The soldiers hated him for depriving them of drink; the shopkeepers were furious because he took away their trade. Who was this man? they asked each other. The son of a king. They did not want to be commanded by kings’ sons; they wanted to be commanded by soldiers. Where had he learned his army drill? In Germany. This was not Germany and they would not tolerate German ways.
The revolt was staged for Christmas Eve but it was ill-planned and the Duke, if stern, was competent. He had soon captured the ringleaders and without hesitation stood them up before a firing squad. The sound of those shots sobered themutineers as he had guessed they would.
But within a month he was recalled to England.
‘By God, Edward,’ said Fred – jolly, good-humoured Fred – ‘things are damned awkward at Gib. Worse than they were before you went. Better if you’d stayed at home, perhaps.’
This from Frederick – a careless pleasure-loving Fred – who cared more for his numerous mistresses than he did for the Army. It was an insult; it was a deep wound; it was an open sore. For whichever way he looked at it he had once again been recalled from Gibraltar in disgrace.
The King received him with much shaking of the head. ‘Discipline … very good, but it has to be reasonable discipline, eh, what? You’ve got to have tact, eh, judgement, eh what?’ He glared at his son as he spoke, and those protuberant eyes were wild beneath the bushy white brows. He was half mad, thought Edward, but that did not heal the wound. He had done his best. He could have kept order in Gibraltar; he could have restored discipline; but they had recalled him after he had stifled the revolt because they said he was too severe; when he remembered the disgrace of it, he was furious. And there was Fred – unfit for command if ever anyone was – Commander-in-Chief of the Army!
The incompetence of Fred therefore became an obsession; he had to occupy his mind with something, cut off as he was from the career he loved.
Then one day a certain Colonel Wardle came to him with a startling story.
‘Your Highness,’ said the Colonel, ‘there is a matter which causes me great uneasiness and puts me in a very delicate position, but I have come to the conclusion that it is my duty to bring it to your notice. It concerns certain practices which are being carried out to the detriment of the army which we both serve.’
‘Certainly tell me,’ said Edward.
The Colonel coughed. ‘It is a little embarrassing, Your Highness. This concerns the conduct of the Duke of York.’
Edward tried to suppress his excitement. ‘I trust it is nothing … discreditable.’ His very expression denied the sentiment, showing clearly that he hoped it was.
‘So discreditable, Your Highness, that I think perhaps I should not talk of it.’
‘You have made an accusation against my brother. I must insist.’
‘Not against the Duke, Your Highness. It is a certain woman who was once his mistress.’
Edward licked his lips. ‘I command you to proceed, Colonel.’
‘I know for a fact that a certain Mary Anne Clarke has been selling commissions in the Army. Her position as mistress of the Commander-in-Chief has put her into a position to do this.’
‘Selling commissions? It is monstrous!’
‘So I thought, Your Highness.’
‘And how long has this been going on?’
‘Doubtless it is no longer happening, because His Highness pensioned off the woman some time ago. But it did happen. I have irrefutable evidence of this.’
‘It is something which must not be allowed to pass. It is trickery of the worst kind. Where is this woman now?’
Colonel Wardle-twirled his moustaches. ‘Passing from one man to another in the process of her profession, Your High ness.’
‘And my brother?’
‘They parted good friends. He gave her a pension of four hundred a year but she is in debt. I fear he instilled in her a taste for extravagance.’
‘Coupled with a taste for trickery,’ said Edward, his eyes protruding and his face growing so red that he looked remarkably like his father.
‘You know where to find this woman?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘She should be asked … bribed if need be … to tell the truth.’
‘I will try her out, Your Highness. I think I know how to make her talk.’
‘It is deplorable, highly regrettable, but even though my own brother and a royal Duke is involved I do not see how I can allow this to pass.’
We are in for an exciting scandal, thought Colonel Wardle, and went off to set it in motion.
Mary Anne Clarke, vivacious, extremely pretty and, according to the men of her acquaintance, infinitely desirable though now nearer forty than thirty, was finding it difficult to satisfy her creditors. It was true that though she came from the establishment of a stonemason – her husband – in Snow Hill, that was long ago and she had grown accustomed to living with a duke – and a royal one at that. She had four children – the stonemason’s – to whom she was devoted and she was determined to have the best for them. She would like nice respectable marriages for the three girls and a good career for the boy. If Frederick had stayed with her this could have been achieved but Frederick had left. They had been together for three years – which was a long time for Frederick – and she had always been well aware of his penchant for variety. He had been an easygoing, pleasant lover, not very intelligent, but one must not expect too much; he had royalty to offer and that meant prestige even if there had not been all the money she would have liked. Poor Fred, like his brother the Prince of Wales he was constantly in debt, and although he had promised his dear Mary Anne a good income, it was rarely paid.
‘Simply haven’t the money, my angel,’ he would tell her blithely; and she knew it was true.
But she had insisted on her pension of four hundred pounds a year on which she delicately called her retirement from his service. It had all been arranged legally; she had been determined on that.
Sometimes she read through his letters. They made her laugh, for writing was not one of his accomplishments. They were crude and ill-spelt, but one thing they did show was his devotion, for Fred had been a very devoted lover, while it lasted.
The letters she kept carefully tied up with ribbon and in a locked box. The ribbon was for sentiment and the locked box for prudence. Remembering Perdita Robinson who had dealt very profitably with the letters of the Prince of Wales, she did not see why Mary Anne Clarke might not fare equally so with the letters of Frederick Duke of York. Well, perhaps not equally but should she say adequately – for she must not lose sight of the fact that a Duke of York was not quite a Prince of Wales.
And a woman in her position had to consider her assets. Her looking-glass told her that they were still considerable. Her cheeky nose, her full sensuous lips, her big blue eyes and her fair unblemished skin were more than charming; they were inviting; and her thick fair curly hair was youthful still. No one would guess that she was nearly forty. But she was … and that was why it was comforting to think of those letters with their pretty pink ribbon and their strong box.
She had very little money and extravagant tastes. Having lived in an establishment with twenty servants to wait on her, it was hard to wait on herself. But even at the height of her extravagance and when Frederick was at his most adoring she had been short of money because she had entertained him so lavishly and so many people had flocked to her house. The wild Barry Brothers were constant visitors although she never penetrated the sedate Maria Fitzherbert set. And who wanted to? was Mary Anne’s comment. What Mary Anne wanted was fun … and money to enjoy it.
The royal brothers had an unpractical attitude to money. For them it was almost an abstract quality. They ordered what they wanted as a privilege of royalty and forgot that it had to be paid for.