Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Before Parliament opened, George II, King of England, held a levee at St. James’s Palace. Now that everyone was back in London, these would be weekly events attended by courtiers, politicians, the nobility, and wealthy landowners seeking favors from the Crown.

The Duke of Devonshire, newly appointed Lord Steward of the Royal Household, stood talking with the king, graciously acknowledging the monarch’s thanks for his “prudent administration” in Ireland. Devonshire’s heir, William, Lord Hartington, ambitious for the post of Master of the Horse, was also present at the levee. He greeted his friend John Campbell and enquired why his brother, Henry, was absent.

“Henry was called back to active duty with his regiment.”

“He’s a captain with the infantry of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders isn’t he? There’s no trouble in Scotland, I hope?”

“Posted to the Continent as a warning to the French, I warrant.”

John and Will were joined by James Douglas, Duke of Hamilton, who held a seat in Parliament. Hamilton hated the king with a passion, though he attended his levees without fail. Hamilton had courted renowned beauty Elizabeth Chudleigh until widowed King George fell in love with her and stole her affections. The blow to his pride had been monumental.

“Hello, James. You missed a damned good hunting trip to Ireland. The game and the salmon were abundant, and even the weather cooperated until the last couple of days,” Will said.

“I prefer a gaming hell to the hell of Ireland, any night of the week.” Hamilton had come into his dukedom at the tender age of eighteen and, as a result, led a dissolute life of drinking, whoring, and gambling. “If I want bleak weather and uncivilized company, I can always visit my ancestral seat in Scotland.”

Will, who had an easygoing temperament, laughed, but John Campbell did not find Hamilton amusing. Argyll was the most powerful Highland clan; Hamilton was the leading Lowland clan, and there had always been an unspoken rivalry between the two.

John, hand on his smallsword, said, “Borderers do tend to be uncivilized.” None more so than the Douglases!

Will laughed again, enjoying the cut and thrust of their by-play.

“At least uncivilized Borderers are superior to barbarian Highlanders,” Hamilton drawled.

“I concede they are superior at cattle raiding and whiskey imbibing,” Campbell countered.

“Did I hear the word whiskey?” asked George Norwich, Earl of Coventry, who also held a seat in Parliament and had declined the hunting trip to Ireland. “I hope you brought a good supply of the smoky stuff back from Bogland.”

“Well, Father certainly did,” Will Cavendish informed him. “You can sample it at the reception we’re having Friday evening at Devonshire House to celebrate Father’s new appointment.”

“Will your sisters be there?” Coventry inquired, constantly on the prowl for a noble wife.

“Yes, they’ll hostess the affair. We can’t get Mother to leave Derbyshire. She hates London only slightly less than Ireland.”

“You can’t fault her for loving Chatsworth. It’s by far the loveliest stately home in England,” John Campbell declared.

“Why, thank you, John.”

“Don’t thank me, Will. Thank Bess Hardwick who had the foresight to build Chatsworth two hundred years ago.”

“Now there was a woman!” Coventry declared.

“A dominant, red-haired virago, according to history.” Hamilton sneered. “A wife should be beautiful, docile, and obedient.”

“That’s why none of us are wed . . . they’re devilish hard to find! Beautiful women are often fickle and usually have a mind of their own.” Coventry’s words were a deliberate dig at Hamilton’s loss of the beauteous mistress Elizabeth Chudleigh.

“At least you and I are free to chose our own wives since we acceded to our titles long ago, George. Pity poor Will and John who must have their brides approved by Devonshire and Argyll.”

“Amen to that,” Will Cavendish acknowledged, while John Campbell cursed silently because Hamilton spoke the unpalatable truth.

“Now that we’ve all managed to insult each other, I think we can declare the levee a success and move on to more important business. Anyone care to accompany me to White’s tonight?” Hamilton invited.

“Well, since I’m already in full Court dress, why not put it to more productive use than a royal levee? White’s sounds far more entertaining to me,” George Coventry agreed.

“Thanks, but I have a previous engagement,” Campbell declined.

“You don’t have to dine with me if you’d rather go to the club,” Will said as Hamilton and Coventry departed.

“My idea of an enjoyable evening isn’t watching Hamilton gamble. He can’t bear to lose. When he does, he proceeds to drink himself into a savage temper then visits a brothel to work off his fury.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re coming to Devonshire House. You can aid and abet me into persuading my sisters to invite Lady Charlotte Boyle to the entertainment Friday night. I don’t want to come right out and ask them, or they will take perverse delight in teasing me to distraction about her.”

