He seemed to wheedle what he wanted out of Tom Garth and the General appeared to want to spoil him in every way because he had royal blood in his veins.

What secrets there were in the family! thought Amelia. The boys were not the only ones who had adventures.

She thought sadly of dear Charles Fitzroy, whom she loved and who loved her – but they were not for each other and they had known it. Charles had married twice, for his first wife had died young after giving him a son and now he had married Frances Anne Stewart, the eldest daughter of the Marquis of Londonderry. He had his boys, George and Robert, and a daughter as well. What was the use of regretting, of saying to oneself: ‘Those should have been mine.’ She was a Princess and although he was a son of the Duke of Grafton and descended from Charles II and his mistress Barbara Villiers, he was not considered worthy to marry the King’s daughter. But was that so? Was it that George III could not bear to think of any of his daughters in the marriage bed? He was a man with strange dark thoughts which sometimes harassed and tormented him to such an extent that they drove him into madness.

For her there might have been marriage with Charles Fitzroy; and dear Mary, her sister who insisted on being with her, nursing her herself, was in love with her cousin the Duke of Gloucester. Why could they not be permitted to marry? Why must they remain in what her brother George called the Band of Spinsterhood?

Was it her father’s strange obsession which sent him on the verge of madness to contemplate his daughters married? Or was it their mother who wanted to keep them about her – her handmaidens, whom she governed and treated as though they were still children in the nursery?

What did it matter? Amelia asked herself wearily. The result is that we remain here in our prisons and even Sophia who briefly stepped outside hers could only step back into it when the inevitable result overtook her.

‘My poor Amelia,’ said Mary suddenly. ‘I have tired you with all this talk.’

No, thought Amelia. It is poor Mary. For I shall die young; and as they become older the resentment will grow. And when George is ready to find husbands for them they will be too old.

There was a discreet scratching on the door.

Mary gave permission for whoever was there to enter.

It was Sir Thomas Garth himself, a loyal member of her suite. Mary said he never forgot anything that was necessary to Amelia’s comfort and if Dr Pope ordered something he would see that it was procured, however difficult. He looked upon Amelia as a young sister.

Both sisters looked a little guilty as he entered, since they had so recently talked of him. He was far from handsome and well advanced into his fifties – a good deal older than Sophia. Couldn’t she have chosen someone more handsome? wondered Amelia. Someone more like her dearest Charles Fitzroy. One could not imagine gentle Sophia with that bluff old soldier; he was scarcely handsome either and had an ugly birthmark on his face.

Poor Sophia! thought Amelia. Poor all of us!

Thomas bowed as well as the package he was carrying would allow.

‘A present, Your Highness, from Brighton. His Royal Highness has sent it on in advance of himself.’

Amelia gave a little cry of joy and held out her hands for the package. Mary came close and Thomas stood watching while she opened it – very unceremoniously, thought Mary, but what could one say to the father of one’s nephew?

There were five pelisses all in delicate and charming colours. Amelia flushed and wrapped a delicate blue one about her shoulders.

‘It’s most becoming,’ said Mary.

‘Trust His Highness to choose the right colours,’ said Thomas.

A letter had fluttered to the floor and Thomas picked it up and handed it to the Princess.

Amelia glanced at the flourishing handwriting, and read the fulsome phrases with pleasure. He could scarcely wait to see his dearest sister. He was coming with all speed the next day. He would be delighted if his dearest Amelia were wearing one of these pelisses which he, with Brummell’s help, had spent two hours in choosing. And so on … flowery phrases from the most charming brother in the world.

Mary smiled to see her sister happy. One could almost believe she were well again.

‘My dearest sister!’

Amelia rose from her chair and was enfolded in his scented arms.

‘George, dearest, let me look at you. Oh … you are magnificent!’

He laughed. ‘What do you think of this cloth? Brummell brought my notice to it.’

‘You are constantly in the company of that fellow, I hear.’

‘He’s a wizard, I tell you. Have you heard of the new cravat he has invented?’

‘I am glad you find such pleasure in these things.’

‘Which sounds a little censorious, sister.’

‘Not in the least. If there are things in life which give pleasure without harming others it is foolish to turn one’s back on them. Besides, think of what pleasure I get from wondering what you will appear in next and having little games with myself to guess. There is one thing I can always be sure of. You will look elegant, and more than that – magnificent … all that a Prince of Wales should. Pray turn that I may have a better view.’

He did so. The epitome of elegance. The cloth of his coat fine and of pleasant moss green, his neckcloth snowy white to match his buckskin breeches, moulded to a fine though plump thigh; the diamond star flashing on his breast and few diamonds adorning his white and shapely hands.

‘Oh, George,’ cried Amelia. ‘I’m so proud of you.’

He embraced her, the tears in his eyes. This was a scene such as he loved. From his parents he had nothing but criticism and when he rode into the streets the crowds were either silent or hostile; Maria in the last year had thrown plenty of home-truths at his head. But here he was with his favourite sister who adored him.

‘The pelisses are lovely. I shall think of you every time I wear them. Not that I need a’pelisse to remind me of you. Oh, George, sit down, and let us be alone to talk. There is so much I want to say to you.’

He sat down and looked at her. She was growing very frail. He wanted to weep for Amelia, his little sister who had never had a chance to live and was now not far from death. What could he do for her?

