Let him. What did she care? She could dance, amuse herself, surround herself with admirers.

I am, she thought, picking up a mirror from the table beside her bed, the kind of woman about whom there will always be scandal – even now.

What had she cared? She had danced through the night, made assignations with men; lived wildly and feverishly, but the happiest times were when she was alone with Louise, while Louise was waiting for a child to be born; then they were at peace, listening to music or making it themselves, talking of the children, laughing over the old days.

She had her beautiful baby, Frederick William Louis, and she loved him; but she had never been a domesticated woman. It might be different now, she believed. She was mature where she had been young, serious where she had been lighthearted; she loved one man, whereas in those butterfly days she had been humiliated by her husband’s indifference and perhaps determined to prove that he was the only man who did not find her attractive.

While awaiting the birth of her daughter, Frederica Wilhelmina Louise, she and Louise had lived their quiet completely satisfying life together; but the time came when she was rejoined by her husband, and soon after that he died. It was said to be a fever, but the whisperings had begun then. Everyone knew that she disliked him; they were unfaithful to each other; and he was so young to die. What was this fever? What had caused it? No one could be sure.

She was a widow of nineteen with two babies and her reputation for frivolity had changed a little. There was a sinister tinge to it.

She laughed thinking of it. What had she cared. She would rather be thought a wicked woman than a fool. Louis had treated her shamefully – and Louis had died. Perhaps that would be remembered if anyone else decided to treat her badly.

It was not to be expected that she would remain unmarried; and if a husband was found for her she might have to leave the Court of Berlin.

‘I won’t do that,’ she had declared.

But she knew they would force her to it.

Her family was very proud of its connections with the Court of England, which was natural when one compared little Mecklenburg-Strelitz with that great country. All her life she had heard references to ‘your Aunt, Queen Charlotte of England’. It was a legend in the family – the story of how one day news had come to her grandfather that his daughter the Princess Charlotte was sought in marriage by King George III.

And that same Charlotte had many sons and one of these, Adolphus, the Duke of Cambridge, was four years older than Frederica, entirely eligible, and of course the English royal family could have no objection to his marriage with a niece of the Queen.

Adolphus came to Berlin. No one could dislike Adolphus; he was too mild and pleasant. Dull, was Frederica’s comment. And if I married him I should have to leave Louise.

She talked the matter over with Louise. ‘We’d be parted,’ admitted Louise, ‘and that would make us most unhappy. But you have to marry, Freddi, and Adolphus is very kind.’

‘I wonder what it’s like at the English Court with that old legend Aunt Charlotte in command.’

‘There is a king, you know. And the Prince of Wales is said to be the most exciting Prince in Europe.’

‘Ah, the Prince of Wales! Why didn’t they offer me him instead of Adolphus?’

‘Adolphus will be good to you.’

‘And what of us?’

‘You must ask him to bring you here often. Perhaps you could settle here. Why not? He could live in Hanover. They might give him a position there.’

‘That’s true. I see I could do worse than Adolphus.’

And so she had become betrothed to him, and was becoming moderately reconciled to marriage when she met Frederick William, Prince of Solms-Braunfels, a Captain of the King’s Bodyguard, who had seemed at that time devastatingly attractive. Was it because he was so different from Adolphus – gay and dashing and determined to seduce her?

‘But I am betrothed to the Duke of Cambridge,’ she protested.

‘Do you think I should allow that young man to stand in my way?’ demanded Frederick William of Solms-Braunfels.

Frederick William certainly had a way with him, and perhaps she was in rebellion against those who would choose her husband for her, and against the legend of Aunt Charlotte.

It was not enough to make her his mistress. That was a secret affair. He wanted to flout the Duke of Cambridge, to throw his defiance at the English Duke; he wanted the world to know that the beautiful Frederica was so enamoured of her bold captain that she would turn from mighty England to little Solms-Braunfels. And she had believed it was due to his passion for her! She married him secretly, and made one of the biggest mistakes of her life.

She shuddered even now to recall the storm that arose when it was discovered that she had married. She had brought about a coolness between England and Prussia because she had jilted a son of the King of England; she had married unsuitably and behaved in a manner which could only bring discredit to herself and the family.

She did not want to think of the years that had followed when she learned slowly and bitterly what a fool she had been. Being banished from the Court meant that she had lost Louise, and Frederick William was soon showing himself for what he was – a bully even capable of physical violence towards her. What unhappiness for herself and for Louise! And of course there was the war. Nowhere was safe from Napoleon’s troops; and soon she was pregnant and her daughter was born. She called the child Louise – which seemed some consolation.

She could not bear to think of that time, although there was reconciliation and she and Louise were allowed to be together again. But the disaster of war threatened continually and when peace came Louise was about to bear her tenth child; and soon after that …

No, she would not think of it. It was over. She now had Ernest and although they had lost their first child there would be others.

She had sat by Louise’s bed; she was the one who was with her to the end. She could feel the pain in her heart now. ‘Louise, Louise, we were to have been together for the rest of our lives. And now you are leaving me.’

