carriage tore through the night.

An hour passed.

Flickering lights appeared on the road ahead.

The carriage slowed. It swung through an imposing stonework gateway. On both sides, inlaid terracotta medallions displayed an identical legend:

Marble Hill House

The carriage swept up a graveled drive, its verges marked by flaming torches. It swayed to a stop before an imposing Palladian villa. The horses pawed and snorted, the foam at their mouths flecked with blood. The driver leapt to the ground. He scurried to open the carriage.

Too late…

Bute erupted from the mud-spattered conveyance, straightened his coat and strode across the flagged porch.

The huge front door swung inward. A manservant appeared, lantern aloft. His eyes widened at the sight of the great man moving toward him with awful purpose.

“My Lord!”

“The Prince, man! Where is he?”

“In the ballroom, My Lord! If you’ll kindly follow–!”

Bute shouldered past him.

The ballroom was a flickering, candle-lit fantasy.

Courtiers congregated near an immense table laden with food and drink. Bewigged gentlemen in embroidered frock coats and knee-length breeches sported rented swords that most had no earthly idea how to use. Women wearing mantua dresses, heavy with silver weave and whalebone hoops, flirted with the men and passed coded messages to each other with their flicking fans. Musicians played. A low hum of conversation floated through the room, punctuated by tinkling female laughter and the occasional baritone guffaw.

One young couple was the obvious centre of attention. The male, barely out of his teens, had a soft face, girlish mouth and oddly protruding eyes. He was richly clad in emerald brocade. At his side stood a gorgeous young woman. She appeared to be a few years older than her companion. She had arresting liquid eyes and, unlike most of the women around her, a flawless complexion.

She was wearing a stunning wedding gown.

Several paces away, two men stood apart, conversing quietly. One was attired in the utilitarian choir habit of an Anglican minister. The other, tall and thin, cut an austere figure in the conservative dress favored by men who were well accustomed to the exercise of power.

The clergyman’s name was James Wilmot. His companion was William Pitt, Secretary of State and de facto First Minister to the King. Wilmot had no inkling that just three hours earlier he had unwittingly helped this consummate politician perpetrate a brilliant piece of mischief upon their beloved Sovereign.

Beloved by Reverend Wilmot, perhaps… but not by William Pitt. The Chief Minister most cordially and unreservedly despised the current Monarch. Pitt consoled himself with the certain knowledge that the old man’s health was declining. It was his fervent hope that the King’s grandson and Royal heir, standing not thirty feet away, would one day prove to be a more well-disposed and malleable replacement.

A commotion disturbed the back of the room. Pitt and Wilmot turned to look just as Lord Bute rushed into view, two steps ahead of his frightened escort. His Lordship’s steps faltered, then stopped. He stood rooted, taking in the scene before him. His gaze fell on the smiling young couple, busily engaged in conversation. His eyes flickered over the woman’s gown.

Lord Bute looked positively appalled.

William Pitt’s lips twisted into a smirk.

The young Prince noticed the lull in conversation. He spied Bute. He held up one hand. The music stopped.

“Ah. Our Lord Bute…”

Bute bowed, straightened.

“Your Royal Highness.”

Prince George addressed the room. “As my Lords and Ladies will see, our Groom of the Stole has graced us with his presence.” Puzzled murmurs, followed by a desultory scattering of clapped hands. The Prince continued, fixing his bulbous gaze on Bute. “Or, should I say, our Groom of the Stool! You are welcome here, sir, but I assure you – we no longer require assistance in our privy closet!”

After a moment of shocked silence, a nervous titter rippled through the assembly.

“But despair not!” the Prince continued. He swept an arm, encompassing the assemblage. “Champagne flows, and our lovely ladies imbibe! Perhaps one of them will require your assistance with her bourdaloue!”

A few scattered females gasped at this reference to the trusty urinary appliance – its use compelled by the vast, archaic dresses that imprisoned them – but most remained cautiously expressionless. They waited warily, their eyes on the Prince.

His face broke into a wide grin.

General laughter followed.

The Earl’s face reddened. “Thank you, Sire. But I must crave an immediate word in private!”

The Prince’s mirthful expression evaporated. “Not this night, sir!”

Bute’s hand dipped inside his coat. He produced an envelope, sealed with red wax.

“Sire… I bring a letter. From the King!”

“Thank you. I shall give it my full attention on the morrow.”

“Your Highness! The night is not spent! It is not too late!” There was a distinct note of panic in Bute’s tone.

The room fell silent.

The Prince’s gaze slowly swept over his watching guests. All eyes were suddenly averted.

All but Pitt’s. The Prince of Wales and the Secretary of State exchanged a long and significant look.

The Prince’s lips tightened. He addressed Bute. “Fie, sir! You are impertinent!” he replied tightly. “Moreover, you are wrong.” He extended an arm to encircle the young woman’s waist. “My bride and I have only these thirty minutes past descended from our apartments. Our gracious guests have accepted my apologies for our… tardiness. And so, you see, you are indeed unquestionably and irrevocably… too late.”

The crowd tittered.

The young woman blushed and pressed closer to her Prince.

Lord Bute’s dignity crumbled. “Sire, please! I beg you! His Majesty requires–!”

“I’m sure my dear grandfather has more pressing matters weighing upon him. Our war with the French, for example? Enough!” The Prince pointedly turned his back on the Earl. “Music!” he called.

Bemused musicians fumbled with their instruments, then broke into a lively cotillion. Couples formed up to dance.

The Prince gestured to a servant. “Please provide Lord Bute with a cup of punch, and see to his driver.” He took his bride’s hand and led her away to join the dance.

For an offended second or two, Bute stared at his Royal patron’s firmly turned back. Then he stalked over to Pitt.

“God’s blood, Mister Pitt!” Bute’s face was mottled with pique and humiliation. “How could you countenance such folly?”

Pitt regarded the Earl with a cool eye. “The Prince would have his lady,” he stated blandly.

Bute glared into Pitt’s expressionless face. “You play your infernal politics at risk to the Realm, sir! The future King of England… married to a commoner? Lunacy!”

Pitt turned to watch the dance. The young woman’s face sparkled with happiness. With each turn of the contredanse, her eyes sought out the Prince’s. As Pitt watched, the Prince twirled the girl away from the dancing couples and swept her mischievously toward an archway. Beyond lay a dimly lit staircase, leading upward.

“Mark my words!” Bute declared, his voice choked with emotion. “England will pay dearly for this night!”