The Ruthless Rake

by Barbara Cartland

  Author’s Note

  The conditions at Newgate Prison with its debauchery, foul discomfort, filth, squalor, evil and moral deterioration continued until Elizabeth Fry started her reforms in 1815.

  The prison was the worst source of gaol fever in the country, with a high mortality rate for many years.

  The whipping of females was not abolished until 1817.

  The Prince of Wales’s friends are all historical characters. The Prince was a keen supporter of boxing until the summer of 1790, two months after the story opens, when he saw a man killed in the ring at Brighton and never again attended a fight.

  Chapter One ~ 1790

  There was a rough ring made by a huge crowd sitting, kneeling or lying on the ground.

  On one side a hastily improvised haycock, covered in rugs, made a seat for the Prince of Wales.

  Outside the ring of all classes, packed and intent, there were the chariots, chaises, phaetons, gigs, wagons and carts in which the more distinguished and wealthy members of the company had arrived.

  Under a clear sky on the short grass, Tom Tully, the Wiltshire giant of the ring backed by none other than the Prince of Wales and the majority of his friends, was matched against Nat Baggot, a smaller and unknown fighter sponsored by the Earl of Rothingham.

  Tom Tully, resolute of jaw, heavy-muscled and looking as indomitable as the Rock of Gibraltar seemed impervious to blows from the smaller man.

  Yet Nat Baggot, quick-eyed and swift-footed, appeared unabashed by his formidable opponent.

  They had been fighting for over an hour and it seemed as if neither could ever be the winner.

  Then behind the crowd of vehicles there came the sound of hurrying hoofs and quickly turning wheels.

  A four-in-hand was hurtling across the common at a tremendous speed, driven by a gentleman with such expertise that despite the allurement of the match many of the crowd turned to watch his prowess.

  He drew up his horse with a flourish, flung the reins to his groom and stepped down with an athletic ease that belied his height.

  His hat was set raffishly on his own dark unpowdered hair and his boots had been polished with champagne until they reflected as brightly as a mirror.

  The tops of his boots were as pure white as Beau Brummel had decided was correct for Gentlemen of Fashion.

  Once on the ground the gentleman appeared not to hurry but to walk with a bored and almost indifferent air towards the seats occupied by the Prince of Wales and his friends.

  Without his requesting it the crowd made way for him to pass through as if his authority was unquestioned.

  Having reached his objective, he bowed to the Prince and sat down beside him, a place having been made for him automatically by the previous occupier.

  The Prince glanced at him frowning but did not speak and almost ostentatiously turned his head again to watch the contest.

  The newcomer settled himself comfortably and then appeared intent on the battle taking place in front of him.

  Now there was an ugly cut on Nat Baggot’s cheek and his nose was bleeding, yet as they struck, parried and feinted the smaller man was smiling, while it appeared as if Tom Tully was looking grimmer than usual.

  Then unexpectedly there came a sudden rush of feet, the panting hiss of breath, the shock of several vicious blows from already bleeding knuckles and Tom Tully the unbeaten champion threw up his arms, staggered back the length of the ring and went down with a crash.

  For a moment there was the pregnant silence of astonishment.

  Then the top-hatted seconds who had been shadowing the combatants in their sleeves, looked towards the referee.

  He began his slow count,

  “One – two – three – four – ”

  There were shouts and yells from the crowd.

  “Come on, Tom, up with you. You’ve ne’er been a-beaten yet.

  – eight – nine – ten!”

  There were shouts and catcalls, applause and a few jeers as Nat Baggot’s hand was held high and the match was over.

  “Curse you, Rothingham!” the Prince said to the gentleman at his side. “I owe you three hundred guineas and you cannot even trouble to be present for the best part of the fight.”

  “I can only proffer my most sincere apologies, Sire,” the Earl of Rothingham drawled. “My excuse is that I was unexpectedly delayed by circumstances – most alluring and delectable – over which I had no control.”

