‘And so— there is to be this— enquiry.’
‘I fear so, sir.’
So this is the next disaster, thought the King. Can so much happen in one family? Am I dreaming it? Am I going mad? The great topic for the time was the scandal of the Duke of York and Mary Anne Clarke.
Mary Anne was an extremely handsome woman in her early thirties who had begun her life in Ball and Pin Alley near Chancery Lane. Her mother was widowed when Mary Anne was a child and later married a compositor, the son of whose master was attracted by the pretty child and had her educated. Mary Anne in due course married a stone mason named Clarke and later went on the stage where she played Portia at the Haymarket Theatre. Here she was noticed and became the mistress of several members of the peerage. At the house of one of these she made the acquaintance of the Duke of York who was immediately infatuated, and set her up in a mansion in Gloucester Place.
The doting Duke had promised her a large income but was constantly in debt and not always able to pay it; Mary Anne’s expenses were enormous and so to provide the large sums she needed she had the idea of selling promotions in the Army.
This was the sordid story which became the gossip of London. The Duke was in despair, but when Mary Anne was called upon to give evidence at the bar of the House of Commons she did so with jaunty abandon.
The Duke’s letters to her were read aloud in the House and these caused great merriment. All over London they were quoted— and embellished. This was the cause célèbre of the day.
The King shut himself into his apartments and the Queen could hear him talking to himself, talking, talking, until he was hoarse. He was praying too. And it was clear that he did not know for whom he prayed.
Amelia was sent to comfort him; and this she did by telling him how well she felt— never so well in her life.
And that did ease him considerably.
It emerged from the Select Committee which tried the case, that the Duke was not guilty of nefarious practices however much his mistress might have been; but all the same he had to resign his post in the Army.
He broke with Mary Anne, but he had not finished with her because she threatened to publish the letters he had written to her. These were bought for £7,000 down and a Pension of £400 a year.
But people went on talking of Mary Anne Clarke; and it was noticed that the King’s health was even worse than it had been before.
The Mary Anne Clarke scandal had scarcely died down when another and far more dramatic one burst on London, This concerned Ernest, Duke of Cumberland — the King’s fifth son.
Ernest was the last son the King would have expected to bring trouble. He had been sent to Germany to learn his soldiering where he had acquitted himself with honour; and when he had come back to England in 1796 he was made a lieutenant-general. Not only was he an excellent military leader but he had shown some skill in the House of Lords; he was an able debater and was regarded with respect by the Prince of Wales. The most likeable quality of the brothers was their loyalty to each other; and Ernest was determined that when George became King he would be beside him.
It was the night of May 10th. Duke Ernest had been to a concert and according to himself, retired to bed in his apartments in St. James’s Palace. Soon after midnight his screams awoke his servants who rushing in found him in his bed with a wound at the side of his head. One of the servants had fallen over the Duke’s sword which lay, on the floor and was spattered with fresh blood.
The Palace was soon aroused; doctors were sent for; and it was noticed that the Prince’s valet, an Italian named Sellis, was missing. One of the servants went to call him and ran screaming from the room. Sellis was lying on the floor, a razor beside him, his throat cut.
What happened in the Duke of Cumberland’s apartments on that fateful last night in May no one could be quite sure but there was rumour enough. The Duke’s story was that a noise in his room had awakened him and before he had time to light a candle, he had received a blow on the side of his head. He had started up, and as his eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness he received another and more violent blow; he had felt the blood streaming down his face as he fell back on his pillows screaming for help.
That was all he could tell them.
The public was excited. This was far more dramatic than the recent Mary Anne Clarke scandal. A royal Duke attacked in his bed; his valet murdered. There would be an inquest. What would come out of that? Speculation ran wild.
The valet had a very beautiful wife. Everyone knew the weakness of the royal princes where women were concerned. Why should a valet attack a duke? Why should the valet be murdered?
The King was becoming quite incoherent.
‘This terrible scandal,’ he said. ‘What does it mean, eh, what does it mean, eh, what? This is worse than anything the Prince of Wales ever did. Ernest— what does it mean— what can it mean?’
There was one fact which kept hammering on his mind.
The valet had a beautiful wife. He kept seeing pictures of Ernest and a woman — a dark woman. Italian? Oh, God, help me, groaned the King. This family of mine will drive me mad.
The inquest was conducted with decorum and respect for the royal family. It was not easy to sort out the evidence. It seemed incomprehensible. Why should the valet attempt to murder the Duke and then commit suicide?
The public had the answer. It was discussed in all the coffee and chocolate houses. It was simple, wasn’t it? Sellis had found his wife in bed with the Duke, had attacked him, and the Duke retaliated by murdering the valet and making it appear as suicide.
It seemed the only logical answer. And knowing these princes, a very reasonable one.
At the inquest the verdict of, suicide was brought in. Sellis, it was said, had gone mad, had attacked his master and realizing what he had done had committed suicide. That the Duke had been attacked was indisputable. The blow on his head had cut deep and could have killed him. Why the Duke’s sword should have been stained with fresh blood was never answered. But the people had their verdict and they were not going to be diverted from it by a mere jury, ‘What would happen to us, eh,’ they asked each other, ‘if we committed murder?’
‘Hanged by the neck. That’s what. But then we’re not royal dukes.’
The King muttered to himself as he paced up and down his apartments. ‘What next, eh? What next?’
The Prince of Wales discussed the state of affairs with Lady Hertford. He was most humble with the lady as he needed to be for she made it clear that she would not be an easy victim. That was why he was so desperate. She was not beautiful, but her elegance was supreme. She was the best dressed woman in London and cared passionately for the cut of a gown and that the jewellery she wore should be in absolute keeping with her ensemble.
‘Perfection!’ the Prince would sigh looking at her. But she was frigid and made it clear that she had her reputation to consider. She had no need of the gifts he could bestow for she was the wife of one of the richest peers in the country. He might win her by accepting her advice but he was supposed to be a Whig and she was the most ardent of Tories.
This made the pursuit of her full of difficulties and the more exciting because of it.
But she was most gracious when he talked politics and if he were to ask her advice she became almost affectionate, so different from Maria. There could not have been a woman less like Maria. Was that why he was attracted? He knew he wanted them both. But he had Maria. Maria was his affectionate and devoted wife; there was no need to pursue Maria.
But he was madly in love with his elusive frigid fashion plate.