Shall We Dance?

Lavender's blue, dilly dilly,
lavender's green;

When I am king, dilly dilly,
you shall be queen.

—Anonymous

A Brief Primer

Choosing Up Sides

Let The Games Begin

Shall We Dance?

Endings and Beginnings

Author's Note

I
N
1795,
OVERBURDENED
with debt, not at all in good odour with his family, Parliament, the populace—or his tailor—His Royal Highness, George, Prince of Wales, known also as Florizel, Prinney and “that extravagant jackanapes,” at last succumbed to pressure from all of the above and agreed to a marriage with his first cousin, Princess Caroline Amelia of Brunswick-Wolfenbuttel.

That the prince had earlier entered into a morganatic marriage with Maria Fitzherbert, both a commoner and a Catholic, definitely two huge no-no's for the prince, was deemed irrelevant.

That the princess Caroline was, at twenty-six, already rather long in the tooth for a bride, loud, overblown, often filthy—both in her language and in her personal hygiene—was overlooked by the Parliament that would settle the prince's debts if only he would marry the woman, settle down and for goodness sake provide an heir.

Ah, the sacrifices one must make for one's country. And yet, ta-ta Maria, hello princess (and at least temporary solvency). Men can be so fickle.

On the occasion of their first meeting, and already set to marry in three days, the prince took one look at his blowsy betrothed and said to an aide, “Harris, I am not well. Pray fetch me a glass of brandy.” And then he retired from the room, leaving the princess to comment to that same aide, “I find him very stout and by no means as handsome as his portrait.” In another age Harris would have written a very profitable book about the whole thing….

Meanwhile, back with the prince and his bride, it would be a vast overstatement to suggest that the marriage that followed proved to have been Fashioned In Heaven.

Love match or not, the pair managed to produce an heir, Princess Charlotte, and then they toddled off in disparate directions, the prince back to his normal pursuits (back to his middle-aged Maria and to spending money), the princess all but banished from the palace and her child (to become the darling of the citizenry and to spend lots of money).

In short, they both went about making total fools of themselves, living outrageously, spending prodigiously and openly disparaging each other in print and in deed. Since the prince had turned, politically, to the Tories, the princess, naturally, gravitated to the Whigs. Their only connection at all, their daughter, Charlotte, died in childbirth while Caroline was out of the country being as naughty as she could be, although never quite naughty enough for the prince to gain the divorce he so desperately desired.

But in 1820, George III, long ill, died, and suddenly Florizel was the king. His first thought, after rejoicing that his allowance would be raised, had to be that, if he was now the king, then—E-gods!—the hated Caroline was now his queen consort.

This was not to be borne!

The first thing the prince did was to delay his formal coronation for a year, launching a kingly demand that a way be found to discredit the new queen for her personal behavior, paving the way for that longed-for divorce.

The first thing Caroline did was to have a launch of her own—setting sail from Italy to England, to claim her rights as queen, dilly-dilly.

History reports what happened next, but imagination conjures its own scenarios….

P
ERRY
S
HEPHERD
,
Earl of Brentwood, was bored with being bored, which was the only way possible for him to reconcile himself to the fact that he had knocked on the door of his uncle, Sir Willard Humphrey, Minister of the Admiralty, Retired.

The earl had been rather adroitly avoiding his uncle for quite nearly three weeks. And he would have continued to ignore the man's pleas to meet with him if not for the fact that it was already July, the London Season was over and everyone was still very much in superficial mourning for the late king, so that Town was dreadfully dull.

Still, if he left for the country without seeing his uncle, Perry knew the man would follow him. The only thing worse than being trapped in a room with Uncle Willie was being trapped on an estate with Uncle Willie, with no bolt-hole available.

So here he was, in his uncle's black-and-white tiled foyer, stripping off his gloves, handing over his cane and removing the curly brimmed beaver from his blond head, relaxing the square jaw that was the only thing
(save the scar on his cheek, which was, by and large, more attractive than detracting) keeping this green-eyed, near god of a man from being too pretty.