  The Prince tried to look severe and failed.

  Then his smile broadened and suddenly he was laughing and his friends were laughing with him.

  “Damn it, you are incorrigible!” he exclaimed. “Come, luncheon is waiting for us at Carlton House.”

  The Prince led the way towards his phaeton, the crowd cheering him as he passed through them and he ignored his fallen champion who had cost him so much money.

  The Earl of Rothingham delayed leaving the ring to shake Nat Baggot by the hand. He gave him a purse in which a number of gold coins clinked pleasantly and promised him another fight in the near future.

  Then accepting, apparently uninterested, the congratulations of both the gentlemen and the hoi polloi he too moved towards his horses.

  Luncheon at Carlton House was as usual an elaborate meal with, in the opinion of many of His Royal Highness’s guests, too many courses.

  The Prince appeared to enjoy them all, as he enjoyed most of the good things in life, with an eager greedy enthusiasm.

  Looking at him as he sat at the top of the table, the Earl thought that however handsome he might be he was already running to fat.

  Yet His Royal Highness at twenty-seven was little more than a handsome rollicking boy with a reckless sense of humour.

  Ever since he had returned to England, the Earl had found himself without making any effort, drawn closer day by day into the gay, inconsequent hard-drinking, high-gambling set that surrounded the Prince of Wales.

  He was a few years older and certainly more experienced than most of its members.

  Yet they insisted that he should take part in their youthful enthusiasms, their sporting interests and their endless pursuit of beautiful women.

  The young Lordlings were never more entertaining or more democratic than when they forgathered with their favourite champions at Zimmers Hotel or met each other for their lessons in the manly sport of boxing in Gentleman Jackson’s rooms in Bond Street.

  The Earl after years abroad had been surprised when, soon after he arrived in England three years ago in 1787, he had seen the Jew Mendoza beat Martin in the presence of the Prince of Wales and be escorted back to London with lighted torches and a crowd singing ‘See the Conquering Hero Comes’.

  “Their boxing interests,” an eminent soldier had said to the Earl on the ship that brought them both back from India, “have created a sense of fair play in England today which from the highest in the land to the lowest makes them enforce a just sportsmanship as rigidly as the Knights of the Round table enforced the laws of Chivalry.”

  “Tell me more about England today,” the Earl suggested. “I have been abroad for a long time.”

  The older man had paused a moment.

  “You will think I am being romantic or at least exaggerating,” he said, “if I tell you that it is a golden age and the Society which moves in it is more gracious, more subtle and better balanced than anything on earth since the days of Ancient Greece.”

  “Can that be true?” the Earl asked.

  “The Nobility of England,” the General replied, “lead the country because they are healthy, gregarious and generous. They govern without a Police Force, without a Bastille and virtually without a Civil Service. They succeed by sheer assurance and personality.”

  He paused an
d continued slowly,

  “In my opinion England today could beat every other nation in the world with one hand tied behind its back.”

  “I am afraid that not everyone would agree with you,” the Earl remarked with obvious disbelief.

  “You will see for yourself,” the General replied.

  The Prince of Wales perhaps exemplified the contrasts in the English character.

  He had many talents, he was artistic, well-educated from a literary point of view, extremely civilised where good behaviour, manners and cleanliness were concerned.

  Yet, like the people over whom his father reigned, he enjoyed rough jokes, tolerated a certain amount of cruelty, could be ruthless and as someone said,

  “He loves horses as dearly as women and probably there is no gentleman in England more expert in appreciation of two such beautiful creations.”

  It was about women that the Prince obviously wished to speak with the Earl when the luncheon was over and the rest of his guests had departed.

  “If you are not leaving for a moment, Rothingham,” he said, “I wish to talk with you.”

  He led the way as he spoke into one of the ornate and fantastically decorated salons, which had cost an exorbitant amount of money and created a huge debt as yet unpaid.

