Succession. Douglas Schofield
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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!”
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