Perdita's Prince

Danger on Hounslow Heath

ONE THING HE was sure of, he was tired of Perdita. Her continual hints of sacrifice, her frequent tears, the theatrical tones in which she talked of her position and her wrongs, the turgid sentimental poems she was fond of writing – and they were all addressed to him – these were more frequent than the gay times. He was beginning to make excuses for not calling at Cork Street. And when he did call his visits were enlivened by the brief chats he indulged in with Mrs Armistead.

He was discovering how handsome she was, and she always seemed so sensible when compared with Perdita. When he kissed her hand in an excess of gallantry she did not protest or show any surprise but accepted his attentions as natural. Even when he went so far as to kiss her lips she returned the kiss in a sensible way.

He was greatly intrigued; and one thing the Hardenburg affair had taught him was that he no longer had any intention of remaining faithful to Perdita.

He had already accepted Grace Elliott’s invitation to be her lover. She was amusing – just what he needed as an antidote to Perdita. A little cynical, extremely worldly; and a woman to whom one did not have to swear eternal fidelity every few minutes. He knew what his affair with Grace meant. It was good while it lasted and when it was over there would be no recriminations on either side. He knew that Grace had several lovers. He believed Cholmondeley was still one. There was St Leger, Selwyn, Wind-ham … Safety in numbers. He could be gay with Grace.

But he was tremendously intrigued with Mrs Armistead. In fact it was an unusual situation. He visited the mistress and desired the maid. Opportunities would have to be made for they could not very well make love under Perdita’s nose.

She would be different from everyone else, he was sure.

His Aunt Cumberland knew that Grace had become his mistress and was delighted.

He talked of Mrs Armistead.

‘Intriguing creature,’ agreed the Duchess; and thought how amusing it was that under her very roof Perdita was housing a rival. If she but knew! And she would, in due course. Silly little Perdita had some shocks coming to her. ‘A meeting with Mrs Armistead could easily be arranged.’

‘It’s a devilishly ticklish situation.’

‘You will not have to consider it so much longer, I gather.’

The Prince looked startled. Of course he would not! How much longer was he going on with this farce of being Perdita’s devoted lover? Why should he not meet the interesting Mrs Armistead if he wished?

‘Why not invite her to Windsor. You could meet at an inn there. That would be discreet. I am sure the good woman would wish for discretion.’

‘An inn at Windsor. Why not?’

‘You will have to go there for your birthday celebrations.’

He was thoughtful. He could not help remembering the inn on Eel Pie Island to which he had gone in such a state of ecstasy.

His uncle appeared.

‘Ha, so we have the pleasure of His Highness’s company. Looking well and debonair. Better to be the lover of women in the plural than in the singular.’

‘He speaks from experience,’ said the Duchess coolly.

‘Am I right or wrong, eh, Taffy?’

Taffy? thought the Prince. Oh, Wales, of course. It struck a discordant note. Taffy.

It occurred to him for the first time that his uncle was a very crude man and that he did not really like him very much.

Perdita was not at home. Gorgeously painted and patched she had gone out for one of her morning drives. She had not felt in the mood for such an outing, she told Mrs Armistead; the Prince’s attitude lately had worried her. But she did not want people to notice that she was less happy than she had been. The Prince was young and gay and he had fallen into bad company; and as she naturally had tried to make him understand this, it had caused a little lovers’ quarrel.

Mrs Armistead, who had overheard the lovers quarrel, thought it far from little. She had already decided that Perdita had not very many weeks left to her in which to bask in the glory of the Prince’s favour. Let her dress in her silks and muslins, her fantastic hats. Poor creature, she would very soon be dislodged from her position.

So she had driven out in the ostentatious coach with the wreath of flowers which looked like a coronet and she would be gone for at least another hour.

