Dara

PART SIX. MIDNIGHT LOVER

During the days that followed I revelled in the luxury of being waited on hand and foot and spent over eight hundred pounds on fashionable, expensive costumes and millinery. An even larger sum was spent on jewellery. I was delirious with excitement each time a package of clothing was delivered at the door and my personal maid, Tilly, helped me dress in my new attire. She fussed around me smoothing out the creases as I stood admiring myself in front of the bedroom mirror.

Some of the costumes were really beautiful and did much to enhance my appearance. My favourite was a rose pink walking out dress with a bodice that hugged my figure and open sleeves that revealed the puffed chemisette underneath. The skirt had a very wide base with broad white ribbon bands below the knee.

I was wearing this costume on the day I spied John Sweetapple in the vicinity of Westminster Abbey and invited him back to Cheyney House for coffee and a chat.

His was the first familiar face I had seen since Charles sailed for Australia. Now that the excitement of buying new clothes and jewellery had died down, there was little to occupy my time. Money and a title don't necessarily bring friends. Life had become tedious and boring and I longed for company and conversation for I am very gregarious by nature.

It was plain that John Sweetapple, a thin man with pale, watery eyes, didn't recognize me for there was a puzzled look on his grey, wrinkled face when I greeted him like an old friend. I had to remind him of the times when James and I first arrived in London and spent several evenings at his rooms listening to him reading his plays.

His face cleared as the memory came back to him, but, to my disappointment, he showed little desire to continue our acquaintanceship and was about to move on when I exclaimed, 'There have been great changes in our lives since last we saw you. Following his father's death, James has succeeded to the title of Lord Pulrose.'

It seems everyone loves a lord for this news brought about a tremendous change in Sweetapple's attitude to me. Stunned, he looked at me with great interest, admired my dress, shook my hand with enthusiasm and said in a deferential low voice, 'And you, of course, are Lady Pulrose… Er… How is… er… James these days?'

I explained briefly that we were living apart but remained good friends. By this time he was leading me by the arm in the direction he had been walking when I first approached him. Releasing my arm from his hold, I beckoned to Baldwin to bring the carriage alongside and asked Sweetapple if he was refusing my invitation to have coffee with me. The poor man was all confusion and apologies, tripped on the step of the carriage as he was getting in and nearly fell into my lap.

At Cheyney House, with fancy cakes spread out in front of him and a cup of coffee in his hand, he calmed down to tell me what he had been doing since we last met. I learned that he had given up writing his boring plays and had become an actor manager with his own theatrical company touring provincial theatres. His play-actors were pressing him to arrange another tour. Theatres in Manchester, Liverpool and Dublin were available to him; all that was lacking was the finance to set it all in motion.

I knew this talk was leading up to a request for money and was prepared with an answer. The intoxicating excitement of a group of theatricals on tour was still fresh in my memory. It was just what was needed to lift my spirits.

He eventually came to the point. 'Lady Pulrose… er… I wonder, er… if you have given thought to… er… being a patron of the arts?'

'Certainly not,' I snapped, 'and I have no intention of doing so. How much money do you want?'

Flustered by direct speech, he hummed and hahed. 'Er… a hundred pounds.' Seeing the smile on my face gave him more confidence. 'Er… that would be the rental for… er… the theatres.'

'John Sweetapple,' I said accusingly, 'you are not being entirely truthful with me, are you? I will finance your tour up to the sum of three hundred pounds on condition that, at one of the theatres, you put onRomeo and Julietand I play the part of Juliet.'

When he stopped gulping in surprise at this windfall of money that was coming his way, we discussed details of the tour and, because he had doubts about a Shakespearean play, it was agreed we would have two or three rehearsals before our first performance ofRomeo and Julietin Dublin.

This suited me perfectly. I would have the company of the other actors for two weeks without any responsibilities and, on the third week, realize an ambition I had nursed for a long time of playing Juliet.

There were one or two other conditions I insisted on before we parted that day. 'No one,' I told him, 'must know that I am a titled lady or that the financial backing for the tour is coming from me.'

'By what name shall I… er… introduce you to the rest of the company?' he asked.

