By the King's Design (26 page)

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Authors: Christine Trent

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Lady Conyngham has completely gained the summit of her ambition, and has all the honors paid her of the Royal Mistress ... to be anyone's mistress is a miserable lot. To be a royal man's mistress worse still, for how seldom is a Prince constant!
 
—From the diary of novelist Lady Charlotte Bury, 1775–1861
 
January 30, 1820
Carlton House, London
 
“
I
insist that the Lady Conyngham have a place of precedence, of course. And I must have new robes, as well. I'll provide you with an entire list of my requirements in due course, but I expect events to progress quickly. Most quickly.” George waved his hands in emphasis.
Lord Liverpool cleared his throat. “Your Highness, er, Your Majesty, the late king just passed on yesterday. It might be wise to see his funeral to completion before initiating your own coronation.”
“Lord Liverpool, need I remind you, of all people, of the people's great desire to have a smooth and happy transition between monarchs? The people will be very anxious to see me crowned, and I don't intend to disappoint them.”
Liverpool gritted his teeth. Lord, the man was insufferable as regent. Now he was king and had already added another foot to his stature in his own mind. What came after insufferable?
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Now, where was I? Oh yes, I've always admired Queen Elizabeth's coronation activities. A weak woman, but she knew how to impress the masses. Have poets, musicians, and actors posted along my coronation route, each delivering odes and prayers to my forthcoming glorious reign. I'll keep a purse of coins on me and distribute them to each of the performers.”
Liverpool resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He tried again. “Majesty, I just caution you that it may be impossible to pull together a coronation so quickly.”
“Nonsense. Elizabeth's men did it in two months. You can do the same. Oh, and another thing: I do not want that harpy in Italy at my coronation under any circumstances. I do not intend to allow her to be crowned.”
“But sir, she is your wife, and therefore legitimately the queen.”
“She has no legitimacy! And she wouldn't still be my wife if Parliament was of any use or assistance to me whatsoever.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Now that I am king, perhaps you can see your way to ridding me of my treacherous, boorish, ill-behaved wife. Bless me, such talk makes me ill.” The new king patted his face with a handkerchief, his favorite accoutrement. “Please send Lady Conyngham in on your way out.”
Liverpool bowed and exited, signaling to a servant outside the door to send in the king's new mistress.
Lady Elizabeth, the Marchioness of Conyngham, bounced up at her summons to meet with the new king. She was as voluptuous and greedy as Lady Hertford, but twice as beautiful and not nearly as cantankerous.
It had taken the forty-eight-year-old Lady Elizabeth more than a dozen years to supplant Lady Hertford. At least her husband, the Marquess of Conyngham, was willfully blind to her ambitions; else it would have taken her longer.
She supposed that she had an accommodating husband in common with Lady Hertford, too. But she would never make that lady's mistakes. Poor Lady Hertford, she simply wasn't experienced enough in managing men to maintain the Prince Regent in her thrall long enough to see him become king.
But Lady Elizabeth intended to hold on to the new king until one of them was laid in a coffin.
“Your Majesty!” she exclaimed as she was permitted entrance to the Circular Room. She swept into a low curtsy at his feet. She had a flash of inspiration, and dropped to the ground nearly prostrate at his feet, kissing the tops of his beribboned shoes.
“My dear one, please, you know you are my dearest friend and do not need to resort to such displays of reverence.”
“But sir, you are my king now. Whatever adoration I had for you before, and you know how considerable it was, has been swept away, to be replaced with indescribable esteem for your new and magnificent person. I can hardly be held accountable for my actions.”
“Quite so, my sweetest heart, quite so. You do bring me great comfort during these trying times. I suppose you saw Liverpool on his way out? He still won't do anything to rid me of Caroline. Was ever a prince, nay, a king, more harassed than I?”
“Never, Your Majesty,” she replied in her most soothing voice.
He smiled. “You bring me great comfort, Lady Elizabeth. How I wish it were in my power to give you what I know would be your greatest wish, the holy union of matrimony with me. I can tell you nothing would give me more pleasure. But as long as Parliament stalls and refuses to charge Caroline with anything ...”
Now the king was just toying with her. Not only was her own marriage an impediment, but if the king were actually able to obtain a divorce and remarry, it would most certainly be to a princess.
For Lady Conyngham, mistress was the highest title she could hope for, and she was pleased enough with it.
The king was ready to move on to other subjects. “I believe I am tired of Carlton House. Besides, it's an inadequate palace for my new, glorious monarchy, don't you think? Perhaps St. James's Place would be more fitting? What do you think, Lady Elizabeth?”
Actually, neither would do. She had a better idea, but she pretended to consider. “Your Majesty is too grand for merely St. James's. Why not Buckingham House?”
“Never! That was my father's favorite residence. Besides, it's entirely too small.”
“Does it have to be?”
“What do you mean?”
“Isn't it only fitting that Your Majesty renovate Buckingham House, first to make it a residence fit for your splendor, but also to eradicate the—shall we say—odor of its previous residents?”
“Ah!” Light dawned in his eyes. “Lady Elizabeth, this is one of your more brilliant ideas, and you do tend to radiate them with regularity. You are a lovely adornment and always know how to bring me to a jolly mood.”
“And does this lovely adornment deserve a reward for her imagination and intelligence?”
“Sweetheart, you've read my mind.” He pulled her to him for a sweaty kiss.
Not exactly the reward she had in mind, but Lady Elizabeth was nothing if not patient. After all, she'd enjoyed liaisons with Lord Ponsonby, the handsomest man in England two decades ago, as well as with Nicholas, heir to the Russian throne, when he passed through London a few years ago.
In both cases, she merely had to bide her time. As she had done while waiting to catch George's eye. And when Buckingham House was transformed into a palatial residence, she intended to have her own suite of rooms there. Fully furnished at the king's expense, of course.
Hmm, perhaps she was becoming more and more like a spider who sits patiently, waiting for an unsuspecting fly to bumble its way into her web. A distasteful thought, wasn't it?
She shrugged and returned her focus to the king's pleasure, wondering if the job of king's mistress would be a more difficult one than that of the prince's mistress.
 