He adjusted his cuffs, quickly surveyed his reflection in the gold-veined mirror on the wall and knew that his new jacket suited his tall, lean, broad-shouldered figure admirably.

Goodness, but he was a sight, not that his uncle would notice.

“Ready, Hawkins. Shoulders back, loins girded, belly only faintly queasy. We may proceed. Take me to mine uncle.”

“Ah, My Lord, Sir Willard will be that pleased, if I may say so, begging your indulgence at my frank speech, sir,” Hawkins, butler to the great man, probably since before The Flood, said as he ushered Perry down the long hallway that led to his employer's private study.

“Pining for me, is he, Hawkins? I suppose I should be flattered,” Perry said, adjusting the black armband that was his bow to the Royal Mourning, and quite understandable, considering the fact that George III had been locked up in his apartments, mad as a hatter, for over a decade, so that his passing did not exactly blast a large hole in everyday life. “Tell me, do you have any idea what flea Uncle Willie has got in his breeches this time?”

“None, My Lord. He's been tight as a clam about the—that is, I'm sure I shouldn't know, sir.”

“Not to worry, Hawkins. I'm sure I shouldn't, either. But, alas, it would appear I'm about to find out. Announce me, my good fellow, then prepare to abandon
the field before you are witness to Uncle Willie embarrassing us all as he throws himself on my neck, tears of joy racing down his cheeks.”

“Oh, I think he might be beyond that, My Lord,” Hawkins said, then knocked on the study door, opened it, announced Perry, turned to smile at His Lordship—rather piteously—and then took to his heels.

Perry, one eyebrow lifted, watched him go, so that he staggered under the unexpected blow as a large, beefy hand slapped him once on the back, then grabbed hold of his wonderfully tailored jacket collar and all but hauled him into the study.

“At last! Damn your eyes, Perry, anyone would have thought you were dead.”

Adjusting his jacket, now that his uncle had released it, Perry smiled at Sir Willard Humphrey. “I had considered putting about precisely that rumor, but I at once realized what a definite crimp it would put in my social life. Good morning, Uncle.”

“Don't you good morning me, Nevvie. Where in thunder have you been hiding yourself? I've been sending notes round every day. Twice, yesterday.”

“Really? I had no idea. Well, that's it, then, I shall have my butler sacked the moment I return to Portman Square.” He frowned. “Damn shame, that. I have rather a fondness for Fairweather, have known him since I was in short coats.”

“Cheeky. Always were cheeky.” Sir Willard deposited his considerable bulk into the chair behind his desk, his whalebone stays creaking as he bent himself almost
in two. “Reminds how much you give me the headache, boy. You've been avoiding me. But I've heard about you. Going here, going there, racketing about like a useless twit without a care in the world—or for it, for that matter.”

“Guilty as charged, especially that last little bit,” Perry said, lifting the stopper from a decanter on the drinks table and holding up the decanter to his uncle. “No? Very well, although I feel the sot, drinking alone.”

“It's eleven in the morning, for God's sake. You shouldn't be drinking at all. Tea, that's the ticket. You can't dunk a buttered scone in Burgundy, boy.”

“Nor would I want to,” Perry said, sitting himself down on the deep green leather couch completely across the room—ignoring the pair of uncomfortable chairs facing the desk. His left leg neatly crossed over his right, the stem of his glass resting on his bent knee, he smiled again at his uncle. “So? Are you going to tell me, or am I going to be forced to guess?”

“Do you have to perch yourself all the way over there? I'll have to shout to—oh, hang it,” Sir Willard said, pushing himself out of his chair, forced out of his seat of authority by his insufferable nephew, who only batted his eyelids as he gave a wide, closemouthed and definitely not-innocent grin.

“I sit here as a favor. You need the exercise, dear Uncle,” Perry said, then arranged his handsome features in a frown of concentration and attention. “But to continue?”