'We must think of a name. What do you suggest?' But nothing he came up with met with my agreement. In despair, I asked him for his mother's maiden name and promised to accept it as my stage name, whatever it was.

'Er… Nellie Clifden,' he answered, looking at me warily to see how I would respond.

'It is not the name I would have chosen but it will have to do. I refuse to discuss the matter any further but do remember in the future to address me by that name and not as Lady Pulrose.'

That was how I was known throughout the tour. Nellie Clifden, an actress who had recently returned to England after a lengthy tour of the theatres in America. I enjoyed myself immensely and impressed everyone at rehearsals, including John Sweetapple, in my role as Juliet. By the time we got to Dublin for my debut at the Theatre Royal, I was word perfect. Judging by the applause and the three curtain calls made at the insistence of an enthusiastic audience on our first night's performance of the play I was undoubtedly a great success.

The following morning, taking a stroll around the harbour, I came across a Manx fishing boat moored to the dockside. The crew were busy preparing to sail back to the Isle of Man but not too busy to chat to someone from their island. It was good to hear the Manx tongue again and I took the opportunity to ask news of my family in Baldwin Valley. They had little to tell me except that my brother, Simon, had emigrated to New Zealand with the intention of working his own farm. I was reluctant to leave them and waited at the dockside until they had left the harbour and set sail for the open sea.

Simon was the eldest in our family. We were very close, there being only one year's difference in our ages. I had no regrets about leaving the island but would have liked to have kept in touch with him. Simon was the only one who truly cared about me. Returning to the hotel my mood became sad at the thought that now he was living on the other side of the world it was unlikely we would ever see each other again.

Removing the greasepaint from my face after the curtain had fallen that night, I heard a discreet knock on my dressing room door. Upon my call to enter, there appeared, to my surprise, a handsome young man in the full-dress uniform of an officer in the British Army.

'Lieutenant Stanley at your service,' he announced, giving me a half salute.

I viewed him up and down for a moment. It is not uncommon for young gents to enter the dressing room of an actress with an invitation to dinner in the fond hope of a sensual reward afterwards.

'What can I do for you, Lieutenant?' I enquired casually.

Receiving no reply I turned to face him.

'The Devil take me,' he said. 'Now that I am here I don't know what to say.' Picking at an imaginary speck of dirt on his sleeve, he got his message out in a great rush of words. 'The fact is the Prince of Wales attended the theatre last night. He was in a state of excitement and interest each time you appeared on the stage. By jove, he couldn't contain himself. He has done nothing but talk about you ever since. Most distressing.'

'I'm very flattered,' I said, 'but, if that's all you have got to say, you can go now… and… oh, yes… tell the Prince I thank him for his interest and regard.'

'You don't understand,' he protested fervently. 'His Royal Highness is in a frenzy of desire for you and doesn't know what to do with himself. I have a cab waiting in the street to take you to Curragh Camp.'

Outraged at his impertinence, I cried out, 'How dare you make such a proposition to me. If you think that because I am an actress I am freely available to any gentleman who desires me, you are very much mistaken.' Opening the door wide I gave him a withering look of contempt and said in an ice cold voice, 'GET OUT!'

After he had gone I changed my clothing and was about to don my cloak when the Lieutenant popped his head around the half-opened door. 'Please, Miss Nellie, may I say I'm deuced sorry?'

He looked so miserable and down in the mouth that I took pity on him and invited him to be seated. 'Tell me why you have undertaken the task of procuring girls for the Prince of Wales?' I asked sternly.

'By jove, that's a cursed unpleasant way of putting it,' he protested with an expression of indignation. 'Please be patient with me, Miss Nellie. I'm not very good with words but I want to try to explain my mission.'

'Alright,' I replied, 'I'm listening.'

“The Prince has been my friend since boyhood. All his life he has been under the constant surveillance of someone or other, never getting an opportunity to meet girls of his own age. I'm one of the few friends he can confide in.

'To complete his military education he has been sent to Curragh Army Training Camp under the supervision of his “Governor", Colonel Bruce, who has been entrusted by Queen Victoria with guarding her son from all temptations of the flesh. With the result, here he is, nearly twenty years of age and still a virgin.

