CHAPTER ONE ~ 1780
The coach came to a standstill and a second later the door was opened by a footman. Before the man could speak the words that already moved his lips, the Duke’s voice, curt and authoritative, came from the inside of the coach,
“Why have we stopped?”
“One of the leaders has gone lame, Your Grace.”
“Have him changed immediately with one of the outriders.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
The man would have withdrawn, but a further order stopped him.
“Let down the steps.”
The footman did as he was commanded and the Duke stepped out on to the roadway.
It was a calm summer evening with only a faint breeze in the air to dispel the heat of the day. The sun had vanished from the sky, the twilight was giving way to the purple of the night and the first evening stars were glittering above the pointed tops of the trees that bordered the road.
There was an unusual bustle and sense of urgency about the coachman and the postilions hurrying to free the leader from the traces. When the Duke gave an order, it was obeyed and with a deftness and speed which bespoke efficiency and a sense of discipline.
The Duke gave a quick glance at the horses. He was an acknowledged judge of horseflesh and the team that drew his coach were not only perfectly matched but outstandingly beautiful.
Their perfection was part of the whole entourage. The coach of deep blue with its panels emblazoned with the Duke’s Coat of Arms, the glittering polish of lamps and crested harness, the liveries of blue and silver and the powdered wigs under the coachmen’s cockaded black hats all commanded admiration.
The horse that had gone lame was now having its leg felt by the experienced fingers of the Duke’s chief coachman but His Grace did not linger to ask what was wrong.
Instead he turned his back on the colourful cavalcade and walked a little way into the wood on the side of the road.
In his embroidered coat of cerise velvet and diamond-buttoned waistcoat, he was a colourful figure himself as he strode away from the light of the carriage lanterns into the shadows of the trees.
It was only when he was a little way from the hustle and bustle of the horses and servants that he turned to look back at them and then to glance down the road and wonder what had happened to the rest of his carriages.
The Duke travelled in style, as befitted his position, but he could never remember that the heavy Berlins, which carried his luggage and the other members of the staff, found it difficult to keep up with the swift pace of his own chosen team of horses and the lighter build of his coach which had been specially designed for speed.
The Duke gave the missing carriages behind him a fleeting thought, but then immediately he returned to what had engaged his mind when the coach had stopped. It was indeed of so much import that he had been preoccupied with it ever since they had left Calais and started on the road for Paris.
Over and over again he had reiterated to himself a conversation he had had with the Prime Minister before he left London.
“It is a difficult and dangerous game, Melyncourt,” William Pitt had said to him, “and I can think of no one more likely to succeed than yourself. There is no reason why they should suspect you. For one thing you have never been a Politician and your reputation for being, well, how shall we put it, interested in the fair sex, should be sufficient excuse for you to pay a pleasurable visit to Paris.”
There had been a smile on William Pitt’s lips and a twinkle in his eyes as he spoke and the Duke had found himself smiling back at this brilliant and extraordinary young man who had taken on the arduous duties of Prime Minister at the age of twenty-four.
Although he was, as William Pitt had indeed said, no Politician, the Duke could appreciate the enormous difficulties of the position in which Pitt had found the country on assuming office.
The Peace of Versailles, signed a year before, had put an end to a desperate War when Britain had stood alone against the world. France, Holland, and Spain had combined against her to aid the American Colonists in their War of Independence. Russia, Denmark, Sweden, Prussia and also Austria had signed a pact of Armed Neutrality and ranged themselves against her.
When William Pitt had come to power, Britain lay exhausted, almost bankrupt and entirely isolated. But in six months he had with his genius for figures begun the uphill task of restoring Britain’s greatness. Already she was selling goods to the U.S.A. and already she had a considerable commercial trade with France. This was just a beginning but, as William Pitt told the Duke, there was a great deal more to be done.
“Spain is ambitious,” he said, “and we have to watch her, Austria and Prussia are ready to spring at each other’s throats and Russia and Sweden are sparring. There will be trouble in the Netherlands and I want a pact of non-aggression between Russia and Turkey. To restore the Balance of Power I have to watch all of them.”
“You have set yourself a somewhat formidable task,” the Duke remarked drily.
“Yes, we have to restore the Balance of Power,” he repeated, almost as though he spoke to himself, then as if he suddenly remembered the Duke’s presence, he continued, “at the moment France is in no mood to be aggressive. The War has cost her fourteen million francs, but her victories in America have given her a taste for blood.
“What is more, she adores intrigue. It is born in her, part of her nature. Her Ministers will say one thing but they will mean something very different. No one could appear on the surface more friendly or more considerate to us than France at the moment, but I want to know what goes on behind closed doors. I want to know what they think about us, what they think of the pretensions of Spain and Holland, where their sympathies lie when the British Ambassador has gone home to bed.”
“You really believe that I can help you?” the Duke asked.
“I am sure of it,” Pitt said with one of the beguiling smiles that had the power of making men willing to serve him at whatever cost to themselves.
The Duke said nothing for a moment and Pitt, watching him, liked his quietness and the air of restraint that he felt was somehow characteristic of the man. He had not been mistaken in his choice, he was sure of that, although there were few in London who would have agreed with him.
At thirty-eight the Duke of Melyncourt had a reputation for being hard and difficult. He had a forceful personality, which made him many friends and assured him an equal number of enemies. He was rich, powerful and had a reputation which, if not unsavoury, was not particularly desirable. It was, however, not surprising, Pitt thought, that women ran after him. He was exceptionally good-looking and the breadth of his shoulders, which well balanced his height, was slightly out of place in the exquisite satin, laces and embroidery of the prevailing fashion. A hard man, a good-looking man, what else?
The Duke looked up then and the eyes of the two men met.
“Tell me exactly what you want me to do,” the Duke asked softly.
In those quiet words Pitt was confirmed in the shrewdness of his judgment.
Here was a man who understood action, a man who could think and move quickly, moreover, a man who could command.
It was of what Pitt had said during that interview which had lasted for nearly an hour that the Duke was thinking as he stood on French soil and heard about him the soft faint noises of a wood at night time.
For a second he attended to what he heard and, as he thought how in the woods at Melyn there would be just such sounds as these, he had a sudden pang of homesickness. If he had not been here, sent on this fantastic mission by a Prime Minister who was almost young enough to be his son, he would have been at home just in from riding, sitting down with a glass of wine, while his valet drew off his boots. Comfortably tired, he would relax and talk to members of his house party of the sport they had enjoyed and of the plans they had made for