Mrs Armistead, reviewing her mistress’s position, was in fact thinking of her own. Things will change mightily when we have lost His Highness, she thought. Would that be the time to retire to Chertsey? She had not only her house but enough money to live on in modest dignity. Mr Fox was her friend. He would visit her there and they would talk politics together; he had paid her the compliment of actually letting her share in a discussion with him and although perhaps she could not go so far as to say he had taken her advice, he had listened to it.

The footman came to her room to announce that a Mr Meynel had called from the Prince of Wales.

‘Mrs Robinson is not at home, but perhaps I should see him. Bring him in,’ she ordered.

Mr Meynel appeared and bowing asked if he had the pleasure of meeting Mrs Armistead.

‘I am Mrs Armistead. But I’m afraid I have to tell you that Mrs Robinson is not at home. Any message you care to leave …’

‘I have not come to see Mrs Robinson, Madam, but yourself.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Yes, Madam. His Highness the Prince of Wales asks that you take supper with him.’

Mrs Armistead flushed a faint pink. ‘Is this really so?’

‘Yes, Madam. His Highness is shortly leaving for Windsor; he wishes you to take supper in an inn near that town, and wishes to know whether you accept this invitation.’

‘His Highness does not issue invitations but commands.’

Mr Meynel inclined his head in acknowledgement of the truth of this statement.

‘Then, Madam, I am to understand you accept His Highness’s command?’

‘Being fully conscious of the honour, indeed I do.’

‘I will tell His Highness, who I am sure will be delighted.’

‘And when …?’

‘Madam, you may leave these arrangements to me. A carriage will pick you up and take you to the inn. All you must do is hold yourself in readiness. You will have notice.’

‘Thank you, sir. I shall await His Highness’s instructions.’

Mr Meynel departed and Mrs Armistead sat down, for once without her usual serenity. So it had come! Fox, Derby, Dorset and now the Prince of Wales.

Oh, indeed Perdita’s day was done.

In the days which followed, Mrs Armistead was busy. During one of Perdita’s absences she moved many of her belongings to the house of a friend. They should be taken to Chertsey at the first opportunity.

It would not be possible for her to stay with Perdita after taking supper with the Prince. At least she would not deceive her and remain under her roof. There should be a complete break. A friend of the Prince of Wales could not remain the lady’s maid of his ex-mistress.

It was a very extraordinary situation, but she would be able to handle it.

The message would come any day now for she knew that the Prince would most certainly be going to Windsor soon to celebrate his nineteenth birthday there.

She had no illusions. This would be no grande passion. She was not the sort of woman to inspire that; nor did she wish to be. Perdita was a sad warning to any woman who might have such dreams. No, she and the Prince would have a quiet discreet friendship which would go as far as he wished and be terminated at his desire – which was the best in the long run. Only a fool would expect fidelity from such a young man; she did not even expect it from Mr Fox and her feelings towards him were different from any she felt towards anyone else.

She was excited. She knew now that she was an extremely attractive woman. She guessed she would last as long as Dally the Tall; and she had no objections to running simultaneously with that notorious lady.

Perhaps she should warn Perdita. She imagined the effect that would have because the vain creature was beginning to learn how much she owed to her maid, and the more she considered the matter the more certain she was that once she had supped with the Prince she could not come back to Perdita. It would be undignified to do so; and her dignity had been her most characteristic trait; it had helped to bring her to the position in which she now found herself.

Meanwhile Perdita was growing more and more melancholy.

There were hints everywhere about the Prince’s friendship with Mrs Grace Elliott.

‘Friendship!’ cried Perdita. ‘That creature is so impertinent that she would presume on any friendship.’

‘She is certainly a very bold lady,’ agreed Mrs Armistead.

‘How do you know, Armistead?’

‘I have seen her, Madam. She is constantly showing herself in her carriage.’

‘And doubtless you have heard rumours?’

‘Yes, Madam, there are rumours.’

Perdita went into a mood of morbidity; and Mrs Armistead chose this moment to hint that she might be leaving.