'You are not just an actress to him. You have aroused deep emotions of sincere affection in His Royal Highness. Please take pity on him, Miss Nellie.'

His appeal on behalf of his friend touched my heart. The more I thought about it, the more attractive the invitation became. To be the first woman to be intimate with the Prince of Wales was as tempting as a delicious apple hanging from a tree waiting to be plucked by whoever saw it first. I remembered him as he was on Emigrant's Wharf in New York, with his fresh complexion, light brown hair, and the most pleasing smile he gave me when I shouted, 'God save the Prince of Wales.'

On impulse, I arose to my feet and said, 'Very well, Lieutenant, take me to Curragh Camp.'

In the cab on the way to the camp I became concerned about the ever-watchful Colonel Bruce and learnt that, as he was addicted to card games, some fellow officers had been induced to keep him playing whist in another part of the camp until it was time for him to retire to his bed. The Lieutenant stressed how important it was that if Royal wild oats were to be sown they must be sown discreetly.

Quietly and stealthily we walked along dark corridors until we came to my companion's quarters. After lighting a small oil lamp he left me to inform the Prince of my arrival. I removed my cloak and was about to kick off my shoes when the Prince quietly entered the room.

I had been instructed by Lieutenant Stanley how to address this illustrious person but what was one to do with a young man who was so dithery that all he could say was, 'Oh, Nellie! Oh, Nellie!'

It was obvious that he was extremely embarrassed and suffering from the turbulent lust that gathers force in a young man's blood and drives him mad with storming emotions. I could see the agony in his eyes as I stripped off and exposed my naked body to his gaze. His youthful naivete appealed to the woman in me and I said in almost motherly tones, 'Come, dear boy; it will be alright,' and began to help him undress.

When I got his clothes off I threw back the bed coverings and turned to him. He trembled at my touch; beads of sweat began to form on his forehead, his eyes were beseeching me for help. 'Oh, Nellie! Oh, Nellie!' he whispered when I brought him to the bed and manoeuvred myself underneath him. He had worked himself into such a state that he couldn't get it in me. Folding my hands around his cock I guided it into my giny. It was just as well I did for he emptied himself with the first thrust upwards. Hot and breathless, he rolled off and onto his back.

After a while his breathing became more even and he hesitantly touched my breasts. 'Oh, Nellie!' he whispered once more and moved closer to me.

'My name is not Nellie,' I burst out somewhat irritably. 'It is just a name I've borrowed for the week while I'm playing Juliet. I couldn't very well appear on the stage as Lady Pulrose. It wouldn't do.'

Startled, he sat up and gazed at me in doubt and confusion. 'Lady Pulrose-James Kennet's wife? How could that be? He isn't married to anyone as far as I know.'

I spent some time telling him how James and I had met in America. He was so delighted when convinced that he was actually in bed with a titled lady that I couldn't help thinking he was a little bit snobbish and that he hadn't been altogether happy in his intimacy with what he thought was a woman of plebeian origin.

'Does your husband know about this escapade of yours in the theatre at Dublin?' he asked.

'No,' I answered, 'and I hope you won't tell him or anyone else.'

'Your secret will be safe with me,' he replied with some dignity. 'What puzzles me,' he said after a thoughtful pause, 'is how you can be a wife to Pulrose. From all accounts he is a most effeminate creature with little interest in women.'

'Yes, this is true,' I said with a sigh, 'I discovered that after we married. I'm his wife in name only and am now residing at Cheyney House in Catherine Place while Sir Charles Cheyney is in Australia.'

Our little talk had given the Prince some assurance and helped him to regain his confidence. Clasping a hand around one of my breasts, he kissed me most warmly. He knew what to do, this time, to assuage the lusty desires that my feminine wiles had aroused in his loins and he set to with a vigour and enthusiasm that was most admirable. He made no bones about enjoying the delights of my female flesh and his virility boded well for the procreation of further royals in the years to come.

