But Mr Robinson sprawled in a chair and regarded the tips of his boots, a sly look of determination on his face.
‘I want some compensation for losing my wife,’ he said in a whining voice.
‘You have … as you said. Your kitchen sluts.’
‘Even they have to be kept and living’s costly.’
‘So it’s money you want. Well, you’ve had it.’
‘I want it regularly. I want to know where I stand. I want an allowance from you. Why shouldn’t I? I’ve a right.’
‘If you will go away you shall have it.’
He nodded slowly and began to haggle over the amount.
She lay back on her pillows thinking: Go away. Leave me. If he were here when the guests arrived what would happen? The Prince would be annoyed. But Thomas Robinson would never dare. He was a coward. He was a braggart. He would go before they came. But he was in a truculent mood. He had clearly been drinking. And she needed to rest. Late nights with the Prince were beginning to leave their mark – very slightly it was true – but she had noticed faint shadows under her eyes this morning.
Go! she wanted to scream. Leave me in peace.
But the more she showed her agitation the more advantage that gave him. She was ready to promise anything if only he would go.
‘Then that’s settled,’ he said. ‘And I want it regularly remember.’
‘You shall have it. I must rest now. I am very tired.’
‘Yours is an exhausting profession.’
She did not answer that and he continued to sit there leering at her.
At length she said: ‘Well, you have what you want.’
‘Partly, but not entirely.’
‘Pray, what do you mean?’
‘I like this place. There’s plenty of room here.’
‘Are you mad?’
‘No, only a husband with rights.’
‘Do you think your presence here would be tolerated?’
‘Not welcomed probably, but that wouldn’t worry me.’
‘Thomas, I beg of you to go. If you stay here … you will ruin everything.’
He still continued to leer at her.
She closed her eyes; she had a horrible vision of her guests arriving to find this unkempt drunken sot sprawling in her house. Mr Robinson of the cartoons, husband of Perdita.
She was distracted. What could she do? The more she showed her terror the more determined he would be to plague her. She thought of some of the people who were coming tonight – outwardly her friends, but a woman in her position had to face a great deal of envy. It was everywhere – in the lampoons, the wicked verses, the eyes of women who called lewd names after her. Everything she did was noticed. They would say Mr Robinson has moved in with his wife. Ménage à trois. And the Prince would never tolerate it.
And what can I do? she asked herself.
Mrs Armistead came into the room. She was a little flushed and breathless and looked as though she had been hurrying.
‘Madam,’ she said, ‘Lord Maiden is here.’
Perdita looked alarmed and glanced in horror at Mr Robinson, but Mrs Armistead said firmly: ‘I will show him in.’
Mr Robinson said: ‘So you receive men in your bedroom, do you?’
‘Don’t be a fool. I am not alone here.’
‘No, your husband is here to protect you. Ha! ha!’
Mrs Armistead appeared with Lord Maiden, exquisitely dressed as usual in a light brown velvet coat with gold frogging. He kissed Perdita’s hand and turned to Mr Robinson.
However truculent the latter had felt before the entrance of Lord Maiden, he could not prevent himself being overawed by the elegance of dress and manners, and as Lord Maiden treated him with the utmost courtesy – and interest – his mood changed completely. He was ingratiating and pleased to be noticed.
While Perdita lay back on her pillows exhausted, the men talked and after a while Lord Maiden suggested Mr Robinson come with him to a club he knew that they might continue their interesting conversation.
Mr Robinson was delighted and both men took their leave of Perdita.
When they had gone, she cried: ‘Oh, what a stroke of good fortune. I shall never be able to thank Maiden enough. And the manner in which that creature went … as meek as a lamb.’
Mrs Armistead said demurely: ‘It was certainly a stroke of good fortune that I found Lord Maiden at his residence.’
‘You?’
‘Yes, Madam. When I saw that Mr Robinson intended to stay I slipped out of the house and went to Dean Street. As I say it was fortunate that his lordship was at home. I told him that Mr Robinson was here and in what mood and begged him to come at once and dislodge him. This he did. He will take him to some club or tavern and there ply him with drink. So I do not think we need worry ourselves this evening with Mr Robinson.’
Perdita sighed. She must endure Armistead’s familiarities now and then; she really was a most excellent servant.
The incident had unnerved her. She could not help thinking that but for the prompt action of Armistead Mr Robinson might be at this moment in the house. The Prince noticed her lack of spirits and chided her affectionately.
‘You look tired, my angel,’ he whispered.
Oh God, she thought, and looked for the nearest mirror.
‘Smile,’ urged the Prince. ‘You’re more beautiful when you smile.’
And she fixed her features into a false smile which could not deceive any.
Perdita was melancholy by nature, thought the Prince, faintly critical. He was comparing her with his aunt Cumberland and the very thought of her made him smile. She could always amuse him. She was so full of gaiety always and never failing to come up with a quip which brought tears of mirth to the eyes. And Georgiana, the lovely Duchess of Devonshire – there was another. His eyes grew soft at the thought of her. She was a beauty and no mistake. Of course Perdita was the queen of beauty – but so damned melancholy. Then that lady’s maid – Mrs Armistead – he had asked her her name the other day and she had curtsied so prettily … Well, elegantly, he would have said. It was a curtsey that would have become a duchess and she was a handsome woman too. Not perhaps his ideal of beauty; he liked dazzlers like Georgiana, Anne Luttrell … and Perdita; but that waiting woman had something.
It was a good evening. The usual practical jokes which he so enjoyed and at which Sheridan was beginning to shine. Sheridan was a great fellow – he loved the man. He had yet to find a friend who compared with Fox or Sheridan. When he was with them he could talk and talk and as they talked they drank and he was beginning to be able to drink as much as they could, which was a good deal. They never bored him; they never wearied him; they were never melancholy, whatever the subject they made it amusing. Cynics both of them – and yet both capable of affection and devotion and they made it clear that they had this for the Prince of Wales. They were sycophants and he was not such a fool as not to recognize them; but these two were his genuine friends. He had never understood the American situation until it was explained to him by Fox, Burke and Sheridan. Fox railed against North’s conduct of the affair – and that included the King’s because the King and North were together in everything that was done. The more he learned of affairs, the more the Prince deplored his father’s attitude. He himself was firmly against the Government and that meant North and his father; the Prince was determined to take his stand with Mr Fox and the Whigs.
This was the life! He regretted that Fred was not with him to enjoy it. Poor Fred learning army tactics! The use of arms! By God, one thing Mr Fox had taught him was that words were the finest weapons in the world.
Gambling, prizefighting, horse-racing and loving a beautiful mistress – these were some of the greatest pleasures life had to offer; but he was not sure that he did not enjoy most being in the company of Fox and Sheridan, listening to their erudite conversation, joining with it, growing more and more mellow as the evening wore on. Sometimes of course he was a little hazy after these sessions; sometimes they had to take him back to Cork Street and help him in. This they never failed to do with the utmost care and tact and they would recall similar incidents in their own youth in case he should feel he had not yet learned to take his liquor like a man. He was not a fool. He knew they were wise men of vast experience in all the ways of life which were most exciting to him. He was willing to be tutored. And Perdita would be waiting for him … reproachful. Oh yes, she was reproachful, even though she might not put her reproaches into words. There he was back at Perdita’s melancholy. He’d be ready to swear that that was one thing his lively aunt at Cumberland House never felt – melancholy. Nor would she ever be reproachful. Why she would have to be continually so when one considered the exploits of that wicked old reprobate his Uncle Cumberland.