‘Personal affairs are beginning to intrude a little, Madam. I may find it necessary in the near future to give up my post and attend to them.’

‘Personal affairs,’ murmured Perdita vaguely.

‘Yes … my own affairs, Madam.’

Perdita looked at Mrs Armistead. How strange! One had never expected her to have personal affairs. They sounded very vague. Perdita could not pay much attention to Mrs Armistead’s personal affairs; she had so many of her own. Then it suddenly struck her. Armistead wanted more money. This was her way of asking for it. Of course she should have it.

She offered it and it was gratefully accepted. Mrs Armistead had done her duty, she considered; she had warned Perdita.

Perdita was in her room; she was weeping undramatically. She was too unhappy for drama. It was true; he had a mistress. She was this woman who had been divorced by her husband for eloping with Lord Valentia. Mrs Grace Elliott – Dally the Tall – the golden haired beauty who had dared to give him rosebuds while she, Perdita, had looked on.

Of course she had opportunities of seeing him which were denied to Perdita. But they need not have been. He could have been constantly at Cork Street if he had wished. But he did not wish; he came less frequently and when he did come he stayed for such a short time. Why? So that he could hurry away and be with Grace Elliott at Cumberland House. For she had no doubt of this. Her enemies were the Duke and Duchess of Cumberland. The Duke hated her because he had wanted her for his mistress and the Duchess hated her for the same reason. They had been against her from the first. It was they who had brought this Grace Elliott to his notice. But he had been ready enough to be unfaithful to her.

And she had given up everything for him!

She had shut herself in her room; she could not bear to see anyone. She had not even sent for Armistead to dress her. She could only lie in bed and contemplate her misery.

What would this mean? Humiliation. The whole world would know. One could not hope that it would be a secret. The papers would be filled with cartoons and lampoons; when she rode out people would laugh at her. There would be no more of those rides along the Mall when people stopped to stare at her, and gallant gentlemen doffed their hats and almost swept the ground with them to do her the utmost homage.

And the Prince would flaunt another mistress. And … hideous thought and one which she tried to shut out altogether … the creditors would demand their money. They would not humbly request payment as they had in the past; they would make ugly demands. And what would she do? Where would she find the money to pay?

She thought of the cold stone walls of the debtors’ prison … the hopelessness, the despair of those within.

No I she thought. Never, never! Anything is better than that.

The Prince was going to Windsor for his birthday celebrations. There would be beautiful women there … women of the Court. But she was shut out. She was not received. At one time he would have deplored this. He would have said: ‘I will go to Windsor for the birthday ball because I needs must and then I will fly back to my Perdita.’

But now he was going to Windsor days before the ball; he was going to make the arrangements himself. He had no desire to be where Perdita was.

Oh it was so different; it was all that the moralists would have told her that she must expect.

So she lay in bed all day, too limp to get up, to care, and it was a measure of her misery that she did not care what she looked like.

There was a scratching at the door.

‘Is that you, Armistead?’

Mrs Armistead entered. ‘A letter, Madam.’

Eagerly she took it because she saw that it came from the Prince.

Her fingers were trembling as she opened it. She could not believe those words. They could not be true. He was telling her that their idyll was over and that they should not meet again.

She lay back on her pillows, her eyes closed. Mrs Armistead picking up the letter, took the opportunity to read it.

She understood. The moment had come.

‘Madam has had bad news?’ she asked soothingly.

Perdita nodded vaguely.

‘I will make you some chocolate.’

‘Chocolate!’ cried Perdita bitterly.

‘Then, Madam, a dish of tea.’

‘Leave me, Armistead. Leave me alone.’

Mrs Armistead quietly shut the door, leaving Perdita to her misery.

The Prince she guessed was on his way to Windsor. Soon now, if it were coming at all, the summons would come.

She went to her room – bare of all her private possessions. The beautiful gowns which Perdita had given her were all safely stored in Chertsey.