“Why don’t I ask them to invite her on my behalf? That way they won’t suspect a thing.”

“Thanks, John. I was hoping you would suggest that. Perhaps I can return the favor sometime. Are you in Town until Friday?”

“No, I have pressing business tomorrow at Sundridge. I’ll be back Friday—it’s only a twelve-mile ride from Kent, after all.”

Hamilton and Coventry entered White’s club room for a drink before dinner. Though both nobles wore formal attire and powdered wigs, the similarity ended there. Hamilton, of medium height, had the stocky build and hazel eyes of his Border ancestors, while Coventry was tall and slim with narrow shoulders. The paneled room with its comfortable leather chairs provided its members with all the London newspapers published each day. Hamilton ordered a double brandy then idly picked up the London Chronicle to scan its headlines. “The front page is full of Devonshire’s appointment,” he said with disgust.

“Will you attend the entertainment Friday night?”

Hamilton glanced over the top of the newspaper. “I think not. All the kowtowing to Devonshire would make my gorge rise.”

Coventry leaned forward to read the social notices on the back page. It was filled with names of the beau monde who had returned to Town for the fashionable Winter Season. He tapped the paper with his quizzing glass. “Did you see this, James?”

Hamilton turned over the paper, and his eyes scanned the names.

“The ‘beauteous granddaughters’?” he questioned.

“Yes . . . ‘their incomparable beauty took Dublin Castle by storm.’ ”

“The Gunning sisters. Have you seen them, George?”

“As a matter of fact, I have,” Coventry lied, taking perverse pleasure in stealing an advantage over Hamilton where a beautiful woman was concerned. “At the theater last night,” he improvised.

“Did you meet them?” Hamilton demanded.

“No, James. I simply paid homage to their beauty from afar.”

Hamilton downed his brandy and ordered another. “Ten guineas says I manage to procure an introduction before you do, George!”

“Do you always associate females with procuring, James?”

“To procure for promiscuous sexual intercourse . . . why not?”

“Let’s get this straight, James. Are you betting me ten guineas that you gain an introduction before I do, or that you bed one of them before me?”

“I’ll wager you ten guineas on the introduction . . . ten thousand guineas that I fuck one of them before you do, Coventry!”

“By God, you’re on! You never could resist a beautiful woman.”

Rachel and Cat Cavendish poured over the guest list for the entertainment they were giving at Devonshire House to celebrate their father’s appointment as Lord Steward of the Royal Household. They had made sure that invitations had gone out to the guests of their own choice who would further their marital ambitions. Rachel was being unofficially courted by the Earl of Orford, nephew of Sir Robert Walpole, the late Prime Minister. Cat, however, fancied herself in love with John Ponsonby, who had no title, much to her chagrin.

“The Earl and Countess of Burlington are on the list, but not Lady Charlotte. I had no idea she was old enough to be included in social functions.” Cat picked up a pen and blank invitation.

“Will and John Campbell said she was among the débutantes presented to Father in Dublin, so she must have turned sixteen.”

Rachel bit her lip and tried not to feel jealous. For the last two years she had attempted to engage John Campbell’s attention, but he still treated her as a sister. She knew she must stop holding off the Earl of Orford and make a sensible marriage. Becoming a countess was nothing to sneeze at. “Why don’t we pay a call at Burlington House and drop off the invitation?”

An hour later, the Cavendish sisters stepped from their carriage to the portico of Burlington House. The majordomo admitted them to the reception hall and took their calling card to the countess.

“Lady Rachel, Lady Catherine, how kind of you to call!” Dorothy Boyle kissed their cheeks. “Come, you’re just in time for tea.”

“Thank you, Lady Burlington. Actually, we came to address an oversight. We forgot Lady Charlotte’s invitation for Friday.”

“Oh, Charlie will be thrilled to receive a formal invitation to Devonshire House.” She turned to the liveried majordomo. “Ask Lady Charlotte to join us for tea.”

When Charlie entered the drawing room Rachel Cavendish was shocked. The dark-haired Charlotte was pretty enough, but she was a short five feet and looked no more than fourteen years old. Surely John Campbell cannot be interested in this child! Rachel hid her surprise and handed over the invitation. “Lady Charlotte, I understand you were presented to our father at Dublin Castle?”

“Oh, yes! I had the most marvelous time! His Grace was so kind to me, and I danced with your brother, Will . . . I mean, Lord Hartington.” Charlie’s cheeks colored when she said his name.