But Louise had gone and she had been alone in a world of hostility, dominated by a husband whom she had come to hate; but she was not the woman to sit down and cry over her troubles. Instead she snapped her fingers at Fate and sought a way out of them. She had lost Louise, the one she loved best in the world, and she was left with a husband whom she had grown to hate. She took one lover, two lovers. Her reputation was becoming tarnished – even worse, for there were many who remembered what had happened to her first husband; but she did not care.

And then she met Ernest.

What was there to attract her so strongly in the brother of that Adolphus whom she had so shamelessly jilted? He was scarcely handsome – at least he was not to others; but to her there was something completely fascinating in his somewhat sinister face. He had lost an eye at the battle of Tournay and his expression was sardonic. One could believe the stories that were told of him. His reputation matched her own. He was said to have murdered his valet who discovering his master in bed with his wife had attacked him with the Duke’s own sword. Ernest’s retaliation – so it was said – was to cut the valet’s throat. Was Ernest a murderer? It was a question which was constantly asked.

It was said of Ernest that there was no vice which he had not practised and looking at him one could believe this. He had lived as dangerously as she had herself; she was immediately attracted by him and he by her. They were of a kind – different from other people. They took what they wanted from life and were prepared to pay for it.

A new excitement had come into her life such as no man had ever given her before. It was inevitable that they should become lovers. Inevitable too that the Prince of Solms-Braunfels should discover this. How indignant unfaithful husbands could be when they learned that their wives were playing the same game! This amused her; she laughed at him.

‘I will divorce you,’ he had cried.

‘Nothing would please me more,’ she retorted.

‘Do you realize you will be an outcast in Europe?’

‘I realize that I shall be free of you, which gives me so much pleasure that I can think of nothing else.’

In a fury he set divorce proceedings in motion; he produced evidence of her adultery; she did not deny it and the divorce was granted.

Immediately afterwards he died … mysteriously.

She laughed now remembering the storm. To have one husband who had died of an unidentifiable fever was scandalous enough, but when a second did the same, then conjecture must become a certainty.

‘How strange that he should die at that time,’ it was said.

‘Of course she had her divorce but it would have been awkward having him alive if she planned to marry again. Did she arrange for him to die?’

‘Did I?’ she asked of Ernest. ‘You were suspected of murder once, my love. From the moment I met you I wanted to share our experiences. I had to be your equal, you know.’

He was amused. He did not ask her if she had murdered her husbands; she did not ask him if he had murdered his valet. Each liked the aura of mystery which surrounded the other. They knew that they were two strong-minded people, that they were capable of murder. That was all they wished to know.

They delighted in each other. The passion between them was unquenchable.

‘I always meant to marry you,’ she told him. ‘I was determined on that.’

‘Not more determined than I.’

Her delight in the death of her husband, her pleasure in her approaching nuptials with Ernest set the gossips talking. It was said that there was only one other with a reputation evil enough to be compared with that of the Duke of Cumberland and that was his future wife, Frederica, recently Princess of Solms-Braunfels.

Shortly after the divorce Frederica gave birth to a son, Frederick William; he was reputed to be the child of the Prince of Solms-Braunfels but that, said rumour, was a matter of which only Frederica could be sure.

She laughed now thinking of Queen Charlotte’s welcoming her into the English royal family. Charlotte had always wanted to get one of her nieces married to one of her sons. She was not aware, at first, of the shocking history of Frederica though she did know that she had been widowed twice; but since the lady’s birth was acceptable so was she.

It was only natural that the old Queen should want detailed reports of her prospective daughter-in-law, and when Charlotte’s envoys returned to her with these what a different picture she was presented with! Frederica had been giddy in her manners and light in her morals before the death of her first husband … somewhat mysteriously. And then she had not been faithful to the second husband who had divorced her for immorality and then had died … also mysteriously.

Frederica could imagine how her Aunt Charlotte would have received the news. She would not have raged and stormed; it was not in her nature to do that. Her anger would have shown itself in the tight lips and the cold snake-like eyes. Poor old Charlotte, thought Frederica almost indulgently, she came to power too late not to want to enjoy every minute of it.

Frederica might be a niece of hers but she was not the kind of woman she would choose for one of her sons and Charlotte wished to make it clear that the marriage would not have her approval.

Ernest laughed. His mother was far away; and nothing was going to stop his marrying Frederica. They had had a brilliant wedding in Strelitz, her father, old Charlotte’s brother, gave her away, and for the first time in her life she had been happy – happy with Ernest of the evil reputation, who looked as though he were capable of anything for not only had he lost an eye but his face had been badly scarred in battle which added a malevolent touch to his features. His appearance gave credence to that rumour that he was capable of all and every vice.

We are a pair, she thought.

But how interesting he was! His mind was sharp and probing; he was the most intelligent man she had ever met; she admired him as she could admire no one else; and he was the only person in the world who could make up to her for the loss of Louise.

She was happy. She could say: To hell with Queen Charlotte. To hell with the world – while I have Ernest.