  “You make me apprehensive, Sire,” the Earl remarked.

  The Prince flung himself down in a comfortable chair and made a gesture that invited the Earl to sit opposite him.

  It seemed to him as if his host looked him over speculatively, almost as if the two of them were in a ring sparring for an opening.

  The Prince’s train of thought, however, was diverted by the elegance of the Earl’s blue coat worn over a pair of spotless white breeches.

  Plain and unornamented it was sported by its owner with considerable style and yet at the same time with an air of comfort that the Prince vainly sought to obtain.

  “Curse it, Rothingham, who is your tailor?” he asked. “Weston never made that coat.”

  “No, I never cared for Weston,” the Earl replied. “This came from Schultz.”

  “Then he can make one for me,” the Prince pouted, “and I wish I could get my valet to tie a cravat as skilfully as yours.”

  “I tie my own,” the Earl answered.

  “You tie them yourself!” the Prince exclaimed in astonishment.

  “I have done so for many years,” the Earl replied. “I find I can do it quicker and in most cases far better than any valet.”

  “That is just what is wrong with you,” the Prince said snappily. “You are too damned self-sufficient. And incidentally it is on that subject I wish to speak to you.”

  There was a suspicion of a twinkle in the Earl’s half-closed eyes, as if he guessed what was coming.

  His deep blue eyes were strangely arresting. They could be disturbingly penetrating and his enemies found them hard to meet.

  There was usually a cynical smile on his lips as if he found, if not life, at any rate those in it secretly amusing.

  There was a disconcerting directness about him and yet anyone who knew him well felt that he had reserves that were too deep for superficial comprehension.

  Lean, without an ounce of spare flesh on his frame, his clear-cut features were arrestingly handsome and commanded attention and an often unwilling respect.

  His long sojourn abroad had neither impaired his appearance nor had it curtailed his achievements in the world of sport.

  A Corinthian in the way he tooled his horseflesh, a racehorse owner to be reckoned with, a patron of the boxing ring, he himself was no mean pugilist.

  It was not surprising, the Prince thought looking at the Earl, that women clustered round him like bees around a honeypot.

  “Well, Sire, I am waiting,” the Earl said in his deep voice. “For what misdemeanour am I to be reprimanded on this occasion?”

  “Don’t make me sound like a Tutor,” the Prince replied. “I am speaking for your own good.”

  “Then it is sure to be unpleasant, Sire,” the Earl drawled, seating himself more comfortably in the armchair.

  “Not unpleasant, but a slight embarrassment.”

  The Earl did not answer, but merely raised his eyebrows.

  “Lady Elaine Wilmot has been talking to Mrs. Fitzherbert,” the Prince said at length.

  The twinkle in the Earl’s eyes became even more pronounced.

  “Indeed, Sire! On what particular subject?”

  “As if you did not know the answer,” the Prince replied. “Yourself of course! And Mrs. Fitzherbert feels, and I do too, that Lady Elaine would make you a very suitable wife, Rothingham.”

  “In what way suitable?” the Earl asked.

  The Prince considered a moment.

  “She is beautiful, in fact Lady Elaine has been the ‘Incomparable’ and the toast of St. James’s for several years,”

  “I am well aware of that,” the Earl murmured.

  “She is amusing, witty and – experienced.”

  The Prince paused a moment.

  “I never could stand inexperienced women myself. All that girlish giggling and simpering are enough to depress any man!”

  “True enough, Sire,” the Earl agreed.

  He remembered that Mrs. Fitzherbert was nine years older than the Prince.

  Whether or not, as rumour had it, they were secretly married, they both appeared to be happy in each other’s company.

  There was a pause and then the Prince asked,

  “Well?”

  It was a question.

  The Earl smiled and it gave his face a raffish look. He had the expression of an outlaw who would take what he desired by force. It was easy to see why women found him irresistible.

