The Matter of the Secret Bride

“I hear from everybody that her character is irreproachable and her manners most amiable.”

Langdale, Charles, Memoirs of Mrs. Fitzherbert

The definite facts about Mrs. Maria Fitzherbert and the man who was now King George IV were very few.

While still Prince of Wales and still a bachelor, George Augustus Frederick of Hanover had taken up with Maria Fitzherbert, a twice-widowed Roman Catholic woman. She had acted as his hostess and companion for several years and had been seen daily with him in public. He wore a miniature of her around his neck. Mrs. Fitzherbert was received into the best houses. In fact, having her attend a gathering was considered a coup for any hostess, because where Mrs. Fitzherbert went, the prince followed.

Gradually, however, the relationship declined, and the prince began being seen most frequently with Frances Villiers, who was then Lady Jersey. Mrs. Fitzherbert’s name remained a watchword for the prince’s notorious profligacy, but she herself faded from the public eye.

All the rest was rumor. Those rumors, however, remained omnipresent and remarkably persistent. The most persistent of all was that at some point, Mrs. Fitzherbert and the Prince of Wales had secretly married.

Such a marriage, if it happened, would be illegal. The Royal Marriages Act placed strict limits on the circumstances under which the assorted princes and princesses could marry. The act forbade the heir to the throne from marrying an English citizen without the approval of both the monarch and Parliament. In addition, should the heir attempt to marry a Catholic, they would give up their place in the line of succession. They would also lose all their titles and privileges, including their (considerable) income from the civil list.

For a man like the prince regent, whose debts ran to hundreds of thousands of pounds, this last should have been the greatest deterrent.

Despite that, the rumors persisted. They persisted even after Prince George married Princess Caroline of Brunswick and after he fathered a child with her. Even after he openly discarded Mrs. Fitzherbert and then Lady Jersey and then Lady Hertford.

They came positively roaring back after George III died and the prince regent became the king.

While Rosalind had heard all the commonplace remarks on this subject, she had never devoted much thought as to whether this clandestine union actually took place. Speculation about the private lives of royalty was a popular pastime for the press and the people at all levels of society, and if facts were few, fancy routinely filled the gaps. It had even once been rumored that staid, domestic King George III had secretly married a Quaker woman named Hannah Lightfoot.

But no one had ever clapped eyes on Hannah Lightfoot. Everyone had seen Maria Fitzherbert.

And now, it seemed, Rosalind would see her face-to-face.

* * *

Alice agreed to take over the hostess duties so her celebration could continue. Sanderson agreed to loan Rosalind his carriage and driver, so there was no delay around acquiring conveyance.

“In return, I will expect a full description of the lady and her demeanor,” Sanderson told Rosalind. “With the queen’s return, the world is anxious to know what Mrs. Fitz is up to.” Sanderson was a much-sought-after supper guest, in part because London’s hostesses knew him to be a font of amusing gossip.

“Can I come?” asked Amelia. “You’ll need someone to talk to the staff.”

“Will we?” Rosalind raised her brows.

“Well, something’s gone wrong, or she wouldn’t be sending for you, now would she?” said Amelia. “So you’ll need to know what they’re saying belowstairs.”

“You’d abandon me for a chance to hear some tidbit of gossip?” cried Alice indignantly.

“Never!” Amelia looped her arm around Alice’s waist and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “I’m abandoning you for the king’s gossip.”

Rosalind barely managed to keep a straight face. “Amelia, please stay here and help Alice look after our guests. If it turns out I need your help, I promise I will not hesitate to call on you.”

All this time, Adam stood with his hands folded behind him, as if awaiting his turn. When Rosalind faced him at last, her smile was apologetic.

“Will you come with me?” she asked. “If the situation is so dire as to require immediate attendance, we may have need of you.”

“If you had not asked, I would have followed.”

Of this, Rosalind had no doubt. She was confident in her ability to protect herself, and Adam respected her judgment and her skills. But she was not a fool. A woman traveling alone after dark could find herself a target of mischief-makers even in ordinary times, which these were decidedly not. London’s streets were restive. Queen Caroline was widely believed to have been cruelly wronged by the king. Londoners of all classes and conditions were taking to the streets in support of her. Not only were fights breaking out in otherwise quiet establishments, like Mr. Clements’s library, but also houses were being robbed, carriages halted, and the drivers pulled down if they refused to take their hats off and call, “God save the queen.” Adam’s presence might stop at least some forms of trouble before they began.

But it was not only the public unrest that gave Rosalind pause. Her work among the ladies of the ton had more than once included dealing with the consequences of blackmail, theft, and even murder. She was fully aware that domestic disarray could have a very high price and that those involved could become desperate. Mrs. Fitzherbert was at the heart of the suit for divorce that the king was bringing against the queen. Or if she was not now, she soon would be.

How desperate might that make those involved?

* * *

In the end, Rosalind and Adam were able to reach their destination without any untoward incident. Tilney Street was located in a quiet, prosperous neighborhood. Mrs. Fitzherbert’s house, number six, was a large residence. Its otherwise simple facade was made striking by the many graceful windows, especially on the curved balcony that overlooked the expansive walled garden.