The Cavendish sisters exchanged a glance. “Yes, at dinner last night he and his friend John Campbell spoke of meeting you there.”

“John Campbell partnered my friend Elizabeth Gunning. We all had such a wonderful evening.”

“Gunning? Where have I seen that name recently?” Cat puzzled.

“It was in the social news of the London Chronicle yesterday,” Rachel supplied. “It announced that the Gunnings have arrived from Ireland and taken up residence in Great Marlborough Street.”

“Truly? Elizabeth Gunning is here in London?” Charlie asked, unable to hide her excitement at the prospect.

Rachel turned to Charlotte’s mother. “Are you acquainted with the Gunnings, Lady Burlington?”

“Yes . . . a charming couple. Your father met them. Bridget Gunning is Viscount Mayo’s daughter. We hit it off instantly! I am delighted they are in London for the Winter Season.”

Rachel felt an insatiable curiosity to see this Elizabeth Gunning whom John Campbell had partnered in Dublin. “Why don’t I send the Gunnings an invitation to Devonshire House for Friday?”

“Why, that would be delightful, Lady Rachel. You are too kind.”

An hour after dawn, as John Campbell rode over his own acres at Combe Bank Manor, Sundridge, he realized how much he loved Kent and how much he’d missed it. The county had a rural tranquillity that belied its close proximity to the City of London. He stood in his stirrups to admire his lovely valley and took in a deep, appreciative breath, detecting the scent of hops on the breeze.

After his ride he bathed, donned fresh clothes, then went down to his library to go over the accounts of the estate, read letters from Argyll, and sign business correspondence prepared by his secretary, Robert Hay. Shortly, his house steward announced the visitor he had been expecting. He stood and cordially shook hands with William Pitt, whom he’d invited to Combe Bank when they met at the king’s levee. Pitt had been in Parliament for twenty years; though he was a magnificent orator and popular with the people, King George and the Whig party leaders heartily disliked him. “Thank you for coming all this way, Mr. Pitt.”

“Far better that we meet here, my lord, where I may speak bluntly, away from prying eyes and ears.” He accepted a glass of claret. “Hostilities have again broken out in Europe and, at the risk of speaking treason, the king agitates for war with France.”

“The king formed the coalition army of England, Hanover, Austria, and Holland for the invasion of France, Mr. Pitt.”

“Under the present Secretary of State, neither England’s army, navy, nor diplomatic service are well organized. In a war with France, England will suffer calamity!”

“I agree with you, Mr. Pitt. And doubtless Newcastle will advance from Secretary of State to being our next Prime Minister. England is not best served by Dutch and German troops. We need a strong British army and navy. Argyll and I think we need regiments recruited in the Highlands, not in foreign countries!”

“The king and his ministers fear all Scots are Jacobites.”

“That’s utter rot! It was Scottish regiments under command of my father, Argyll, who defeated, nay crushed, the Jacobites at the Battle of Culloden Moor. Recruits from the Highlands, given regular pay, would faithfully support the government.”

“I myself am ambitious for more power in the administration. Lisping, effeminate, indecisive incompetents such as Newcastle only get elected by bribery. I am working to change the system. Can I personally count on the support of you and Argyll?”

John Campbell saw the minister’s energy, his patriotism, and his devotion. “You can, Mr. Pitt.”

“Where the devil have you been?” Bridget Gunning was furious that her husband, who had gone to visit his family in St. Ives, Cambridgeshire, had been absent for three days.

“My father is seriously ill, Bridget. It’s providential that I visited St. Ives—his days are numbered, I fear,” Jack said sadly.

Her eyes narrowed. “Did you get the money?”

“I could hardly bring up money at such a time.”

“What better time? I can assure you that your brothers’ thoughts will be on money if your father is dying! Will you be named in the will?”

“Bridget, you know I am not his heir. I am the youngest. I can only hope for a couple of hundred, at best.”

“Your brother Peter will be the new Lord Gunning. At least we’ll be able to drop his name socially, especially if he takes his seat in the House.”

“Peter was happy to see me. He insisted on providing me with a mount when he realized that I had no horse.”

“A horse requires stabling . . . one more expense. You must make another round of the moneylenders now that you have prospects of being named in Lord Gunning’s will. If you make them think your inheritance will be substantial, you should have no problem borrowing more funds. The first thing we need is a ladies’ maid. It is imperative that young ladies of fashion be accompanied by a maid when they are not in the company of their mother.”

