The Prince smiled cynically. He would never again be caught in that way. But it was no fault of Essex that Perdita after promising to be the love of his life had turned out to be nothing but a sentimental bore—and a scheming one too. The Prince flushed with anger even now, remembering the humiliating scene with his father when he had had to confess that his ex-mistress was threatening to publish letters which she had in her possession and which had been written by the flowery but very indiscreet pen of the Prince of Wales.

This was yet another reason for his friendship with his uncle. Cumberland had written indiscreet letters to Lady Grosvenor and Lord Grosvenor had brought an action against him which had cost £13,000. The Prince's had cost £500 a year for as long as Perdita should live and after that £250 for her daughter's lifetime.

To the devil with Perdita! She was ancient history and she had had many successors. No ... not quite. There had never really been another like Perdita, for he genuinely had believed in the early days of their liaison that he would be faithful until death; and he had never seriously believed that of any of the others. But then he had been so young ... only seventeen when

he had gone with the Royal party to Drury Lane and seen Mrs. Robinson as Perdita in The Winter's Tale.

But what had Perdita to do with this fishing village with the ridiculous name?

'I shall drive myself down,' he said. 'It will be good exercise for the horses.'

So on a September morning when the countryside was touched with golden sunshine and the weather was as warm as midsummer, the Prince of Wales rode down to Brighthelm-stone. He drove his own phaeton with three horses after the manner of a wagon team; and riding with him were only an equerry and one postilion. The rest of his suite would follow.

The phaeton rattled along at a dangerous pace, for the Prince liked speed. He was a man of contrasts, for while he would spend hours with Lord Petersham discussing the shape of shoe buckles, the cut of a coat, the material most suited to a neckcloth, the excellent idea of having one's snuff boxes to match one's ensemble and the season, he could also take a turn in the boxing ring, for he practised fisticuffs regularly under the skilled tuition of a certain Angelo, who also taught him to fence. He could sing pleasantly, dance well, was at ease in the saddle and could write fluently and with grace. He could join in an intellectual discussion and shortly afterwards be indulging in an infantile practical joke. With his gifts he should have been an ideal son; but with his indiscretions and his waywardness he gave his father many a sleepless night.

He was not thinking of this as he rode to Brighton, his mind was on a subject which was never far from his thoughts: Women. The situation at the moment was satisfactory enough; there was always comfort in numbers, he had discovered. The most agreeable time had been when Grace Elliot and Lizzie Armistead shared his attentions. Grace had been something of a romp, never attempting to be faithful and making no pretence about it. He was by nature sentimental, but just having escaped from Perdita at that time Grace with her frank unabashed attitudes had been just what he needed. There had been a daughter which might have been his—or one or two

other men's—but Grace had christened the child Georgiana, which was a nice touch since she made no demands. Now she had gone to that Frenchman, the Due d'Orleans, who was resident in London for a while. Good luck to Grace; she wouldn't need it, for she would always know how to look after herself. He had heard that Orleans made her a handsome allowance. She would deserve it, for Orleans was an ugly fellow who suffered from a horrible skin disease which made his hair fall out and his skin a hideous colour.

And Lizzie Armistead? There was a fascinating woman. Lady's maid at one time to none other than Perdita, and it was at the house in Cork Street that he had met her; but others had seen her first. Charles James Fox for one. Trust Fox to pick out a winner among the women. If only he could do as well at the races he would be a rich man. As it was, he was in constant financial trouble. Not that it worried Charles as long as he kept his grip on politics. He'd be Prime Minister one day and he wouldn't have a more faithful friend and supporter than the Prince of Wales. That—and Lizzie. What more could he want?

Lizzie had gone back to Charles and he was living with her now in her house at Chertsey, the house she had managed to acquire through her own skilful management of her affairs. It was funny. There was Charles, the son of Lord Holland, and at one time the possessor of a fortune, several times bankrupt, now living on the bounty of the lady's maid who had saved enough from her generous lovers—the Prince included—to put into a little house in Chertsey where the most brilliant politician of his day should have a refuge.

Lizzie and Charles were two of his best friends. What interesting, amusing and exciting people! How different from the household at Kew, with his sanctimonious father, his dreary mother, his poor sisters who had never had—nor would ever have if his parents had any say in their upbringing—any chance to enjoy life. How could poor Charlotte, Augusta, Elizabeth and the rest know anything about the brilliantly gay, the witty and amusing outside world and people like Charles and Lizzie, Richard Sheridan the playwright, Edmund Burke the philosopher, Georgiana the brilliant leader of

fashion, beautiful and witty. Poor little Princesses wilting away at Kew when there was the world to be explored I

He thought of Lady Melbourne with whom he had liked to fancy himself desperately in love. He had always wanted to be seriously in love; and the light affair did not give him the same satisfaction as what he was pleased to believe, while it lasted, was the love of a lifetime. That was why Perdita had been so important. The long wooing, the sighing, the locks of hair, the tender messages engraved on miniatures and lockets, this was what he craved. He took great pleasure in writing of his sufferings and aspirations and even the fate of those letters which he had written to Perdita could not deter him. He recognized the difference between lust and love—and although he was as ready to indulge in the first as any of his companions, he never forgot the worth of the second. He often told himself, and others, that what he wanted was to settle down with the woman of his choice, marry her and live happily—and faithfully—ever after.

For a short time he had deluded himself with Lady Melbourne; she had even borne a child which was said to be his—a boy this time and named George of course.

Actresses had always interested him. There was the fascinating young German actress known as Mrs. Billington who had a house near the Thames at Fulham. She was a pretty and very lively young woman with the most original methods of making love. Most intriguing, and at one time he had been constantly at the theatre—not to see the play, of course, but Mrs. Billington. Ii had been so easy to visit her, she being so near the river; and every night when she was not playing she would have musical evenings, for Mrs. Billington was noted for her singing; it gave him great pleasure to sing duets with the ladies who attracted him. His voice could not of course compare with that of Mrs. Billington, which was of remarkable compass and one of the most melodious he had ever heard.

But although her eccentric methods had excited him in the beginning he had tired of them. Mrs. Billington might have been amusing but she was not romantic. He did not care for her coarse approach, and when he remarked to Fox: 'The only pleasure I have in that woman's company is when I shut my

Adventures of a Prince 63

eyes and open my ears,' Fox knew, and so did the Prince, that the liaison was nearing its end.