“Continue? When in blue blazes did I start? You're
a confounding piece of work, Perry, always were, always told everyone you were. If I were to tell England the truth about you no one would believe me.”

“They'd probably lock you up with your own strait waistcoat,” Perry agreed, then sipped at his burgundy. “Wait, come to think of it, you're close to that now. Don't you know our new good king has left off his stays? The explosion could be heard for miles.”

“You're a fool, Nevvie.”

“True. Everyone knows I'm a fool. An amicable, titled, sinfully wealthy, well-dressed and exquisitely turned-out fool, but a fool nonetheless. Oh, and heartbreakingly handsome.” Perry sighed theatrically. “I've so many gifts.”

“And that's why you're here.”

Perry's left eyebrow shot heavenward. “Because I'm pretty? Gad, if I'd known it would call me to your attention, Uncle, I would have dropped a sack over my head.”

“Would you stop? It's not just that face of yours. I need you because of what the world thinks of you, in total.” Sir Willard turned round one of the chairs and wedged his bulk into it. “Let me begin at the beginning.”

“Oh, please, Uncle, I beg you, don't do that. Adam and Eve, the apple—it's all so tedious. Start at the middle, why don't you? Most things start there.”

Sir Willard's neck was becoming rather red. “The war's been over for years, Perry.
Others
have come forward to take credit for their service to His Majesty in the more…covert activities of the thing. You could have medals. You could be lauded. You could—”

“Toot my own horn, while many of those who crept about in secrecy like me now lie dead in foreign soil, if they weren't carted back here in vats of pickle juice and then stuffed into the family mausoleum? No, thank you, Uncle. I'm happy as I am.”

Sir Willard rubbed at his red, bulbous nose. “All right, all right, I won't force the issue, not when I consider how well your ridiculous modesty suits the mission.”

Perry paused in the action of sipping on the Burgundy. “The mission? You may be right, Uncle, perhaps I should forswear spirits before noon, although that leaves only water, which, as we both know, can be even more dangerous to my health. But no, I couldn't possibly have heard you correctly.”

“You heard me correctly, Nephew,” Sir Willard said, reaching behind him for the folded scrap of broadsheet that lay on his desk, then tossing it at Perry. “You've seen this?”

Perry unfolded the rumpled square featuring a rather detailed woodcut. “A poorly executed rendering of Her Royal Highness, Princess Caroline, disembarking in Dover, surrounded by, if we can believe this, both her extensive entourage and a wildly cheering crowd. Oh, and a dog. Yes, what of it?”

“What of it? She's come back, that's what of it. Come back to claim her share of the throne.”

“It is hers to claim, isn't it?”

Sir Willard looked ready to tear at his hair—which would have been difficult, as he'd parted with the last of it a good two decades earlier, leaving nothing but
huge bushy white eyebrows and a bald pate above them. (Sir Willard was possibly the only man in England to still be wishing back powdered wigs.)

“We in government can't have it, Perry. She's totally unsuited to the role of queen. My God, man, she's been running about the world with a paramour, and a foreigner at that. In plain sight. Thumbing her nose at all of us. Putting a crown on that head would be sacrilege.”

“I think England has put the crown on quite a few heads that might not have been precisely up to the honor,” Perry said, tossing the rendering onto the couch. “May I dare a bit of treason and suggest that our recently elevated king could be numbered among them? Last I heard, you know, he was crowing to everyone that he was present at Waterloo. If he had been, which we all know he was not, there wouldn't have been a camp stool large enough for him to hide his shivering bulk beneath when the battle began.”

“I like you better as a fool than when you're being supercilious,” Sir Willard said. “But all right, all right, I'll take the gloves off, shall I?”

“Do whatever pleases you, dear Uncle, it makes no nevermind to me,” Perry said, wondering if his favorite club would be serving spiced ham today. He was quite fond of spiced ham. “Anything so that I might kiss both your rosy-red cheeks in farewell and toddle off on my aimless, pointless pursuit of pleasure once more.”