My lover was sound asleep when I kissed him goodnight. His loyal friend, Frederick Stanley, was waiting to escort me to the cab for the journey back to my Dublin hotel. The first faint rays of daylight were emerging from the silhouette of the eastern horizon when I entered the vehicle. The Lieutenant held the open door for a moment to whisper, 'Will you honour us with another visit tonight?'

'Yes,' I replied, 'if it is the wish of your friend.'

I had two more assignations at Curragh Camp before the Prince left Ireland on the twentieth of September to return to London. He had been attached to the Second Battalion of the Grenadier Guards under the command of Colonel Percy. Although he had gained great satisfaction from the ten weeks of the comparative freedom of military life, he was now looking forward to seeing Vicky, his elder sister, the Crown Princess of Prussia.

As he had two or three days at Buckingham Palace before visiting Berlin, we made detailed arrangements for a nocturnal meeting at my home in Catherine Place, the first of many visits by the Prince to Cheyney House, so conveniently close to the Palace that he could make the journey on foot in less than five minutes.

When I got back home there was a sealed letter from the Prince awaiting me.

'My Dearest,

You are constantly in my thoughts. I think about you with deep affection, a feeling I am sure that will abide with me always. Because of your rank and situation amongst the nobility I am delighted that we will be able to meet often at social functions and private dinner parties. I look forward to being with you tonight. Your sincere admirer, Bertie.'

Reading this letter brought it home to me just how much this affair with the Prince was going to affect my life style in the future. My servants could be a problem if I was unable to count on their loyalty and discretion.

I broke the news to Billings, my butler, by informing him without any hesitating preliminary talk that the Prince of Wales and I had become good friends and that we could expect His Royal Highness to be a frequent visitor to the house from now on as I wanted my home to be a comfortable refuge for him when seeking relaxation.

Try as he may, Billings was incapable of hiding his pleasure and excitement. From the expression on his face I knew we would get his full cooperation to keep this affair a secret and he would see to it that there would be no seepage of gossip from the house to the world outside.

Our plans for the autumn went steadily forward. After his visit to Berlin, the Prince would return to Cambridge on the thirteenth of October to continue his studies at Trinity College and I would find lodgings at one of the numerous inns or taverns in the town. The Prince had his own private accommodation at Madingley Hall, a spacious country mansion about four miles outside the town.

I was enraptured by Cambridge with its venerable colleges and quiet cloistered courts. The great antiquity of the pleasant and extensive buildings surmounted by pinnacles and minarets absorbed my interest. My social life was enriched by association with the Prince's friends in the Amateur Dramatic Club. Because of his royal influence, I became the resident actress at the Club's premises behind 'The Hoop' hotel in Jesus Lane and a good friend of Francis Burnand, the founder of this theatrical group for undergraduates. Soon after his arrival at the university the Prince was an appreciative spectator of the farces and extravaganzas to which the Club's programmes were confined, and his favour secured for it a fuller academic recognition than it had enjoyed before.

We had much pleasant intercourse both in conversation and in physical intimacy in my dressing room near the stage whenever he was able to escape from the watchful eye of his Governor at Madingley Hall. His close companions and fellow students at Trinity College, the Duke of St Albans, Charles Beresford and Nathaniel Rothschild, often joined us for supper in my rooms at 'The Hoop' hotel.

One evening he arrived in great agitation, looking a little off colour and a bit pale around the gills. It seems that one of the cabbies in Dublin had talked of a liaison with an actress. The scandal had become the gossip of London high society and had reached the ears of his parents. Deeply shocked by the news of this fall from grace, the Queen had sent her husband to Cambridge to administer a very severe reprimand to their wayward son. Prince Albert inspired nervous reverent awe in Bertie, who, under stern admonishment, broke down and admitted he had 'yielded to temptation'. He assured his father that the affair with Nellie Clifden was now over, which to some extent was true, as, strictly speaking, I'm not known by that name. His father was much relieved to hear this and told him: 'As the future sovereign of the British Empire you must not, under any circumstances, stray from the path of righteousness. The consequences for this country, and for the world, would be too dreadful to contemplate.'

