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Savage’s brows drew together slightly. “Wicked? Hardly that, Lady Randolph. Perhaps a trifle wild and rackety, but I firmly believe Tony will benefit from male companionship. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on him.”
Tony, in a reckless mood, was having the time of her life. When she first entered Carlton House it held all her attention. She’d never quite seen anything to compare with what she could only describe as vulgar ostentation. The Prince of Wales had developed a passion for chinoiserie and as a result the drawing room was done in Chinese Chippendale, its walls hung in yellow silk. The dining room however was the focal point of the establishment.
It had been made larger to accommodate the infinite number of intimates in His Highness’s circle. Columns of red and yellow granite had been added to lift the ceiling and were reflected in the wall panels of glittering silver-gilt. It opened into the ballroom paneled in crimson silk, which had platforms at both ends for the orchestra.
Tonight there were only gentlemen invited to dine. Though there was to be no dancing, nevertheless the ballroom doors were thrown wide, the lusters and chandeliers lighted, and the orchestra played dinner music.
The Carlton House set, as George’s friends were called, soon diverted Tony’s attention from the rooms themselves. Apart from Sheridan, Burke, and Essex, whom she’d already met, were other prominent Whigs such as Charles Fox. He was reputed to be the Prince’s most intimate friend and the one who constantly tried to get more money for George from Parliament. It was he who was presently pushing for the Regency Bill.
Fox was at least ten years older than the Prince, making Tony wonder what the attraction was. She decided Fox must be a father figure, though a decidedly odd father figure, for at the moment he was expounding the merit of blue hair powder in a decidedly wine-thickened voice.
Whenever she was introduced to a new face, Sherry was at her elbow to fill her in on all the dirt. They were drinkingdiabolenos,the latest craze. Sherry urged Tony to try one. “I do believe you’re cold sober. You’ll have to swill them down if you ever hope to catch up with the rest of us.”
Two other royals were present; Frederick, Duke of York, the Prince’s younger brother, and Henry Frederick. Duke of Cumberland, the Prince’s uncle.
“Is that the wicked uncle?” Tony asked, amused.
“Mmm, shocking influence. Can carouse from dusk till dawn. Known in every pleasure haunt in London. First time a prince of the blood ever appeared in divorce court. Lord Grosvenor cited him as correspondent when he found obscene letters to his wife revealing their passionate affair. Cost him ten thousand pounds damages and gave Grosvenor his divorce.” Sherry finished his drink and reached for another. “Lucky old swine turned round and wed that pretty piece of pussy, Anne Horton. We love the new Duchess of Cumberland dearly. She’s deliciously vulgar and quite liberal with her favors.”
The fashions in the room were ludicrous. Every man was draped in satins, laces, and bows with yards and yards of ribbon at elbow and knee. Embroidered waistcoats were worn over underwaistcoats, all topped by white leaded faces and high wigs loaded down with Venetian talc. Charles Fox was the exception. He wore one of Truefitt’s nutty-brown wigs reeking with perfumed oil.
Of all the guests present Tony liked Henry Luttrell best. She was already familiar with his satirical poems and Sherry gave her a thumbnail sketch that whetted her appetite. “He’s only welcome here because of his wit. He’s the son of an Irish peer and his gardener’s daughter. Hasn’t a pot to piss in or a window to throw it through, but he dines out in style every night.” Sherry tapped Luttrell on the shoulder. “Here’s an admirer of yours Henry; Tony Lamb. Give us a limerick, old man.”
“Well, let’s see,” Henry drawled, “would you like one about excrement or one that abuses the clergy?”
“Oh, abuse the clergy, by all means,” Tony urged.
“There was a fat priest of St. Giles
Who was much too wide for the aisles.
Passing to and from mass,
The pews pinched his ass,
And gave him a bad case of piles.”
Tony burst out laughing and Henry was most flattered. “Lord, man, we’re not in mixed company, give us something with a little more zing,” Sherry urged.
“There once was a monk of Gibraltar
Who buggered a nun on the altar.
‘Good God,’ said the nun,
‘Now look what you’ve done:
You’ve gummed up the leaves of the Psalter.’”
Sherry bent double with mirth and began to cough. Tony had to clap him on the back to stop him from choking.
Suddenly a shot rang out, engaging everyone’s attention. “By Satan, we’re going to have a little pistol practice. George has one of the finest collections in town.” When they arrived at the other end of the room, the betting was heavy and the money piled high.
His Highness bade a footman put up a portrait of the King and they all took turns, wagering obscene amounts of money. When Tony selected one of the pistols it was much heavier than she had anticipated. She admired the workmanship of the weapon with its smoothly polished olivewood handle and long silver barrel.
His Highness said, “Ah, here’s a fellow after my own heart. Loves the feel of a gun in his hand. That one has a hair trigger.”
Before she could be warned to take proper aim, her finger brushed the trigger and the pistol exploded. The bullet nicked the wire holding up the portrait and it crashed to the dining room floor. For a moment Tony was aghast that shed put a hole in the plaster, but a cheer went up and they declared Lord Lamb the unconditional winner. She sat down white faced as two hundred guineas was pressed upon her.