“Invited to the Court of St. James, are they?” Jack asked dryly.

“As good as!” Bridget picked up the two invitations that had arrived in the morning’s post and wafted them beneath his nose with an air of triumph. “The girls are readying themselves this very moment for afternoon tea with the countess and Lady Charlotte Boyle at Burlington House.” She paused for dramatic effect then announced with a fanfare, “Ta-da! Tomorrow night we are invited to a gala reception at Devonshire House, no less!”

“You’ve done well, Bridget,” Jack acknowledged. “Don’t let this go to your head. Proceed with caution, as will I. No doubt there will be gaming at Devonshire House tomorrow night.”

“I’ll just get my bonnet. When the girls come down, don’t you dare tell them that their grandfather is dying!”

“I won’t be here. I must secure a place for my horse in the Great Marlborough Street livery stable.”

As Bridget Gunning ushered her daughters down Regent Street toward Piccadilly, she gave them strict instructions. “Do not forget to address the countess as Lady Burlington at all times. Do not put yourselves forward. Do not speak until spoken to. Address her daughter as Lady Charlotte unless she gives you permission to be less formal. Above all, do not gape at the splendor of Burlington House. I can guarantee we have seen nothing before like it. The mansion’s interiors have been designed by William Kent, the most renowned architect in all of England and a close personal friend of the earl. Lord Burlington is reputed to be a man of extraordinary taste and an inspired collector of art.”

When a gentleman on Regent Street tipped his beaver hat to the ladies, Maria rewarded the gallant with a smile. “A lady never, ever bestows her smile upon a man on the street. It is simply not done! It is downright common—something an actress would do.” Bridget said the word actress as if it were anathema.

Maria, who didn’t like being chastised, complained, “My new shoes are making a blister on my heel. How much farther is it?”

“We shall take a cab at the corner. We must arrive by carriage, but I wasn’t going to pay a driver to bring us all the way from Great Marlborough Street.” Bridget looked over the handsome cabs critically and chose the one that was the least shabby. It gave her a great deal of satisfaction to give the driver directions.

“Burlington House!” She swept into the cab with regal hauteur.

The public conveyance was scrutinized by the porter and only allowed to pass into the courtyard after he had assessed the occupants and found them worthy. When the cab drew up at the portico, Bridget paid the driver then ascended the marble steps and lifted the door knocker. Maria followed in her mother’s confident wake, while Elizabeth tried not to feel overwhelmed.

As the liveried majordomo led the way toward an elegant sitting room furnished with blue silk gilt chairs and satinwood tables, Charlie, with her dog at her heels, came running down the spiral staircase, overjoyed to see her friend. “Elizabeth! I’m so happy to see you!” Remembering her manners, Charlie bobbed a curtsy to Bridget Gunning. “Thank you for coming to London, ma’am!”

“You have a dog!” Elizabeth exclaimed with delight then heard her mother clear her throat. “Thank you for inviting us to tea, Lady Charlotte. What’s his name?”

“His name is Dandy and please call me Charlie.” She looked at Maria, who was quickly backing away from the dog before he could jump up and paw her new pink afternoon dress. Charlie bent and scooped up the dog. “I’m sorry, Maria. He won’t hurt you.”

“Welcome to Burlington House.” The countess bent toward Bridget’s cheek and kissed the air. “Such punctual guests put me to shame. Everyone will tell you I have no notion of time.”

“We’ve been so inundated with invitations since we arrived in London I’m losing track of time myself.” Bridget settled in the chair facing Dorothy Boyle. She removed her gloves but not her stylish bonnet. Following her mother’s lead, Maria also took a gilt chair and removed her gloves. Elizabeth and Charlie sat on a gilt settee with Dandy between them and grinned at each other.

“You must learn which invitations to decline and which to accept, or you will be run ragged,” the countess advised as a uniformed maid rolled in a tea cart holding a magnificent Georgian silver tea service and a three-tiered server filled with dainty lobster pate and cucumber sandwiches. “Of course, certain invitations are obligatory.” She poured the tea and told them to help themselves to the refreshments.

“I could use some advice in these matters. I haven’t lived in England for ages.” Bridget knew most females loved to offer advice.

“Well, naturally, one doesn’t refuse to attend any Court function or invitations from the ruling Whig families. Then, of course, Wednesdays are taken up with Almack’s. The place is a must when you have daughters of marriageable age, as we do.”