Discussions immediately got underway at Windsor Castle as to what to do about the future of the Prince of Wales. His father began to arrange for a five month tour of the Near East for his son, and the Queen drew up a list of seven young European princesses for consideration as Bertie's future wife on the principle that if one must yield to temptations of the flesh, it should be done in accordance with God's will in wedded bliss. But all these plans were overtaken by something even more catastrophic.

Prince Albert caught a chill from the cold, wet weather that prevailed during his stay at Cambridge and within two weeks died of typhoid fever at Windsor. Much to Bertie's distress his mother, in her grief, blamed him for the death of her husband, because Prince Albert was on his way to discipline his son when he contracted typhus. In the first stupefaction after the death of her husband she vowed fidelity to all his views and said she would: 'Apply them particularly to Bertie whose future has been planned so carefully by my beloved Albert.'

The Queen went ahead with arrangements for her son's tour, determined to carry out her late husband's wishes. So I was deprived of Bertie's company for five months while he toured Lebanon, Palestine, Egypt, Greece and a number of other countries in that area. When he got back on the thirteenth of June he regaled me with his accounts of shooting wild boar in Albania and shooting crocodiles on the banks of the River Nile. During his tour abroad the Queen had proceeded with negotiations for her son's marriage to the beautiful Princess Alexandra of Denmark.

Shortly after his return to London at his request I took him, one dark night, to see some of the slums where I had lived at one time. Horrified by the degradation of the poor and moved almost to tears, he began to hand out gold sovereigns to the starving ragamuffins who quickly surrounded us. He had to be restrained as I feared we would have a riot on our hands. I got him back into our waiting cab as quickly as possible and away from a demanding crowd that was threatening to get ugly and dangerous.

From the time of his sister, Alice's, wedding to Louis at Osborn House on the first of July until the eve of his own wedding to Princess Alexandra, we were on a constant merry-go-round of private dinner parties and visits to palatial mansions throughout the land. Where the Prince went, I was sure to be nearby. Shrewd hostesses of high society soon got the message that if they desired the company of His Royal Highness at any of their intimate dinner parties or any other social events, an invitation to attend would also have to be sent to Lady Pulrose.

We occupied adjoining bedrooms, usually with a connecting door, when we were entertained by the nobility at one of their country house parties, where flirtation, dancing and practical jokes were the order of the day. Bertie had little time for straitlaced prudes which was just as well for shortly after we all retired for the night, there would be much nocturnal toing and froing along the passageways of these great houses as people left their chambers to join up with their lovers in some other bedroom. There was no scandal for we were all members of an exclusive club of the wealthy elite who conducted their affairs of the flesh discreetly and quietly. Almost everything was condoned provided it was done behind locked doors.

Bertie loved the chaff and levity of this free and easy company with their good humoured wit and gaiety. Nevertheless, within this convivial atmosphere he still expected from his associates a certain deference, tolerance for his own idiosyncrasies, and respect for his royal rank. He did not stand obtrusively on his dignity but any undue familiarity was discouraged with an icy stillness that could be very embarrassing for the I offender. We went from one great mansion to another enjoying the pleasure and comfort and the sumptuous, warm hospitality extended by our hosts.

Like his mother, he had a gargantuan appetite for food. Nothing less than haddock, poached eggs, bacon, chicken and woodcock would do for him for breakfast. This greed for rich food and thirst for claret which he preferred to champagne and brandy was nearly his undoing when he mounted me with strangled gasps and breathless croaks after consuming to the full a twelve course dinner. When he finished with me he was blowing like a grampus with eyes popping out of an apoplectic, flushed red face.

'My God, he is dying!' I thought and, in panic, poured a full glass of brandy down his throat. Which didn't help matters one little bit for he was horribly sick afterwards.

We kept good company at my house in Catherine Place where, in the full glory of the grand hostess, I wined and dined them, doing my best to charm and beguile the Prince's closest friends with a familiarity that I had long taken for granted. Of all his companions, I took to Nathaniel Rothschild most, known to his intimates as 'Natty'. He was a brusque man with strong personality and didn't suffer fools gladly although he could be very kind and generous with those who sought his advice and help.

