SUCCESSION
by
Douglas Schofield
Copyright 2012 Douglas Schofield,
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Robert Hammond.
Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0934-4
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claim for damages.
Dedicated to my indomitable mother
Rosemary Jackson
Survivor of the Battle of Britain
A royal lady in her own right
Acknowledgements
I first conceived this story in the mid-1990’s, while I was living in British Columbia. A television documentary on the life of George III made a fleeting reference to Hannah Lightfoot, the so-called “Fair Quaker” who – the narrator alleged – George had secretly married eighteen months before he ascended the throne. On further research, I discovered that the story of George and Hannah’s clandestine marriage, if it was mentioned at all, was dismissed by most historians as mischievous myth-making.
That may be so, but the potential consequences of such a union led me to imagine the story you are about to read.
A number of people have earned my undying gratitude for their help, suggestions and encouragement in bringing this story to publication. My longtime friend and colleague Robin McMillan deserves special mention, not only for his erudition, but also for his piquant sense of humor and perceptive insights into human nature. And no words can express the depth of my gratitude to Patrol Officer David Conte of the City of Bayonne Police Department, who went to extraordinary lengths to ensure that several critical scenes set in Bayonne are geographically accurate. As well, my heartfelt thanks go to Dirk Crokaert, manager of the Montague on the Gardens Hotel in London, for his cheerful assistance in reconstructing, at least in my mind’s eye, his hotel as it was in 1997 – and for allowing me to christen the Montague’s fictional hotel manager with his name.
There are many others to thank, almost too numerous to count: In the Cayman Islands, attorneys David Dinner and William Helfrecht, former Deputy Solicitor General Vicki Ellis, and court reporters Carol Rouse and Karen Myren. In Florida, Larry and Maria Fernandez, and Dr. Greg Hoeksema. In California, Jayne Wayne. In Holland, Dr. Tamer Tadros. In London, Mustafa, Everett, Anja, Daniella and all the amazing staff at the Montague Hotel, as well as our dear friends Martin and Sue Griffiths and their three astonishing children. Last, but by no means least, those stalwart gentlemen at Miwk Publishing, Matthew West and Robert Hammond. I apologize in advance to any whose names I have inadvertently overlooked. I am truly grateful to you all.
Finally, above all and always, my love, my devotion and my thanks go to my dear wife Melody, whose joyful smile never fades, and whose faith in me never flags.
“Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.”
- Wm. Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part II, Act III, Scene I
Richmond, England – 1759
In a thunder of hooves and flying gravel, a chaise carriage raced through the deepening night. The driver, riding postillion astride the lead horse, thrashed the animal’s flanks, urging more speed.
Behind him, on the prow of the speeding carriage, a mahogany window blind dropped. A man’s bewigged head appeared. The pale face below the wig was middle-aged, its thin features sharp as chert.
John Stuart, the Third Earl of Bute, scanned the blackness ahead. His bloodless lips were pursed with anger… but his sweating forehead and staring eyes betrayed fear.
A milestone slid past, gleaming in the moonlight. It bore a black-painted number: 12.
Reluctantly, he settled back onto his seat. He plucked a lace handkerchief from the sleeve of his silk coat. He dabbed his brow. His normally crisp and devious mind was in a chaotic tumble.
One dread thought kept surfacing:
The King will have me hanged.
The carriage tore through the night.
An hour passed.
Flickering lights appeared on the road ahead.
The carriage slowed. It swung through an imposing stonework gateway. On both sides, inlaid terracotta medallions displayed an identical legend:
Marble Hill House
The carriage swept up a graveled drive, its verges marked by flaming torches. It swayed to a stop before an imposing Palladian villa. The horses pawed and snorted, the foam at their mouths flecked with blood. The driver leapt to the ground. He scurried to open the carriage.
Too late…
Bute erupted from the mud-spattered conveyance, straightened his coat and strode across the flagged porch.
The huge front door swung inward. A manservant appeared, lantern aloft. His eyes widened at the sight of the great man moving toward him with awful purpose.
“My Lord!”
“The Prince, man! Where is he?”
“In the ballroom, My Lord! If you’ll kindly follow–!”
Bute shouldered past him.
The ballroom was a flickering, candle-lit fantasy.
Courtiers congregated near an immense table laden with food and drink. Bewigged gentlemen in embroidered frock coats and knee-length breeches sported rented swords that most had no earthly idea how to use. Women wearing mantua dresses, heavy with silver weave and whalebone hoops, flirted with the men and passed coded messages to each other with their flicking fans. Musicians played. A low hum of conversation floated through the room, punctuated by tinkling female laughter and the occasional baritone guffaw.
One young couple was the obvious centre of attention. The male, barely out of his teens, had a soft face, girlish mouth and oddly protruding eyes. He was richly clad in emerald brocade. At his side stood a gorgeous young woman. She appeared to be a few years older than her companion. She had arresting liquid eyes and, unlike most of the women around her, a flawless complexion.
She was wearing a stunning wedding gown.
Several paces away, two men stood apart, conversing quietly. One was attired in the utilitarian choir habit of an Anglican minister. The other, tall and thin, cut an austere figure in the conservative dress favored by men who were well accustomed to the exercise of power.
The clergyman’s name was James Wilmot. His companion was William Pitt, Secretary of State and de facto First Minister to the King. Wilmot had no inkling that just three hours earlier he had unwittingly helped this consummate politician perpetrate a brilliant piece of mischief upon their beloved Sovereign.
Beloved by Reverend Wilmot, perhaps… but not by William Pitt. The Chief Minister most cordially and unreservedly despised the current Monarch. Pitt consoled himself with the certain knowledge that the old man’s health was declining. It was his fervent hope that the King’s grandson and Royal heir, standing not thirty feet away, would one day prove to be a more well-disposed and malleable replacement.
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