He was very pleased with the manner in which he arranged his life, and he meant it to be more and more entertaining. In time Frederick would be the King, and his closest friend and adviser was going to be John, Lord Hervey.
At the moment he was busy writing the dedication to a pamphlet which was entitled Sedition and Defamation Displayed. The dedication was to his enemies, the promoters of The Craftsman, headed by Pulteney. This would teach the man to be more careful when he set his writers to work on Lord Fanny, who might paint his cheeks, who might suffer vertigo at levees, but who none the less was a man who could face the wiliest politicians on an equal footing.
Stephen Fox came into the room, quietly, reverently. ‘I disturb you....’
‘Never, dear boy. Come here and read this.’
Stephen read with absorption now and then chuckling aloud.
‘It’s sheer genius,’ he said.
‘I trust it will make Pulteney writhe.’
‘I’m not surprised Walpole is eager to keep you on his side.’
‘Ah, the power of the pen, Stephen boy. Never forget it.’
‘You have made that plain to me. But ... I have news from the Court.’ Stephen looked anxious. ‘Anne Vane has become the Prince’s mistress.’
Hervey was silent for a while; then he burst out laughing.
‘Fred will always follow me. Really, I don’t think the poor fool has an original idea in his head.’
‘You ... you have no objections?’
‘My dear boy, what is Anne Vane to me? Nothing. What is Fred to me? As little. No, that’s not true. I respect the title Prince of Wales even when it’s attached to poor fool Fred. As for Anne Vane, the creature adores me. This is pique, Stephen, pure pique. But it offers opportunities. I shall use her to keep her eye on our little Prince for me. She shall report all his doings. Then I shall not have to return to the Court so soon. This is good news. I will write to the woman and you must send a messenger to deliver the letter to her. She shall tell us all that is in his mind. I will write to her without delay.’
At Ickworth Hervey continued to enjoy his days. He was writing a good deal; he was pleased to be with his wife and family; and Stephen was with him.
‘I do declare,’ he said, ‘that Frederick is a great trial to me. He is false, silly, and plagues me. My dearest Stephen, there was never a man less like your dear self than our silly Prince.’
That delighted Stephen and Hervey enjoyed pleasing him. Molly liked him to stay with the family now and then. It looked well; and in view of the fact that he did attract a certain amount of scandal when he was at Court it was necessary to become a respectable married man now and then. It showed everyone that Molly was not concerned in these scandals and that her marriage was as firm now as it had been in those early days when she and her husband had been content to live at Ickworth together and the children had begun to appear.
But peace was suddenly shattered.
Hervey like everyone else avidly read The Craftsmanw hen it made its appearance and since his Dedication to the Patrons of The Craftsman in that pamphlet Sedition andDefamation Displayed, he had been expecting some reaction.
Yet when he saw it he knew that it was so damaging that he would have to take some action.
He called Stephen to him. He was trembling with rage —as he held out the paper to his friend.
It was written by Pulteney and was titled A Proper Reply to a Late Scurrilous Libel.
‘At first [wrote Pulteney], I was at a loss to imagine who could have composed this little work, but the little quaint antitheses, the laboured jingle of the periods, the great variety of rhetorical flourishes, affected metaphors and puerile witticisms proclaim this to be the production of pretty Mr Fainlove.’
He had, he wrote, made efforts to discover the author and had been told the secret by someone who had asked him not to treat the gentleman too harshly. ‘He is young and innocent. What would the ladies say? Ah, but you know he is a Lady himself, or at least such a nice composition of the two sexes that it is difficult to distinguish which is most predominant.’
Stephen winced. He could not bear to read any more. But there was more. There was a hint of the practices in which Mr Fainlove indulged; and these were such which he could not allow to go unchallenged.
He said: ‘You will write a reply.’
‘It needs more than a written reply, Stephen.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There is only one answer to this. I must call him out. This is death ... to one of us.’
‘No!’
‘My dear boy, that is what Pulteney intends, and I should be called a coward if I did not meet the challenge. I could not face the Court again if I allowed this to pass.’
‘But he does not mention you by name.’
‘My dear Stephen, you are wilfully blind. There is no one at Court who will read this ... and you can be sure everyone is reading it at this moment ... who will not know that Mr Fainlove is John Hervey.’
‘But ... a duel! You cannot.... You must not! ‘ ‘You seem to think that I shall be the loser.’
‘This is not a battle of words.’
‘No ... of swords. Have no fear. I shall give a good account of myself. And it is the only answer, for the girlish creature he makes me out to be would not be capable of crossing swords with such an opponent.’
‘I am ... terrified.’
‘You shall be my second. Now do not try to persuade me from this. It is inevitable. The battle has gone beyond words, and only the sword will defend me now.’
In the Park, behind Arlington Street on a bitterly cold morning, Pulteney and Hervey faced each other.
In an agony of fear Stephen Fox looked on, too disturbed to feel the cold cutting January wind which whistled across the park.
Lord Hervey had been very cool and had declared that nothing would make him give in now although all the way to the scene Stephen had been urging him to turn back.
Pulteney looked equally grim. The fact that they had once been friends made them both the more bitter.
They approached each other; they drew their swords; the signal was given and for the first few seconds no sound was heard but the clash of weapons on the still morning air.
Stephen felt himself ready to swoon as Pulteney’s sword caught Hervey’s arm and a dark stain was visible on his friend’s sleeve.
But now Pulteney was showing blood. Hervey’s sword had touched his neck. There was grim determination in their faces. On this cold and snowy morning one of them was going to die.
Pulteney was the better swordsman; that became evident to the watchers. Stephen was almost fainting with fear; but Hervey seemed unconcerned. At least if this were the end, it would be a dramatic exit—the sort that would be expected of Lord Hervey.
Pulteney believed the victory was his. At any moment he would run his adversary through the heart. He thought of Molly of whom he was fond. What would her reaction be to the man who had murdered her husband? And what happened to a man who killed another in a duel? Would he be obliged to flee the country?
This was folly, madness! How had they allowed this matter to come to this point?
He was ready now, the advantage was his. His sword was poised. In a few seconds Lord Hervey would be a dying man.
Pulteney’s foot slipped on the snow. Was it by accident? None of the watchers could be absolutely sure. But the moment of decision had come ... and passed.
Pulteney’s sword had gone wide of its mark. Hervey gave a little shout of triumphant relief. And then Stephen had run out and placed himself between the two opponents.