He was lying, of course. Perry was very interested in whatever his uncle would soon say. It was always interesting to learn how the minds of aged men in power
worked, as they so very often worked in ways that had a lot to do with the benefit of aged men in power, and the devil with the rest of the world.

Sir Willard leaned forward in the armchair. Well, he attempted to lean forward. But his bulk had rather stuck between the arms, so instead he rested his elbows on them, clasped his hands together, and pushed his melon-with-eyebrows head toward his nephew.

“Shall I summon Hawkins, Uncle?” Perry asked, doing his best to keep his expression sober. “And perhaps a winch?”

“If you weren't so damn rich I could threaten to cut you out of my will, no matter that you're my only surviving kin. Now, listen to me. Princess Caroline cannot be crowned queen next year when Prinney—His Royal Majesty—has his coronation. She simply cannot.”

Perry scratched at his forehead. “You want me to kill her? Isn't that sliding a tad far over the edge, Uncle, even for such a staunch Tory as yourself?”

“God's teeth! No, I don't want you to kill her. We…that is, I want you to spy on her.”

Perry dropped his chin onto his chest and looked at his uncle from beneath his remarkable winged eyebrows. “Oh, most definitely my hearing is gone. Your hair, my ears. What a terrible legacy of physical failings in our family, Uncle. You want me to what?”

“You heard me. I said spy on her. You're a spy, ain't you? And a damned good one. That's the part of you I want, not that other part—I prefer not to remember what else you were ordered to do during the war.”

“A sentiment I share, Uncle,” Perry said tightly, then took a sip from his wineglass. And the man wondered why he didn't go about, crowing of his exploits?

“Yes, yes. Rather sordid, bloodthirsty bits, some of that, eh, although necessary to our pursuit of victory. So we won't talk about that. The king has put it to us to find a way to discredit the princess, gain him a divorce. His Cabinet, Parliament—we've been ordered to find a way.”

“And I'm that way?” Perry sat back, lightly rubbed at his chin. “Oh, hardly, Uncle.”

Sir Willard shook his head. “Not just you. There's plenty of dirt already been dug, enough for the House of Lords to introduce a Bill of Pains and Penalties.”

Perry got to his feet, returned the wineglass to the drinks table. “I've never heard of such a thing.”

“Truthfully, neither had I, but we've been assured it's legal, if an ancient process, rather outside our more commonly known legal system. Liverpool found it, and you know what a stickler he is. If she beats down a vote on the thing by Parliament, she's queen. If we prove our case, the king gets his divorce. The procedure will be announced by the end of the week, possibly as soon as tomorrow. Think of it, Perry. If this works, he could marry again, provide another heir now that Princess Charlotte is lost to us.”

“Now there's a vision that I would not want burned into my mind—Prinney riding atop some poor sweet princess sacrificed for her fertile womb. And again, not oddly, the request for a winch would probably not be unwarranted.”

“You're lucky you're speaking only to me,” Sir Willard warned him.

“And you're lucky, Uncle, I don't run hotfoot to Henry Brougham and the Whigs and tell them what's afoot. Digging up dirt to divorce the queen? It's unconscionable, even for you whacking-great bunch of rabid Tories.”

“So is watching the aging royal dukes running about, deserting morganatic wives and dozens of their bastard royals in order to wed any princess they can find and put an heir on her. We look like an island of rutting idiots. The world is laughing at us. Think on it, Perry. All that stands between England and anarchy at this moment is young Princess Victoria. We saw what happened with Princess Charlotte. This cannot be allowed.”

“So Prinney has to be shed of the queen, marry again, somehow produce an heir, possibly two or three. That's the crux of this? You know, Uncle, I'd like to believe you, but I don't. Our new king just doesn't want his wife anymore, does he? Not only does he detest her, she's more popular than he ever was. Or have you been so stuck—forgive me a small jest—here in your study that you are unaware of the spoiled vegetables and fruit that are tossed at our sire whenever he dares poke his nose outside the palace?”