Lady Brooke throws herself on the mercy of the Prince of Wales. She appeals to him for help in recovering the letter before her position is seriously compromised. Lady Brooke forms a close friendship with HRH the Prince of Wales as she had before with Lord Beresford.
Lady Charles gives the letter to London’s leading libel solicitor George Lewis for safe keeping. He writes a letter to Lady Brooke which incenses her further.
The Prince of Wales pays a call on Mr Lewis and requests that he show him the letter. Mr Lewis acquiesces but refuses to part with it or to destroy it without the agreement of his client. That agreement is not forthcoming.
Lord Beresford, wearied perchance of the intrigues of the women, returns to his earlier profession, the Navy. He takes command of a vessel in the Mediterranean.
The friendship between Lady Brooke and the Prince of Wales also becomes the object of censure in the less well-bred quarters of society. Acting as the champion of Lady Brooke, the Prince of Wales ceases to invite Lady Beresford to Marlborough House and lets it be known that he will not attend any social event where she may be present.
Lady Charles is deeply distressed at the social isolation in which she now finds herself. She writes to the Prime Minister, threatening to expose the friendship between the Prince of Wales and Lady Brooke to a wider public.
Lord Beresford returns briefly from the Mediterranean. He calls on the Prince of Wales at Marlborough House. He dares to call His Royal Highness a blackguard and at one point even threatens physical violence upon the person of the heir to the throne.
The Prince of Wales refuses to lift the obstacles to Lady Beresford appearing in Society. Her sister, Lady Paget, produces a scurrilous and defamatory pamphlet called ‘The River’, chronicling the friendship between the Prince of Wales and Lady Brooke. This pamphlet, unfortunately, circulates widely in Society.
Lord Beresford is currently threatening to return once more from his ship and summon the Press and Telegraph Agencies to his house in Eaton Square and inform them of all he knows about the private life of the Prince of Wales.
‘Daisy, my Daisy, I have not seen you now for nearly a week.’
‘But now, my Prince, we have four or five days in front of us. The rest of the guests do not arrive until the day after tomorrow. Until then it is just the two of us.’
Of all the aspects of being a royal mistress, this was the one that Daisy loved the best. The farmers’ families and the country people turned out to watch the mistress of Easton Lodge drive the heir to the throne through her grounds. For Daisy, this affair was about conquest. As a girl she had never known how pretty she was; only when she came out did she realize that she was one of the most beautiful women of her time, adored, worshipped, wanted by an army of male admirers. She wanted to be the most beautiful, she wanted to have the most handsome lovers, she wanted to make the most of her beauty while she could. Rather a last reckless ride to glory than the dull footsteps of the mundane and the everyday. To conquer the Prince of Wales, to display him rather like a new hunter, this was, she knew, as high as she would ever reach. And, deep down, she knew it would not last.
They were passing the parish church of Little Easton, where generations of her ancestors were buried. One of them had been Private Secretary to Lord Burleigh, Lord Chancellor and First Minister to Queen Elizabeth. Daisy felt she was carrying on a family tradition of royal service.
‘I fear I bring bad news, Daisy.’ Edward was continuing to wave his regal wave to the country people as they passed, his smile stitched firmly on to his face.
‘Oh no,’ said Daisy. ‘I thought you could escape from the affairs of state for a few days when you come to my humble house.’
The affairs of state since they had last met consisted of one race meeting, two visits to the music hall and one men-only dinner at the Prince of Wales’ very own pleasure ground, the Marlborough Club.
‘It’s Beresford. Lord Charles Beresford.’
Daisy winced as he spoke the name of her former lover.
‘They say,’ the Prince of Wales went on, ‘that he has taken leave of his ship the Undaunted somewhere in the Mediterfjranean. They say he’s about to return to London and cause trouble.’
The road past the church was lined with late windfalls of apples, pale green and watery red in the sunshine. They were ground into a cidery pulp by the hooves of the horses and the wheels of the carriage as they rattled past.
‘What trouble can he cause a man in your position, my Prince?’
‘You know perfectly well what he’s threatening to do, Daisy. Make a public scandal. Publicity, he keeps saying, publicity, it’s all he’s got left to him. He says he’s going to tell the world about my private life and about our love affair. Damn publicity! And damn Beresford!’
Part of Daisy didn’t mind the world knowing about her love affair with the Prince of Wales. The greater the knowledge the greater the glory. But she knew that Society might not like it. Do what you want to do, but don’t get caught.
As she looked across at the Prince she felt him growing ever more grumpy. Oh dear, Daisy thought, he’s going to be difficult. We’re going to have scenes before dinner and sulks after tea. This weekend is going to be a strain with the Prince moping about the house worried about his future. It might be worse than a strain, it might even be boring.
Powerscourt handed the memorandum back to the Private Secretary. He had memorized it word for word.
‘Do you have any preliminary thoughts, Lord Powerscourt?’ Powerscourt was to say later that Suter addressed him as if he, Suter, were a nervous patient before his dentist, fearful of some painful and bloody extractions.
‘It is obviously a difficult and delicate matter,’ Powerscourt replied, feeling himself falling against his will into the language and circumlocutions of the Private Secretary. ‘There must be a number of people who might feel that they have the information which would enable them . . .’ He paused before he dropped the word into the room. ‘. . . to blackmail His Royal Highness.’
‘Blackmail’ dropped like a stone. Sir Bartle Shepstone looked again at his shoes, as if the polish had suddenly worn off. Suter fidgeted with his moustache. Rosebery was impassive.
‘But is it not the case that this information has been abroad for some time now? What I mean is this – why should the blackmailer wait until now before presenting his demands? And have those demands been met? Has the Prince, as it were, paid up?’
Shepstone looked as though he might explode at the impertinence. But Suter was made of sterner stuff.
‘As yet there have been no such transactions. No suggestions have yet been made about possible transfers of money.’
‘And would the Prince make such a transfer if the request were made?’
‘I am not in a position to answer that at present.’ Suter looked relieved that he could escape such a direct question.
‘Are you sure,’ Powerscourt went on, continuing to probe for answers, ‘that there are no other matters apart from this which could give rise to blackmail? Forgive me if I raise such unpleasant thoughts. It goes with my occupation.’
Suter shrugged his shoulders. ’Who can say? Who can say?’
‘No true-born Englishman would ever contemplate such behaviour. It would never occur to him.’ Sir Bartle was growing red in the face again.
‘Are you sure,’ Powerscourt stuck to his last, ‘that there is nothing in the current situation of Prince Eddy that might also give rise to blackmail?’
‘Dammit, Suter, dammit.’ The General was furious now, pounding the table as he spoke. ‘Do we have to listen to these vile accusations?’
‘I fear that you do. Nay, I am certain that you do.’ The voice was very cold. Powerscourt had forgotten about Rosebery. ‘If you wish to have these matters properly looked into,’ Rosebery went on with all the political authority at his command, ‘you will have to look at certain unpleasant facts. And that is one of them.’