Sherry.' Derby licked brandy off his lips. 'A thousand apologies; I had no idea.'
A nod. 'So where were you during today's debt debate?'
That was an unnerving habit of Sheridan's; he could change topic and mood in a blink. 'Ah, rehearsal, as it happens,' said Derby, defensive. The fact was, he had mixed feelings about Parliament settling the Prince's debts, which had run up to £300,000; just think how many roads and canals could be built for that vast sum.
Sheridan lowered his voice. 'Well, it was a fiasco. Some pawn of Pitt's from Devonshire drops a heavy hint about constitutional dangers if the Prince were hypothetically to wed a twice-widowed Catholic lady—naming no names, but he might as well have said Maria Fitzherbert —then he bleats on about the Royal Marriages Act giving the King sole power to arrange his children's matches, the Act of Settlement reserving the throne for Protestants, blah blah blah. So our bushy-tailed Fox leaps up and says'—Sheridan put on a valiant voice—'"I am at a loss to imagine what species of Party could have fabricated so base and scandalous an insinuation.'"
Derby grinned at the mimicry.
'Then Fox splutters—listen to this, Derby—and he claims to be speaking on Prinny's authority; he says of the hypothetical wedding, "The thing not only never could have happened legally, but never did happen in any way whatsoever.'"
'Very firm hair-splitting. Well, there wasn't any such wedding, was there?' added Derby after a minute.
Sheridan scratched the skin round his nose. It was red and raging, as always in times of strain.
'Oh, Sherry.' Derby drank more brandy. 'Tell me there wasn't a wedding. The Widow Fitz is only Prinny's mistress, surely? He may be a wild fellow but he's not stupid; he'd never have—he wouldn't do something that would debar him from the throne.'
'What's a wedding?' muttered Sheridan with a small shrug. If it's not legal, because of the various Acts aforementioned, is it a true wedding? Can anything really be said to have taken place, December before last, in the lady's house in Park Street?'
Derby dropped his face into his hands. When he looked up, Sheridan was drinking deep. 'Did you know at the time?'
'None of us knew except Georgiana, damn her. What kind of loyalty to the Party d'you call that? She claims to have been ever so miz about it, but she gave them her own ring, because Prinny had tried to run himself through with his sword!'
The heir to the throne threatened suicide at least once a year. 'When did you guess, then?'
'Oh, I can't tell. We all believed what we wanted to believe,' said Sheridan through his teeth. 'Now I've got Mrs Fitz on my back like some harpy, wanting to know how I could stand to hear Fox deny her wedding in the Commons and imply she's a whore. I've got Fox running to me, tears in his eyes, to say Mrs Fitz's uncle came up to him in this very club this afternoon and broke it to him that he'd been misinformed. How could I have kept it from him, how could our good-hearted Prince have betrayed him so? But the point is, Derby, you know as well as I do, our Party needs Prinny, because Old George hates our guts. The only way the Foxites are ever going to get into government is when our fat young friend succeeds to the throne of England and kicks Pitt off the top step.'
His voice had risen. Derby glanced around. Brooks's was a Whig haven, yes, but to speculate about the death of the King was to go rather far.
'So what I'm saying,' Sheridan snarled, 'is that marriage or no marriage, Prinny's our man and we stand or fall with him. He can wed a five-year-old Eskimo for all I care; he can fuck a vixen. No offence to the Widow Fitz,' he added almost normally. 'She's a lady above criticism, as I shall explain to my fellow Honourable Members.'
He was reaching for the bottle, but Derby held on to it. 'You won't spell it out that they're married.'
'Of course not. I'll spell nothing out, not even my own name; I'll be the tongue-twisting
A nod. 'So where were you during today's debt debate?'
That was an unnerving habit of Sheridan's; he could change topic and mood in a blink. 'Ah, rehearsal, as it happens,' said Derby, defensive. The fact was, he had mixed feelings about Parliament settling the Prince's debts, which had run up to £300,000; just think how many roads and canals could be built for that vast sum.
Sheridan lowered his voice. 'Well, it was a fiasco. Some pawn of Pitt's from Devonshire drops a heavy hint about constitutional dangers if the Prince were hypothetically to wed a twice-widowed Catholic lady—naming no names, but he might as well have said Maria Fitzherbert —then he bleats on about the Royal Marriages Act giving the King sole power to arrange his children's matches, the Act of Settlement reserving the throne for Protestants, blah blah blah. So our bushy-tailed Fox leaps up and says'—Sheridan put on a valiant voice—'"I am at a loss to imagine what species of Party could have fabricated so base and scandalous an insinuation.'"
Derby grinned at the mimicry.
'Then Fox splutters—listen to this, Derby—and he claims to be speaking on Prinny's authority; he says of the hypothetical wedding, "The thing not only never could have happened legally, but never did happen in any way whatsoever.'"
'Very firm hair-splitting. Well, there wasn't any such wedding, was there?' added Derby after a minute.
Sheridan scratched the skin round his nose. It was red and raging, as always in times of strain.
'Oh, Sherry.' Derby drank more brandy. 'Tell me there wasn't a wedding. The Widow Fitz is only Prinny's mistress, surely? He may be a wild fellow but he's not stupid; he'd never have—he wouldn't do something that would debar him from the throne.'
'What's a wedding?' muttered Sheridan with a small shrug. If it's not legal, because of the various Acts aforementioned, is it a true wedding? Can anything really be said to have taken place, December before last, in the lady's house in Park Street?'
Derby dropped his face into his hands. When he looked up, Sheridan was drinking deep. 'Did you know at the time?'
'None of us knew except Georgiana, damn her. What kind of loyalty to the Party d'you call that? She claims to have been ever so miz about it, but she gave them her own ring, because Prinny had tried to run himself through with his sword!'
The heir to the throne threatened suicide at least once a year. 'When did you guess, then?'
'Oh, I can't tell. We all believed what we wanted to believe,' said Sheridan through his teeth. 'Now I've got Mrs Fitz on my back like some harpy, wanting to know how I could stand to hear Fox deny her wedding in the Commons and imply she's a whore. I've got Fox running to me, tears in his eyes, to say Mrs Fitz's uncle came up to him in this very club this afternoon and broke it to him that he'd been misinformed. How could I have kept it from him, how could our good-hearted Prince have betrayed him so? But the point is, Derby, you know as well as I do, our Party needs Prinny, because Old George hates our guts. The only way the Foxites are ever going to get into government is when our fat young friend succeeds to the throne of England and kicks Pitt off the top step.'
His voice had risen. Derby glanced around. Brooks's was a Whig haven, yes, but to speculate about the death of the King was to go rather far.
'So what I'm saying,' Sheridan snarled, 'is that marriage or no marriage, Prinny's our man and we stand or fall with him. He can wed a five-year-old Eskimo for all I care; he can fuck a vixen. No offence to the Widow Fitz,' he added almost normally. 'She's a lady above criticism, as I shall explain to my fellow Honourable Members.'
He was reaching for the bottle, but Derby held on to it. 'You won't spell it out that they're married.'
'Of course not. I'll spell nothing out, not even my own name; I'll be the tongue-twisting
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