Jesuit the papers call me. Prinny says I have to defend Mrs Fitz's honour somehow, without losing him the throne.'
'That'll take quite a speech.'
'Luckily I write well with a knife to my throat,' said Sheridan, draining his glass and standing up.
It was true; he'd only finished one of his plays when Tom King had locked him in a room overnight. 'When's the vote on paying Prinny's debts?' asked Derby.
'Thursday.'
'Oh, but that's the night of our performance at Richmond House.'
Sheridan rolled his eyes. Derby could tell he was thinking: a damned play and not even a real one. 'We commoners will just have to manage without you, My Lord.'
'No, what I mean is it might be the perfect pretext for a delay. Pitt and Fox are both on the guest list—as are you. Why don't I get Richmond to propose to the PM that the House should adjourn till next week, to allow everyone to attend our performance?'
'Which would give me and my pen another few days.'
'Exactly.'
Sheridan grinned. 'So the Smith-Stanley brains have survived a millennium of inbreeding.'
Over the years, Derby had learned never to gratify Sheridan by showing shock at an outrageous remark. 'You're too kind.'
'Oh,' Sheridan remarked over his shoulder, as he left, 'I see you're in the World.'
What an odd remark; Derby would have gone after him to ask what he meant, except these comfortable chairs were so difficult to get out of. In the World? Of course he was; he'd been born into it.
Only half an hour later, when he was idly trawling through a piece on the balance of trade in the Gentleman's Magazine , did Derby hear Sheridan's phrase in his ears again. He clicked his fingers for a footman. On the fifth page of The World he found himself in a column headed THEATRICAL INTELLIGENCE.
Some say Lord D—y acts the part of an unhappy husband so vastly well at R-ch—d H—se because of his own marital Estrangement.
Derby folded the paper and read on.
When the unhappy Countess of D—y was recently lying on her sickbedit was whispered that the Earl in question made anxious enquiries every day and many believe that but for pride's sake he would grant her pardon for her criminal Elopement nine years ago with the Duke of D-rs-t. Her lovely Contrition may yet prove THE WAY TO KEEP HIM.
Derby found his fingers closed round the crumpled page. His throat was locked. How dare these money-grubbing journalists? He would have preferred to see himself linked in print with any female in Britain rather than his own wife. What if Eliza saw this item? Someone would be sure to show her. Please God she wouldn't believe it.
Contrition, my arse! Self-pity, that was as much as Betty could manage and it had no hold on him any more. In the privacy of his own head Derby could admit that he wished above all things that he were free. He'd had his chance when Lady Derby had run away from Knowsley, but he'd gone no further than a private separation. An Act of Divorce in the Lords would have been slow, costly and a source of great satire in the press, but by now it would have been long over. Other members of the World survived such exposure, didn't they, and no one thought the worse of them for it nowadays? Why had Derby, at twenty-five, been so rigid in the ways of his ancestors, so convinced that the best thing to do with this marital humiliation was to bury it in silence? The years had rolled by and it was too late; if he suddenly sued the Duke of Dorset for criminal conversation with a consumptive invalid he'd be laughed out of court.
By now Derby could have been a single man again. Which meant that at any time in the last six years, say, he could have taken his freedom and thrown it at Eliza's slim feet. He could have knelt and said—
No, don't think of it.
He wouldn't care what mockery it earned him; he'd be more than willing to defy his forebears for her sake. This time, if only he were free, he wouldn't let discretion or reserve be his guide. If Eliza would be his on no other terms but
'That'll take quite a speech.'
'Luckily I write well with a knife to my throat,' said Sheridan, draining his glass and standing up.
It was true; he'd only finished one of his plays when Tom King had locked him in a room overnight. 'When's the vote on paying Prinny's debts?' asked Derby.
'Thursday.'
'Oh, but that's the night of our performance at Richmond House.'
Sheridan rolled his eyes. Derby could tell he was thinking: a damned play and not even a real one. 'We commoners will just have to manage without you, My Lord.'
'No, what I mean is it might be the perfect pretext for a delay. Pitt and Fox are both on the guest list—as are you. Why don't I get Richmond to propose to the PM that the House should adjourn till next week, to allow everyone to attend our performance?'
'Which would give me and my pen another few days.'
'Exactly.'
Sheridan grinned. 'So the Smith-Stanley brains have survived a millennium of inbreeding.'
Over the years, Derby had learned never to gratify Sheridan by showing shock at an outrageous remark. 'You're too kind.'
'Oh,' Sheridan remarked over his shoulder, as he left, 'I see you're in the World.'
What an odd remark; Derby would have gone after him to ask what he meant, except these comfortable chairs were so difficult to get out of. In the World? Of course he was; he'd been born into it.
Only half an hour later, when he was idly trawling through a piece on the balance of trade in the Gentleman's Magazine , did Derby hear Sheridan's phrase in his ears again. He clicked his fingers for a footman. On the fifth page of The World he found himself in a column headed THEATRICAL INTELLIGENCE.
Some say Lord D—y acts the part of an unhappy husband so vastly well at R-ch—d H—se because of his own marital Estrangement.
Derby folded the paper and read on.
When the unhappy Countess of D—y was recently lying on her sickbedit was whispered that the Earl in question made anxious enquiries every day and many believe that but for pride's sake he would grant her pardon for her criminal Elopement nine years ago with the Duke of D-rs-t. Her lovely Contrition may yet prove THE WAY TO KEEP HIM.
Derby found his fingers closed round the crumpled page. His throat was locked. How dare these money-grubbing journalists? He would have preferred to see himself linked in print with any female in Britain rather than his own wife. What if Eliza saw this item? Someone would be sure to show her. Please God she wouldn't believe it.
Contrition, my arse! Self-pity, that was as much as Betty could manage and it had no hold on him any more. In the privacy of his own head Derby could admit that he wished above all things that he were free. He'd had his chance when Lady Derby had run away from Knowsley, but he'd gone no further than a private separation. An Act of Divorce in the Lords would have been slow, costly and a source of great satire in the press, but by now it would have been long over. Other members of the World survived such exposure, didn't they, and no one thought the worse of them for it nowadays? Why had Derby, at twenty-five, been so rigid in the ways of his ancestors, so convinced that the best thing to do with this marital humiliation was to bury it in silence? The years had rolled by and it was too late; if he suddenly sued the Duke of Dorset for criminal conversation with a consumptive invalid he'd be laughed out of court.
By now Derby could have been a single man again. Which meant that at any time in the last six years, say, he could have taken his freedom and thrown it at Eliza's slim feet. He could have knelt and said—
No, don't think of it.
He wouldn't care what mockery it earned him; he'd be more than willing to defy his forebears for her sake. This time, if only he were free, he wouldn't let discretion or reserve be his guide. If Eliza would be his on no other terms but
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