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If 1983 had been a leap year, the problem might have solved itself. But it wasn’t, and Virginia was unwilling to wait.
She had been living at Eaton Square with the duke for almost a year, and once the official mourning period was over, her next purpose was quite simply to become her grace, the Duchess of Hertford. There was only one obstacle in her path, namely the duke, who seemed to be quite satisfied with the present arrangement, and had never once raised the subject of marriage. That state of affairs would have to be brought to a head. But how?
Virginia considered the alternatives that were open to her. She could move out of Eaton Square and return to Chelsea, starving Perry of her company and, more important, sex, which was no longer quite as regular as it had once been, and hope that would do the trick. However, with only her two thousand pounds a month allowance from her brother to live on, Virginia feared she would give in long before he did. She could propose herself, but she didn’t care for the humiliation of being turned down. Or she could simply leave him, which didn’t bear thinking about.
When she discussed the problem over lunch with Bofie Bridgwater and Priscilla Bingham, it was Bofie who came up with a simple solution which would undoubtedly force the duke to make a decision one way or the other.
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“But it might backfire,” said Virginia, “and then I’d be back on Queer Street.”
“You could be right,” admitted Bofie. “But frankly you haven’t been left with a lot of choice, old gal, unless you’re happy to drift along until the time comes to attend the duke’s funeral as an old friend.”
“No, I assure you that isn’t part of my plan. If I were to let that happen, the Lady Camilla Hertford would come after me, all guns blazing, demanding the £185,000 loan be repaid in full. No, if I’m going to risk everything on one throw of the dice, it’s going to have to be before Christmas.”
“Why is Christmas so important?” asked Priscilla.
“Because Camilla will be flying over from New Zealand, and she’s already written to Perry warning him that if ‘that woman’ is among the houseguests, then neither she nor her husband nor Perry’s grandchildren, whom he adores, will be boarding the plane.”
“She dislikes you that much?”
“Even more than her late mother did, if that were possible. So if we’re going to do anything about it, time isn’t on my side.”
“Then I’d better make that call,” said Bofie.
* * *
“Daily Mail.”
“Could you put me through to Nigel Dempster?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Lord Bridgwater.”
“Bofie, good to hear from you,” said the next voice on the line. “What’s cooking?”
“I’ve had a call from William Hickey at The Express, Nigel. Of course, I refused to speak to them.”
“I’m grateful for that, Bofie.”
“Well, if the story has to come out, I’d much rather it was in your column.”
“Fire away.”
Dempster wrote down every word Bofie had to say, and was somewhat surprised because he’d always described Lord Bridgwater in his column as a “confirmed bachelor.” But there wasn’t any question that this exclusive was coming straight from the horse’s mouth.
* * *
As soon as The Daily Mail dropped on her doormat the following morning, Virginia immediately grabbed it. She ignored the front page headline “Divorce?” above a photo of Rod and Alana Stewart, and quickly turned to Dempster’s column, to see the headline “Marriage?” above a not very flattering photo of the Lady Virginia Fenwick in Monte Carlo with Bofie.
As Virginia read Dempster’s lead story, she regretted ever letting Bofie loose. A close family friend (code for the subject of the story) tells me that Lord Bridgwater is hoping shortly to announce his engagement to the Lady Virginia Fenwick, the only daughter of the late Earl Fenwick. This might come as a surprise to my regular readers, because as recently as last week, Lady Virginia was seen at a point-to-point on the arm of the Duke of Hertford. Watch this space.
Virginia read the article a second time, fearing that Bofie had over-egged the pudding, because you didn’t need to read between the lines to realize that Dempster didn’t believe a word of it. She would have to call Perry and tell him it was all complete rubbish. After all, everyone knew Bofie was gay.
After several cups of coffee and even more false starts, Virginia finally picked up the phone and dialed Perry’s number in Eaton Square. It had just begun to ring when there was a knock on her front door.
“The Duke of Hertford’s residence,” said a voice on the other end of the line that she immediately recognized.