All day long Perdita stayed in her room, wanting nothing but to be left alone with her misery.

What a fool she is, thought Mrs Armistead. She will ruin her looks with weeping – and there is Lord Maiden, and a host of others who will cherish her. She could discover that it is not such a bad thing to have been the mistress of the Prince of Wales.

Mrs Armistead looked at her own reflection in the mirror and smiled secretly.

There was an air of waiting about the house in Cork Street. The servants knew. Perhaps, like Mrs Armistead, they had seen it coming; they knew how infrequent were the Prince’s visits, they had heard his voice and that of their mistress raised in anger against each other. Doubtless, thought Mrs Armistead, they imitated those in higher circles and wagered how long it would last. They would know that their mistress had shut herself in her room and that she refused to eat or see anyone.

Mrs Armistead stayed close to the window. Every time she heard carriage wheels she was intent.

And at length a carriage stopped at the door of the house and glancing out of the window she saw Mr Meynel step from it.

She was at the door and herself let him in.

‘The time has come, Madam,’ said Mr Meynel.

‘Now … this minute?’ she asked and her serenity amazed Mr Meynel.

‘The carriage is waiting, Madam. We should leave in ten minutes. It’s a long journey to Windsor.’

‘Pray go to the carriage, Mr Meynel, and wait for me there. I will be with you in ten minutes.’

Mr Meynel bowed his head. He could see that she was a woman of her word.

Mrs Armistead scratched lightly on the door. Perdita did not answer, so she opened it and looked in. Perdita lay in her bed, her lovely hair in wild disorder, her face devoid of rouge, powder and patches looking strangely childlike. She did not glance at Mrs Armistead, but stared before her as though she were in a dream.

‘Mrs Robinson, Madam.’

Perdita shook her head. Her lips framed the words Go away, but no sound came from them.

‘It distresses me to disturb you with my affairs at such a time, Madam, but I have to leave.’

Perdita did not speak.

Very well, thought Mrs Armistead, if she did not wish to hear there was no need to force an explanation upon her. She had done her duty. She had told her that she was leaving. This was an easy way out.

Mrs Armistead shut the door and, putting on her cloak, quietly left the house.

The following day Perdita roused herself and saw ruin staring her in the face. The Prince had deserted her; he no longer wished to see her. She picked up the note he had written and read it again and again.

The fashionable world would know by now: Perdita’s day is over. Now he would be flaunting that woman – riding with her, dancing with her in Cumberland House and even perhaps at his own birthday ball.

He was at Windsor now. And he would not be thinking of her; but would he not? He had cared for her so deeply and that was not so long ago.

She had done everything to please him. Where had she failed? When she thought of what she had spent in this house to entertain him in the manner to which he was accustomed …!

Oh God, she thought, bills! Those outstanding accounts which she had thrust away so impatiently because there had been no time to consider the cost. All her energies had had to go into keeping her Prince happy. There had been no time for anything else. But when the dressmakers, the wine merchants, the butchers, the pastrycooks … when they all knew that the Prince had deserted her, they would lose their patience.

She was a frightened woman.

She got up from her bed. She could not allow him to treat her like this. Where was her confidence? She thought of how, not so long ago, she had been able to change his mood from one of peevish dissatisfaction to one of adoring contentment.

She was being foolish. All she had to do was see him, to tell him she adored him, that she could not live without him. That was all he needed. After all he was such a boy, a spoilt boy. Of course he was a spoilt boy. There were so many people around him showing him how important he was. Would he not one day be King?

Then she must see him. But he was at Windsor. Well, what was to prevent her going to Windsor?

She felt better now that she had decided on some action.

She leaped off her bed, looked at herself in the mirror and gasping with horror covered her face with her hands. What a fool she was! What if he had repented and called and seen her like this? The damage must be repaired without delay; and she would go to Windsor. She would take Armistead with her and it would be rather like the old days on Eel Pie Island.

