Relieved to be out at last of the noise and bustle of the City of Westminster, Lord Wilden crossed the familiar threshold of the five-storeyed building on Saint James’s Street, handed his coat and hat to a footman, and followed the directions given by the major-domo. He found his quarry in the library, as he had expected. Equally expected was the emptiness of that particular room. At that time of day most of the members of White’s would be found in the dining room or, more likely, the card room. Even when those locations were empty, few members ever found their way to the library. A thirst for intellectual enrichment was not high on the list of qualities expected of members in any London club, perhaps especially so at White’s. But the prime minister’s inclinations were very much in tune with Wilden’s own, and he found William Pitt seated in an alcove reading a volume of Cicero, a glass of port and the decanter from which it was drawn nestling on the small side table. Later that day the prime minister would have to host a Cabinet meeting to discuss the continuing wave of bread riots taking place across the length and breadth of Britain. For the moment, though, the long parliamentary summer recess meant that Pitt could take advantage of a few precious hours of relative leisure.
‘Good afternoon, Ned,’ said the prime minister, gesturing for Wilden to take the chair opposite his. Pitt reached at once for the adjacent decanter. ‘Port?’
‘Thank you but no, Prime Minister. I regret that my digestion has been a little erratic since I returned from Quiberon.’
‘Understandable, that,’ said Pitt, pouring himself a glass and devouring a few more lines of text before closing the book and placing it on the table alongside the port. ‘A forgettable business altogether. You’ve heard that Fort Penthièvre has fallen to the enemy, of course?’ Wilden nodded. ‘Thank God we had time to recall Lord Moira’s division before they got there. No English blood spilled, at least. So you got out of there in the nick of time, Ned. Warren evacuated as many as he could, of course, but God knows how many hundreds – thousands, maybe – drowned trying to get out to his ships. The rest accepted terms and surrendered, I’m told, so one can only hope those terms are honoured. Puisaye and Hervilly got out, naturally.’
Wilden grimaced.
‘I hear they’re both back in London, blaming each other. Blaming us, too.’
‘Everyone to blame apart from themselves, eh? That’s the way of the world, Ned. But Hervilly won’t live much longer to blame anyone ever again, or so I gather.’
Wilden nodded. Hervilly had been mortally wounded in the chest during the final republican attacks, and it was a miracle that he had been somehow kept alive throughout the voyage back to England and the subsequent return to London. But the consensus of the doctors was unanimous, and there was no hope of the opinionated emigré general seeing in 1796.
The prime minister had fallen silent, seemingly intent on inspecting the dregs of his glass of port. Wilden’s eyes wandered to the titles on the adjacent shelves. Time for a little frankness, perchance. Pitt seemed to be in a frame of mind that could accommodate a little candour.
‘We did back the wrong horse, Prime Minister. Hervilly, I mean. I’m no general, but dear God, the things I witnessed – his insistence that they could not advance until Sombreuil’s troops had arrived, and then when they do arrive, he attacks before they can disembark, by which time General Hoche has a vastly larger army cutting off the peninsula and the attack Hervilly orders is hopeless. And that was by no means his only error of judgement, sir. I take responsibility, of course. I advised the course we adopted, and I made every effort I could to reconcile Hervilly and Puisaye to it. But I failed.’
Pitt sniffed. The distinct odours of recently taken snuff and fine old port wine hung in the air between them.
‘Oh, undoubtedly the wrong horse, Ned, although I’ll never admit that in the Commons, needless to say, and have Fox eviscerate me yet again.’ Charles James Fox, the ever-belligerent leader of the opposition, had been vocal in denouncing the perceived failure of the Quiberon expedition. ‘Nor will I admit it to the king, come to that. And I don’t blame you, Ned, have no fear on that score. Rest assured it will not be counted as your failure. One of the inescapable truths of being prime minister is that ultimately, responsibility for success and failure, victory and defeat alike is always mine. But would it have made any difference if we’d gone the other way and backed Puisaye, eh? You were there, Ned, so what say you?’