I was fascinated when, in answer to my questions, he told me a story about his grandfather, Nathan, the first of the Rothschilds to arrive in England. Apparently the Bank of England refused to discount a bill drawn upon Nathan by his brother, Amschel of Frankfurt. His messenger was informed that the bank only cashed their own bills and not those of private persons.

'I am no ordinary, private person,' Natty's grandfather exclaimed, highly indignant. “They will rue the day they refused my bill.'

Walking over to the bank, he took a five pound note out of his satchel and asked for gold in exchange. When the clerk gave him five sovereigns, Nathan then brought out a second five pound note with the same request. He kept this up for seven hours and ended the day with twenty-one-thousand pounds all in gold sovereigns but as he had nine clerks doing the same thing the bank had lost in one day two-hundred-and-ten-thousand pounds from its gold reserves.

Nathan and his nine men were at the bank again the next day. “These gentlemen refuse to take my bills, so I will not keep theirs,' he exclaimed to the restless customers who could not find any tellers free to help them. He solemnly warned the Bank of England that he had eleven million pounds in notes which he intended to change into gold sovereigns with the aid of his employees, even though it would take up to two months of his time and that of the bank tellers to cash the lot. The bank directors were in a panic and quickly agreed to send Nathan an abject written apology and a promise never to refuse a Rothschild's bill in the future.

The financial acumen of the Rothschilds was well known throughout Europe and, indeed, the rest of the world. Following Natty's advice, I increased my fortune considerably by careful investment. I knew the Prince lived far above his means and gossip had it that Natty and his two brothers, Alfred and Leo, often paid the debts incurred by His Royal Highness. As to the truth of this accusation, I cannot say.

Bertie was forced to be with his family at Windsor Castle for the celebrations of Christmas and we were unable to meet each other again until the third week in January of the new year because of other commitments he had at that time. We had a long-standing engagement to attend a house party at Kintburly, aptly called “The Palace of the Shires', one of the greatest of the stately homes of England, the ancestral seat of Lord Wawcott who was noted for his lavish hospitality.

On the train we shared a compartment with Freddie Stanley who had acted as the Prince's messenger when we first met at Curragh Camp in Ireland. He was still in the army and had a batman called Geordie who kept us well supplied with drinks throughout the journey.

I had a long lie in bed the first morning as Bertie was out shooting hares, rabbits or anything else that moved in the long grass of the moorland. A chamber maid informed me as I descended the stairs that His Royal Highness had injured his leg and was limping badly. Supported by Freddie and his batman, the Prince, with his right leg raised, painfully negotiated the ascent to his chambers. Apparently he had stumbled into a rabbit hole and sprained his ankle rather badly. When he got his boot and stocking off, I could see how swollen his ankle had become and applied a cold wet compress to the swelling while we waited for the doctor.

Suffering a great deal of pain, he was confined to his bed for the rest of the day. We ate our meals in his bedchamber and I tried to do all I could to alleviate his discomfort. About nine o'clock the doctor gave him a strong sedative that he assured me would dull the pain and allow His Highness a good night's sleep. I had drunk half a bottle of wine with our evening meal and was feeling heavy with drowsiness when I retired to my own bedroom.

In the fantasy of my dreams I felt skillful hands caressing my body, gently exploring the soft lips of my giny, conjuring a divine rhapsody of tenderness that held me in a heavenly rapture of desire. As if in a trance, my thighs were gently persuaded to open wide to receive angelic kisses that slowly crept up to the apex. Warm lips that, in my dream-like, half-awakened state, seemed real and yet ethereal, thrilled my sensitive private parts with exquisite sensual kisses which sent me into an uncontrollable convulsion of passion. My hands reached down and my fingers slipped through a head of short curly hair that I dimly realized wasn't the same as Bertie's. The firm flesh of his cock pressed between the lips of my giny and I lay back breathless with urgent desire, not caring whether it was a devil, an angel, or earthly man between my legs so long as he assuaged the burning desire that consumed me in fires of passion.