She pulled the bell rope for Armistead and went to her wardrobe. Now what should she wear? A becoming gown and a cloak in a contrasting colour. Her hair dressed simply as he had liked it best, perhaps with a curl over the shoulder.

Why did Armistead not answer her summons? It was unlike Armistead.

She frowned and brought a blue silk dress from her wardrobe. She was feeling better already. Once Armistead had done her work she would have transformed this pale and sad creature into the most beautiful woman in London.

Hurry Armistead! What has happened to you.

It was five minutes since she had rung.

She opened her door and called: ‘Armistead.’

She went along to Armistead’s room. The footman was on the stairs. He looked flushed and it occurred to her later that he must have been at the wine.

‘Where is Armistead?’ she asked.

‘She left, Madam. Yesterday.’

‘Left!’

‘Yes, Madam. She went away. She said she was leaving and had told you.’

‘Leaving … But …’

The footman shrugged his shoulders … insolently, she thought. What had happened? Armistead … gone!

Then she remembered that the woman had come to her yesterday and said something. What had she said? She, Perdita, had been too unhappy with her own affairs to listen to Armistead’s account of hers.

The footman was watching her covertly. Of course he was seeing her as he never had before … unkempt, carelessly dressed, her face unpainted.

He knows, she thought. He will tell the servants that the Prince has deserted me.

So she must see her lover. She must go to Windsor without delay.

She went back to her room. It was mid-afternoon. Why had she not realized before what she must do. If it had been morning she could have reached Windsor in daylight.

But first she must make herself beautiful. Oh, how she missed Armistead! And where had Armistead gone? Some family matter … was that what she had said? Why hadn’t she listened? Why hadn’t she insisted on retaining Armistead’s services at all costs?

Because she was taking some action she felt better. After all, she was capable of choosing the most becoming and suitable of her dresses, capable of applying the patch close to her eyes to call attention to their brilliance.

Dressing took a long time and she could not arrange her hair as effectively as Armistead could, but at length she was ready. Perhaps she should start tomorrow morning. No, she could not endure another night of suspense. She must see the Prince – and the sooner the better.

She sent for her young postilion – he was only nine years old – and told him that she wished to drive her small pony phaeton to Windsor, so he was to saddle the ponies and bring it to the door.

The boy looked astonished, but when she told him to be quick he went away to do her bidding.

How long it seemed while she waited there! The time seemed to have flown by since she had made her decision; again and again she looked at her reflection and thought of how much better a job Armistead would have made of her toilette.

At length the phaeton was waiting and she climbed into it while her youthful postilion took his place and they set off. Preparations had taken so long that it was getting dark when they reached Hyde Park Corner.

As the coach rattled on she was rehearsing what she would say to the Prince when she saw him; but first she must make sure that he would see her. This thought made her shiver with sudden anxiety. What if he refused? He had sounded so insistent in his letter. ‘We must not meet again.’ But he could not really have meant that. He had written it in a sudden passion. Perhaps inspired by Grace Elliott or her enemies at Cumberland House.

They had reached Hounslow and pulled up at an inn.

The innkeeper came out to welcome her and usher such an obvious lady of quality into the inn parlour.

She declared that she could take nothing. She was only eager to continue her journey as soon as possible.

‘Whither are you bound, Madam?’ asked the innkeeper.

‘To Windsor.’

‘Madam, you cannot cross the Heath at this hour. Stay here until morning.’

‘I must press on.’

‘I must tell you, Madam, that every carriage which has crossed the Heath these last ten nights has been attacked and rifled.’

‘I must take that chance.’

‘But you … a lady and no one to protect you but that young boy!’

She smiled. ‘I am not afraid,’ she said.

‘There are some dangerous men about.’

She was immediately dramatic. She threw back her head and smiled. Let me be murdered, she thought; and then he will be filled with remorse. For the rest of his life he will remember that my death was due to his treatment of me.

‘I do not fear dangerous men,’ she said.