The poor old king was not even buried yet, and aristocrats from all over London were sending servants to Belle, summoning her to their townhomes for redecoration advice in anticipation of their own personal balls to be held in anticipation of the coronation.
Belle just hoped the ceremony would be held off long enough for her to complete all of her new projects. Her aristocratic clients were always demanding, but with an impending coronation they were shrill and peevish.
Wesley continued to be irritable, as well, but he was making more effort around the shop. He'd recently found a new supplier of Indian calico. The dyeing work was exquisitely vivid, and for an instant Belle imagined it covering one of Put's chairs. She dismissed the thought and instead complimented her brother for his find. He shrugged off her praise, but she caught a satisfied smile on his face as he turned away from her.
His expression reminded her of the old Wesley, the Yorkshire boy who came home at the end of a summer's day, whistling and jangling his winnings inside his pocket. But that boy was long since gone, wasn't he?
 
Tuesday, February 1, 1820
 
Arthur Thistlewood was in rare form this evening.
The hayloft across from the Horse and Groom had been furnished with some spare pieces from the tavern, mostly rickety benches and a couple of tables, hastily brought up via its ladder entry from the stable below.
Thistlewood addressed his inner circle, which consisted of Wesley and ten other men: his fellow hideout seeker, John Harrison; George Edwards; John Brunt; James Ings; Richard Tidd; William Davidson; Charles Cooper; Richard Bradburn; James Wilson; and John Strange.
They were tightly packed inside the unheated, twelve-by-sixteen-foot room. Two grimy windows tried vainly to filter in light, but Mr. Thistlewood insisted that they not be cleaned, so as to maintain the hayloft's illusion of abandonment. The beamed ceiling was low, and the unplastered walls emitted an odor reminiscent of the horses and hay bales that would have once shared this space. Two rectangular holes in the floor along one wall, originally meant for tossing hay down to the stable, occupied more floor space and made the room seem even smaller.
No one cared, though, for every man leaned forward to capture and digest Thistlewood's impassioned speech. The only break in the tension was from William Davidson, a Jamaican mulatto with an interesting, lilting accent, whose passion for cigars could not be quelled even during a meeting such as this. Smoke enveloped Davidson and Richard Tidd, sitting next to him.
Wesley's own throat ached to share his pipe with Darcey. He hoped she wasn't using up the last of his opium across the street while he was in this meeting. 'Twould be dreadfully unfair of her, since his presence here was mostly at her urging.
Mostly.
There was a sense of self-importance he felt to be sitting among these men who might one day be very significant in His Majesty's government. Maybe Wesley could one day have a prominent position. Then Belle would finally understand that he was worth more than being just her fetch-and-carry boy.
Wesley didn't know any of the other men particularly well, since he spent most of his spare time with Darcey, but he was acquainted enough with them to know that they passionately believed in Mr. Thistlewood's vision of a radically changed government.
And tonight, Thistlewood was roused to a feverish pitch, even as plumes of cold vapor swirled from his mouth as he spoke.
“And so, friends, fellow patriots, we've been presented with a glorious opportunity. One that might almost be construed as a sign from the Almighty Himself. Fortunately for those of us assembled here, we do not need to wait for firm signs of divine approval, for you have me to interpret recent events as the smiling of the heavens upon our righteous efforts.”
The man knew how to grab attention. Even Davidson threw his cigar to the floor and stamped on it, so as not to be distracted from a single word Thistlewood uttered.
“You know the old king held on an unconscionably long time, living in his addled state locked up in Windsor. We've had the so-called rule of a regent, but the Punch and Judy man in St. James's Park has more concern for Britain's subjects than the new king does. And he doesn't eat nearly as much.
“I am now convinced that the old King George lived so long to provide me with the time necessary to gather you, my closest associates, into my confidence, so that when the time was right, we could strike against the government. His death three days ago was the sign I needed. For now we have the moment. A moment of upheaval, a moment of chaos, a moment created for revolutionary change!” Thistlewood pounded his fist against his breast, then stopped to close his eyes and breathe deeply.
Wesley knew Darcey would be on the verge of a swoon if she were here. He was glad she wasn't.
“But the Regency is gone. Instead, that bloated ignoramus now claims himself to be our king. As though men of our disposition and good sense will tolerate the rule of such a totty-headed squab, who cannot even manage to find a mistress who is an actual improvement upon his wife!”
The men clapped their approval.
“The old king was a staunch Tory, the new king a Whig. The old king a devoted family man, the new one an adulterer. The old king was abstemious, the new king a drunken glutton. The people will be nervous now, you mark my words. It is one thing for Prinny to be the regent; it's another thing entirely for him to wear the crown.
“We are now at the precipice, fellows. Will we leap forward, or will we cower backward like ninnies? Others may say we are trying to milk the pigeon, but I say our goal
is
possible, and that we will be the catalyst for a brighter, better England!”

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