If the mob was abroad tonight, it had chosen other places to be. Nonetheless, Adam surveyed the darkening street for a long moment before he helped Rosalind down from the carriage. As they walked together to the door, she felt a distinct tension radiating from him.

“What is it?” Rosalind murmured.

“We’re being watched,” he replied just as quietly. “Or the house is.”

Rosalind suppressed a shiver. It was difficult to keep herself from looking around. Adam, however, kept his gaze rigidly ahead, and she followed his silent example.

They reached the door. Both the lantern and the knocker were in place, indicating the owner was currently in occupancy. Adam knocked for them, and the door was instantly opened by a young footman in striking scarlet livery.

This was a surprise. It was tacitly understood that only royalty’s servants wore scarlet. Rosalind felt an urge to raise her brows.

“Miss Thorne and Mr. Harkness for Mrs. Fitzherbert,” Adam was saying to the footman.

“Good evening, Miss Thorne. Mr. Harkness.” The man bowed. “My mistress is expecting you and has instructed me to bring you in at once. This way please.”

As they followed the footman up the broad staircase and down the carpeted hallway, Rosalind was aware of an inexcusable attack of butterflies in her stomach. She had met and helped women on many rungs of society’s shifting and unsteady ladder. Mrs. Fitzherbert, however, was of a different order. Her name was a watchword in society. Once, it had appeared in the papers on a daily basis. It had been featured on invitation cards that circulated among the highest members of the haut ton. It had been printed in thunderous—and near libelous—pamphlets. It had been shouted in Parliament.

Everyone knew who she was, and yet even after all this time, no one could agree exactly what she was. Some declared she was a virtuous woman who had refused to surrender herself to a man outside the bounds of marriage—even when that man was the heir to the throne. To others, she was the worst sort of opportunist, wielding her feminine temptations to enrich and empower herself, and perhaps even to claim a crown.

So it was a surprise when the first word that occurred to Rosalind as the footman showed them into the sitting room was maternal.

Maria Fitzherbert was short and plump. Silver streaked her dark hair, which was mostly covered by a modest lace cap. Her dress was black silk of the best quality, and it did nothing to hide the fact that her bosom and hips were larger than was considered fashionable. Her face was lined from laughter as well as concern, and her large dark eyes were as intelligent as they were anxious.

At her throat, she wore a painted miniature on a blue velvet ribbon. Rosalind attempted not to notice it displayed the likeness of the former Prince of Wales.

Mrs. Fitzherbert came forward to take Rosalind’s hand. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Miss Thorne. I apologize for such a late, and hasty, invitation.”

“Mrs. Fitzherbert, I am glad to meet you,” Rosalind replied. “If I may introduce Mr. Adam Harkness?”

“Mrs. Fitzherbert.” Adam bowed.

“Mr. Harkness?” said Mrs. Fitzherbert. “It seems to me I have heard your name. You are with Bow Street?” Worry deepened the creases on the lady’s brow.

“I am here entirely in a private capacity,” answered Adam. “Given the urgent nature of your note, Miss Thorne did not want there to be a delay should additional assistance be required.”

“Yes, yes. Very correct, I am sure. Thank you for your consideration.” Mrs. Fitzherbert’s tone was breathless and uncertain. It was plain she was quite upset. But the house seemed quiet. The comfortably appointed room was calm and in good order, with the lamps and fire brightly lit.

“Will you not sit?” Mrs. Fitzherbert gestured to a pair of brocade chairs and took her own place on a striped settee. Like her clothing, all Mrs. Fitzherbert’s furnishings were the best quality and thoroughly fashionable.

“I . . . I hardly know where to begin.” Mrs. Fitzherbert clasped her hands together. “I thought to have some tea, but”—she gestured helplessly toward the empty table—“it is hardly an ordinary social call, is it?”

“It is not,” agreed Rosalind. “And I am sorry it has been made necessary. However, we should perhaps address the matter directly? It is quite clear something alarming has occurred.”

“Yes, it has.” Mrs. Fitzherbert drew a deep breath. “But the situation is extremely delicate, and I must ask for your complete discretion on the matter.” Her eyes flickered toward Adam.

“Anything you say to Mr. Harkness or me will be held in strictest confidence,” Rosalind assured her.

A shadow of anger passed across Mrs. Fitzherbert’s features. Rosalind wondered how many times this woman had heard that promise, only to have it broken. She twisted her plump hands as her gaze drifted from Rosalind, to Adam, to a painted portrait that hung above the fireplace. The portrait showed two dark-haired girls—one still a child, the other in adolescence. Both were dressed in white ruffled gowns, with white roses in their hands. The sight of the painted faces seemed to harden something inside Mrs. Fitzherbert.

“I have been robbed,” she said. “It happened today, while I was away from home.”

“What was taken?” asked Adam.

Mrs. Fitzherbert hesitated. She twisted her hands again. When she did speak, her voice was low and hoarse. “My marriage certificate.”

Rosalind blinked. “Your . . .”

“My marriage certificate,” Mrs. Fitzherbert repeated. “Signed and witnessed, testifying to my marriage to George Augustus Frederick of Hanover, then Prince of Wales.”