‘You will be risking your life.’

‘Perhaps I have no great desire to save it.’

The innkeeper looked at her oddly. Her face was vaguely familiar to him. It could not be. Not the Mrs Robinson! But of course, and she was going to Windsor because His Highness had lately arrived there.

All the same, if she were to encounter a highwayman he wouldn’t care if she was the Prince’s mistress; and now he knew who she was, the innkeeper believed that that was a diamond she was wearing at her throat. She was asking for trouble, she was, but he could do no more than warn her.

As she rode off into the darkness he stood at the door of the inn scratching his head and watching until the phaeton was out of sight.

Perdita rode on. Hounslow Heath! Notorious as the haunt of the most desperate highwayman. Her little postilion was frightened; she could sense his fear. The Heath stretched out before them – ghostly in starlight. At any moment from behind one of those bushes a dark figure might rise up, flourish a pistol and call ‘Stand and deliver.’

She herself caught the boy’s fear. All very well to act a part before the innkeeper, to pretend that she did not care whether she was murdered or not. That was a part she played. But this was reality. Deep emotions, such as fear and misery penetrated the mask. She suddenly knew as they crossed the Heath that she did not want to die at the hands of some rough murderer.

She heard something like a sob from the little postilion; and then she saw the masked figure on the road.

Providence was with her, she was sure, for just as he was about to grasp the reins, the phaeton bounded over a hump in the road which threw the man backwards and gave her the chance she needed. She whipped up the horses and before the highwayman had a chance to recover his balance she had a start. He was running behind them, calling them to stand and deliver, shouting that he wanted their money or their lives.

Perdita did not heed him; the ponies seemed to sense the danger and galloped as never before, and after some moments of intense anxiety with great relief she saw the lights of an inn. She decided that if she reached it safely she would spend the night there for in any case it would be too late to get a message to the Prince at Windsor now.

The poor little postilion was white with fear and a little resentful, wondering why they had had to risk their lives by crossing the Heath only to pull up at the Magpie.

The landlord received them with pleasure and when she recounted the adventure assured her that she was a very brave lady and lucky to escape not only being robbed but with her life.

She was exhausted she said, and would have food sent up to her room. Her young postilion needed food too; he had acted with courage in an alarming situation and she wished him to know that she was pleased with him.

When the food was brought to her room she found she was very hungry and remembered that it was long since she had last eaten. She ate and lay down on her bed and was soon fast asleep.

She was awakened after a while by the sounds of commotion in the inn yard, where there was a great deal of running to and fro; visitors she supposed, and slept again to be awakened some hours later by more noises. This time it sounded like departures.

The busy life of an inn, she supposed, and slept again.

She was awake early and immediately became anxious to continue the journey to Windsor. She washed and dressed, put on her rouge and patches to the best of her ability, sighing for Mrs Armistead who would have done so much better than she could.

Then she went down to take a little refreshment before leaving.

This was brought to her and when she had eaten and had made her way out of the dining room, she saw a woman descending the staircase. At first she thought she was dreaming.

Mrs Armistead!

But what could her lady’s maid be doing here at the Magpie Inn at this hour of morning?

It was a mistake. It could not be Mrs Armistead. It was her double.

For a few seconds they stood perfectly still looking at each other. Surely that calm handsome face could belong to no one else.

Then the woman turned and unhurriedly, and with the utmost dignity, made her way back the way she had come.

Perdita cried suddenly and imperiously: ‘Armistead.’ But the woman did not look back as she disappeared round a turn in the staircase.

Impossible, thought Perdita. I must be dreaming.

The innkeeper was at the door rubbing his hands, trusting she had spent a good night and had had a good breakfast.

She assured him she had and he told her that the phaeton was ready to leave when she was.

And then she received her second surprise. A man sauntered across the yard. She knew that man. He was a servant of the Prince’s. His name was Meynel. He had on one or two occasions brought messages to her from the Prince.