‘The truth, Prime Minister?’ Pitt nodded. An accommodating frame of mind indeed. ‘I think if we’d given Puisaye his head, he’d have led the expedition to disaster in four days instead of four weeks, even assuming the emigrés would have obeyed him, which I very much doubt. If Artois had been there… but that’s spilled milk now. In his absence we should have insisted on a British general, sir. Given the supreme command to Lord Moira, for example.’
Pitt looked sharply at him.
‘A French army under the command of an Englishman. As if that would have ended well either, eh? As it is, the king, who’s unexpectedly sanguine about the whole business, tells me daily that we’ve suffered no great loss by it. Our own army thankfully remains intact because Moira’s division couldn’t get there in time, Bridport’s victory brought us three more ships of the line, so all’s well, he says. I humour His Majesty, of course, but I fear he isn’t quite as mindful of our reputation with our allies – our credibility upon the international stage, if you prefer – as you and I have to be, Ned.’
Wilden had seen partial proof of the king’s somewhat rose-coloured opinion of the outcome of the expedition from a purely British point of view when the frigate bringing him back from Quiberon came into Portsmouth harbour and Wilden saw the three prizes taken by Lord Bridport’s fleet with his own eyes, now HMS Alexander, HMS Tigre and HMS Belleisle, formerly Le Formidable, all now refitting for service in the Royal Navy. They were a cheering sight, despite bringing back memories of gallant Midshipman Kenton and all the other brave men who died to win that battle and secure those three ships. But having been in Brittany and having also known many of the brave French royalists who, unlike Jack Kenton, had perished in an utterly hopeless cause, Wilden could not see the degree of equivalence that the king apparently perceived. But he would certainly not argue the point with William Pitt, let alone with King George himself.
‘As you say, Prime Minister.’
Pitt took a sip of his glass of port, looked out of the library window for several seconds, and then seemed to banish from his mind both difficult thoughts of King George’s veritable multitude of idiosyncrasies and the undoubted fiasco of the Quiberon expedition.
‘Speaking of reputations, Ned, I hear tales that since your return you’ve been paying much court to a widow in Oxfordshire. A dead midshipman’s mother, I believe? And you’re said to have arranged a pension for her from your own funds? Tongues are wagging around the gaming tables, my Lord Wilden.’
Pitt’s odd expression was probably the closest the prime minister could come to a mischievous mocking smile. Wilden knew he was blushing, a strange reaction considering that his dealings with Mrs Kenton were entirely appropriate and quite beyond reproach. But Jack Kenton’s mother had been markedly grateful for a first-hand account of her son’s death, and her home lay just off one of the best roads between London and his Shropshire estate. An easy detour to make again, should he wish to do so and if she would deign to receive him. Which she undoubtedly would.
Yes, entirely appropriate and beyond reproach.
‘Prime Minister, I—’
The door of the library opened abruptly. An elderly club member whom Wilden vaguely recognised, an obscure Irish peer if he recalled aright, made for the shelves devoted to Roman history, his thoughts seemingly far away. Then, with a start, he noticed the prime minister and a famously enigmatic lord of the Admiralty deep in conference. The ancient earl muttered apologies and scuttled off as though an unbreachable curtain wall surrounded the two men.
The interruption was fortuitous, as it deflected William Pitt back to the principal matter in both their minds from any further inquisitiveness about Ned Wilden’s tentative dealings with Mrs Kenton.
‘No, Ned,’ said Pitt reflectively, ‘enough of the whole cursed business of Quiberon. We are done with expeditions to France, I think, for some years at any rate. But there are other fronts, eh? Other potential allies who may yet tip the scales in our favour, the Empress Catherine for one. Other schemes to devise, other plans to set in motion. God willing, Ned, victory will be ours one day. Perhaps we shall even live to see it.’
Ignoring Wilden’s protests about his digestion, the prime minister filled a glass and handed it to Ned while also refilling his own. He raised it for a toast.
‘To victory, my Lord Wilden.’
Ned raised his own glass.
‘To victory, Prime Minister.’