‘Dearest Amelia, if there is anything on this earth that I can do for you …’

‘There is something, George. Let us face the truth. I am not going to live much longer.’

‘I won’t allow you to talk in such a way.’

‘Then I shall do so without your permission. The time is passing and I have certain affairs to settle. George, help me.’

He brought a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. ‘Anything,’ he declared brokenly. ‘Anything.’

‘I want everything I have to go to Charles …’

George nodded. He knew of her hopeless love for Charles Fitzroy. He was genuinely sorry for his sisters and definitely intended to do something for them when it was in his power. He often thought – when he was not concerned with his own affairs – how sad their position was. They had no allowances they could call their own, no freedom; they were the complete slaves of their parents. His brothers were fortunate; they had escaped that thraldom; but George would never cease to be sorry for his sisters and he swore that when he was in control the first thing he would do was to see what could be done for them.

‘I borrowed five thousand pounds from Charles and have only paid back one. He must be paid back.’

The Prince nodded. He was not very fond of Charles Fitzroy, but since Amelia was enamoured of him he would do his duty.

‘You should have another executor,’ he told his sister. ‘What about Adolphus? I’ll tell him that he will act with me. Now let us have done with this painful subject.’

‘Oh, George,’ she said, ‘how I love you! How grateful I am to have such a brother.’

There were the tears again, the flurry of the beautiful handkerchief, the emotion which did not mar his fresh complexion or dull the brilliance of his eyes.

It was pleasant to bask in his sister’s adoration. If only some people were as appreciative of him he would be less troubled. Maria for instance who was being so difficult and determined to quarrel and had refused his invitations. Even Lady Hertford was as cold as ever, determined not to be the mistress of the Prince of Wales until he became a Tory – he, who had been a Whig from the earliest days when he had had his tuition from the famous Fox – and who insisted on Maria’s acting as a chaperon whenever she visited him, a task which Maria refused point blank to accept. However, for the time he would enjoy the undemanding homage of his favourite sister.

‘Then,’ he said, ‘let us talk no more of this doleful subject. I will tell you of the new alterations I am planning at my Pavilion, and I am going to insist on your coming to Brighton.’

‘I should enjoy that … if I were well enough. But I should hate to be ill at Brighton. Brighton is such a gay place. And how is darling Charlotte?’

‘As full of whims and fancies as ever. She is a troublesome girl. I fear she takes after her mother.’

‘When I last saw her I thought you must have looked exactly like her when you were her age.’

‘I’m not complaining of her looks. It’s her spirits. She has too many and they are too high.’

‘Well, she is her father’s daughter. Would you expect a meek little creature without an original thought in her head?’

‘Certainly not, but I wish she would not be troublesome. There’s trouble enough in the family.’

‘Oh, George, what news of Ernest?’

‘He’s getting on. You know he is recuperating at the Pavilion.’ The Prince frowned slightly. Brighton was his town. There at least the people were loyal to him; he feared that Ernest was impairing his popularity in Brighton. There were so many rumours about that unfortunate affair of the valet and when scandal touched one member of the family it touched the rest. It was particularly disastrous following so quickly on Fred’s scandal with Mary Anne Clarke.

Still, what could he do? Ernest had had to get away from Town; he had to recover from his very serious accident … if that was the right word for it … and none of the brothers refused to help each other when the need arose.

This unpleasantness would pass.

‘It’s good of you to look after him,’ said Amelia. ‘But you are always good to your poor brothers and sisters.’

‘I wish to God I’d been able to do something for you girls. It’s not much of a life for any of you.’

‘There were too many of us.’ She laughed. ‘How strange are the lives of kings and queens. So many have suffered because they could not get one child; and our parents had fifteen. Thirteen of us growing into adults to cause them trouble.’

‘You have never given any cause for trouble.’

‘Have I not? Papa continually worries about my health and what he would say if he knew that I loved Charles I cannot imagine.’

‘He wants you to love only him.’

‘How was he when you last saw him?’

‘Poor Papa!’

She shook her head and did not speak for a moment; she was aware of that somewhat eager look in her brother’s eyes.

‘Very bad,’ she said. ‘Worse. He can scarcely see now. He is almost blind and the other …’

‘The rambling,’ supplied the Prince.

‘That,’ she said, ‘is worse, far worse. He keeps asking me how I am and embracing me and weeping over me and I keep telling him that I am getting stronger every day, which is a lie, George.’

‘Yet it comforts him. Poor old man, he is in need of comfort. Can it be much longer?’

‘People are noticing. Not only the family … but his ministers. There will be a Regency soon. I am sure of it, though it may be that I shall not be here to see it.’

‘How you harp on that,’ he said almost pettishly, ‘when you know how it grieves me.’

She held out a hand and pleaded forgiveness. ‘When the Regency comes you will be too busy to miss me.’

‘That could never be.’

‘Wherever I may be, my love and hopes for your success will follow you.’

‘My blessed Amelia!’

She looked at him tenderly. Dared she attempt to advise him? Could she say: Be careful with Maria. Maria is the one for you. No other woman will be as she is to you, none will love you as well.

How could she? She knew the fervour that possessed him when he was in pursuit of a woman and Lady Hertford was cold and cruel – Maria Fitzherbert warm and loving. And in his heart he knew that whatever fancies he had, it would always be Maria whom he loved. Maria whom he looked upon as his true wife.