How strange. It was like a dream. First she imagined she had seen Armistead – but she had seen Armistead – and then the Prince’s servant.

The innkeeper was beside her.

‘Is that man attached to the household of the Prince of Wales?’ she asked.

The innkeeper looked sly. ‘Oh, Madam, we entertain the quality here. I could tell you …’

She did not answer. She went out to the phaeton. Mrs Armistead! Meynel! How very strange.

All the way to Windsor she was thinking of the strangeness of this encounter. A suspicion had come into her mind. The Prince had shown an interest in Armistead. She had caught him watching her now and then. There had been an occasion when she had seen his arrival and he had been a long time coming into her room. And Armistead had left her … after all these years … so oddly.

Armistead! An assignation with the Prince!

‘Oh no, no,’ she murmured.

But in her heart she believed it was true, and something told her that if it was, this was indeed the end.

The next day she arrived in Windsor. She gazed wistfully at the castle and thought of how happy she could have been had she been a princess who might have married him. Everything would have been so different then. There would have been none of the anxieties which had led to friction between them.

She saw herself as a princess arriving from a foreign country, startling him with her beauty.

But encroaching reality was so alarming that it robbed her dreams of any substance; at such a time even she was forced to recognize them for the fancies they were.

She would be brisk and practical; so she pulled up at an inn where she wrote a letter and sent the postilion to the castle with it instructing him to find Lord Malden who, she was sure, was with the Prince, and when he had found him to tell him from whom the note came and beg him to deliver it into no hands but those of the Prince of Wales.

The boy was away for a fretful hour and a half before he returned and said that he had at length been taken to Lord Malden and given the note to him.

‘You did well,’ she told the boy.

The waiting was almost unbearable. At one moment she was assuring herself that the note would bring the Prince to the inn full of remorse; at another she pictured his becoming angry with her for following him to Windsor, but soon to be placated by her soft words and beauty. One thing she could not visualize and that was that he would not come at all.

It was Lord Maiden who came, looking melancholy and anxious. Dear Lord Maiden, who had always been such a good friend!

She greeted him eagerly. ‘The Prince …’

Lord Maiden shook his head.

‘You gave him my note?’

‘I did.’

‘And you have a reply for me. Why did he not come himself when I begged him to?’

‘The Prince is determined not to see you.’

‘But why … why … what have I done to deserve this? Did he read my note?’

‘Yes and …’

‘What? Pray do not hide anything.’

‘He tore it into pieces and said he had no wish to see you again.’

‘But …’

Lord Maiden took her hand and looked into her face. ‘You should return to Cork Street. You will find you have many friends … many friends …’

He was regarding her with that hungry expression which she knew so well.

She withdrew her hands impatiently.

‘I must see the Prince.’

Malden shook his head. ‘He is determined.’

‘And so am I.’

‘But …’

She seized his hand suddenly. ‘Promise me this, that you will do your best to persuade him …’

Lord Maiden replied tenderly: ‘You know that if there is anything on earth I can do to add to your happiness it shall be done. You have lost the Prince of Wales but you have friends left.’

She felt so sickened with anxiety that she turned peevishly away. She had never known Maiden not to plead his own cause! She knew what he was hinting. Don’t mourn because you are no longer the mistress of the Prince of Wales. There are many other men who are ready to take you on.

The shame of it! she thought. That was what they would be saying and thinking now.

‘I will go back to Cork Street now,’ she said. ‘There is nothing more to be done here.’

Malden bowed his head.

And Perdita, sick at heart and defeated, climbed into her phaeton. How much better if she had never come.

She rode back to London, bruised and wounded – yet thinking not so much of the Prince of Wales as the bills which would be coming in as soon as the news leaked out that the Prince had finished with her.

How would she meet them? It seemed to her that as she rode across the Heath – in daylight this time – a shadow loomed over her. Not a highwayman, but the debtors’ prison.