  “I am yours to command, Sire, where my service, my sword and my fortune is concerned,” he said. “But as regards marriage, I must beg your leave to choose my own bride.”

  The Prince of Wales shook his head.

  “Mrs. Fitzherbert will be disappointed.”

  “And so unfortunately will Lady Elaine,” the Earl added. “But, Sire, I find so many women delightful that I have no desire to shackle myself to one for the rest of my life.”

  “You mean you do not intend to marry?” the Prince asked.

  “I intend to enjoy myself, Sire. When one has such a choice of beautiful flowers, why should one confine oneself to picking just one bloom?”

  The Prince threw back his head and laughed.

  “As I have said before, Rothingham, you are incorrigible. The trouble is you are a rake.”

  “An unrepentant one, Sire.”

  “Marriage is a very competitive institution,” the Prince said almost coaxingly.

  “If one desires comfort,” the Earl agreed. “At the same time I would find it hard not to wonder just how much of my wife’s affection was engendered by the comfort of my Bank balance!”

  “You cannot be so cynical!” the Prince cried.

  “I have yet, Sire, to meet the woman who would contemplate marriage with me without the comfort of knowing that I could house, clothe and feed her in the manner she most desires.”

  “And who should blame her?” the Prince asked almost aggressively. “Being without money is a cursed embarrassment, as I know to my cost! But you are a dashing figure of a man, Rothingham! There must be any number of fair charmers who would love you for yourself alone.”

  “We were talking of marriage, Sire,” the Earl said. “Love is a very different kettle of fish.”

  “Very well, continue to be a rake and a roué!” the Prince exclaimed crossly.

  Then, with one of his flashes of intuition that his friends knew well, he added,

  “No, that’s not true. You are not a roué. You are too autocratic, too inflexible, too – ”

  The Prince hesitated for words.

  “Would ‘ruthless’ be the word you require, Sire?” the Earl suggested.

  “Yes. it is,” the Prince agreed. “You are ruthless, Rothingham, in many ways. Look h
ow you turned that fellow Mainwaring out of his Clubs and made everyone ostracise him.”

  “He deserved it, Sire,” the Earl replied.

  “Maybe, but few other men would have had the determination to punish him in such a way.”

  The Prince paused.

  “Yes, ruthless is the right description for you, Rothingham, but perhaps a wife would be able to change that.”

  “I doubt it, Sire.”

  “All the same,” the Prince continued, “you will need an heir, if your fortune is as large as it is reported to be.”

  There was an obvious curiosity in His Royal Highness’s expression and the Earl replied,

  “For once such reports are true. I am, as it happens, extremely warm in the pocket.”

  “I am full of curiosity as to how you have achieved it,” the Prince said. “After all, if I am not mistaken, you left England when you were twenty-one without a penny piece to your name.”

  “My father was bankrupt,” the Earl replied, and his voice was hard. “He had gambled away every penny of the family fortune and, as if that was not enough, created a scandal by getting himself killed in a duel in discreditable circumstances.”

  “It was all very regrettable,” the Prince said. “I remember the King speaking of it with deep concern.”

  “I was fortunate enough,” the Earl continued, “to transfer into a Regiment that was going to India. It cannot be of particular interest to your Royal Highness, but the wound I received, which was a minor one in a very minor battle, changed my whole life.”

  “How?” the Prince asked.

  There was no doubt of his interest and the Earl went on,

  “I was invalided out of the Army. Having no money with which to return to England, I looked about me for some sort of occupation that might be remunerative. The aristocrats of England might find it reprehensible, but I went into trade.”

  “Trade?” the Prince questioned.

  “I was extremely fortunate,” the Earl said, “and I was helped by a very alluring pair of dark eyes in getting to know the merchants who are making enormous fortunes in this Oriental El Dorado of which in the next few years we will hear a great deal more.”

  “Tell me about it,” the Prince demanded with a most flattering expression of curiosity.