“I haven’t had a moment to see about subscriptions to Almack’s.” Bridget spread her hands helplessly.

“I’ll have a word with Sarah Jersey. I’ll be happy to sponsor Elizabeth and Maria. They’ll be good company for Charlie. She has more confidence when she’s with friends.”

“How can I thank you for your trouble?”

Dorothy waved a languid hand. “No trouble at all. What are friends for? How is that handsome husband of yours?”

“Been visiting his father, Lord Gunning, for the past three days. I’m relieved he got back in time to escort us to the reception at Devonshire House tomorrow night.”

Dorothy, dying to gossip, needed to get rid of their daughters first. “Charlie, I believe Dandy needs to go to the garden. Daddy doesn’t appreciate his little turds on the new Turkish carpets.”

Charlie and Elizabeth jumped up immediately, eager to escape to the garden so they could talk freely. Maria was more reluctant. “May I look at your paintings, Lady Burlington?”

“Of course, my dear.” Dorothy turned to Bridget. “Imagine one so young taking an interest in art.”

“I’ve been thinking of having Maria’s portrait painted . . . haven’t decided on an artist yet, though Reynolds is highly recommended.”

“Devonshire House is filled with portraits of the Cavendish daughters, though none of them are what you would call raving beauties.” Dorothy leaned forward and spoke to Bridget confidentially. “When Rachel and Catherine were here to tea I couldn’t help thinking it was a pity they got their looks from their mother. The duchess was plain Catherine Hoskyns when the duke wed her, and I do mean plain!”

“Perhaps she had other attractions!” Bridget said, laughing.

“Money, of course, but no breeding. Her father was a middle-class businessman, and Devonshire had enormous gambling debts.”

Bridget listened avidly as Lady Burlington indulged in her second favorite pastime: gossip.

Once in the garden, Beth and Charlie hugged each other and didn’t stop talking for quarter of an hour. Out from beneath her mother’s disapproving eyes Elizabeth became animated. She laughed with delight as she watched Dandy sniff every flower then cock his leg up to pee on every tree. “Charlie, you are so lucky to have a dog. May I hold him?”

“Of course. Dandy loves attention!”

Beth scooped him up, held him close, and let him lick her chin.

“I’m so excited about tomorrow night. At first, the Cavendish sisters forgot to invite me and I think it was Will who prompted them to bring me an invitation. I hope it was Will! I can’t stop thinking about him, Beth,” Charlie confessed.

“Did they mention Will, I mean, Lord Hartington?”

“Yes, they said that John Campbell and Will had dinner with them at Devonshire House. I told them about you and what a marvelous time we had, and Mother suggested they invite you to the reception.”

“Do you think John Campbell will be there?” Elizabeth could hardly breathe at the thought of seeing him again.

“Of course he’ll be there. He and Will are best friends.”

“Will there be dancing?” Elizabeth asked breathlessly.

“I’m not sure. It isn’t a ball—it’s a reception for His Grace—but there should be lots of opportunities to talk and stroll in the gardens beneath colored lanterns . . . and flirt!” Charlie lowered her voice to a whisper. “I dreamed about Will last night . . . I dreamed that he kissed me!”

Beth closed her eyes, remembering, as her hands caressed the little dog. “Everything seems like a dream to me. I cannot believe I’m going to Devonshire House tomorrow night!”

That night when she went to bed, Elizabeth Gunning barely slept for the excitement bubbling inside her. They had ridden home in the shiny Burlington coach with the crest on its door, because their mother had cleverly said that though the Gunnings had ordered a carriage, it had not yet been delivered.

Elizabeth thought about her mother for a moment. She was certainly a force to be dealt with. Bridget had seemed so at ease, talking with the Countess of Burlington as if they were bosom friends, and she had even managed to get them subscriptions to Almacks. It was nothing short of a miracle!

At breakfast the next morning, Elizabeth knew her excitement had not diminished; if anything, it had grown. She felt as if her heart was singing. “I asked Charlie if there would be dancing tonight. She said that she didn’t think so, because it’s a reception for the duke, but she said the guests could stroll in the gardens beneath colored lanterns! Oh, I can’t wait to see Devonshire House!”

“Well, I’m afraid you’re going to have to wait,” Bridget said.

Elizabeth looked at her mother, and her heart jumped into her throat. “What do you mean?” she whispered as apprehension dug in its sharp claws.

“Have you forgotten, Elizabeth? We have only one ball gown. Maria shall be the one to wear it to Devonshire House!”