The passageway to my womb clasped the ardent male member of my unseen lover and I felt my buttocks being raised as he came down on me. Swooning under the onslaught of his savaging thrusts, my hips writhed in an ecstasy of raging passions which swept me up and ever upwards in a spasm of emotion that silently screamed for release and fulfilment. When I came to my limbs were quivering and my eyes were wet with tears of blissful joy.

His vigour and virility were astounding. On and on he went, thrusting that lovely big cock deep inside me, only pausing briefly for a moment or two when the sap burst from his shuddering member. Twice more I rose in a fervent, sensuous, breathless intensity to reach the pinnacle of my hot desires.

I lay in a warm blush of ravishment after he left my bedroom as silently as he had entered it. Slowly the finger of curiosity began to stir my thoughts. Who could it be, this lover who came out of the darkness and just as quietly disappeared into the shadows of the night? But I was too exhausted to continue the questioning and, with a deep sigh of contentment, snuggled my head into the pillow and fell asleep.

At various times during the next day I cast a speculative eye on some of the male guests. I was looking for a tall, lithe, muscular youngish man with short curly hair. Whilst there were one or two possibilities, none of them entirely fitted the image I had in mind of my midnight lover. Bertie, confined to bed with a painful ankle, was petulant and irritable all day long. I tried reading to him and playing cards, but it seemed nothing was going to lift his spirits and my own detached smug good humour only made him more irascible. I had high expectations of another nocturnal visit from my unknown lover and longed for bedtime.

The long case clock downstairs was striking the hour of midnight when I thought there was a sound of some movement at the door but couldn't be sure and clenched my fists to control my excitement. Taut and tense, my heart pounding in my chest, I felt the bedcoverings being raised and jumped involuntarily when he placed his lips on my open mouth. He got into me immediately, wasting no time on preliminaries, and humped me with savage desperately urgent thrusts until the sap spurted from him. He lay hard inside me for a moment or two while he recovered his breath and then, with fingers entwined through my hair, gave me a long sustained passionate kiss, the kiss of a man determined to dominate and possess the female beneath him. With his lips clasped to mine and his cock jerking inside me, my blood warmed to the passion that was rising in me. This perfect union of our two bodies soon brought me to a loving orgasm of great intensity.

In the tumult of my emotions he said something that sounded like, 'Eeh! Hinny, yer a grand fuck and a reet canny lass.'

We had one more night together before our return to London. At the local station Freddie Stanley and his batman, Geordie, carried Bertie into the royal carriage reserved for our party.

When we arrived in the great metropolis there was lots of bustling activity as they got Bertie off the train and out of the railway station. When it came for my turn to descend to the platform I tripped over someone's small leather bag and would have fallen head first onto the asphalt platform but for the timely intervention of Geordie's outstretched arm.

'Eeh! Hinny, mind yer step,' he exclaimed as his strong hands supported me.

I gazed at him stupefied, unable for a moment or two to associate him with my mysterious lover of the past three nights. A nervous giggle gurgled in my throat at this startling revelation, while he, for his part, stood confident and proud with dancing eyes and a broad grin spreading across his strong handsome features.

With that accent spoken by the people of the north east of England, he said in a voice a little above a whisper, for Freddie Stanley was speaking to a station porter nearby, 'I wanted yer t'knaa who it was.' Then, before turning round to pick up his officer's baggage, he gave me a conspiratorial wink of the eye and whispered, 'Gudbye, Lady Pulrose, and God bless yer.'

By the beginning of March all London was agog and buzzing with interest in the Prince of Wales' forthcoming wedding, and many decorated triumphal arches were being erected for Princess Alexandra's short drive through the capital on her way to Windsor Castle. This excitement was hardly surprising considering that Bertie was one of the world's most eligible bachelors and that despite keen competition from six other princesses, Alexandra was the chosen bride to be.

She seemed to meet with everyone's approval. The Queen was very favourably impressed with the Danish princess's quiet, ladylike manners and her lovely refined profile. The Prime Minister, Lord Palmerston, thought she was 'charming and beautiful but, what was more important, Alexandra was a Protestant.' Disraeli, who had an invitation to the wedding, which was to take place in St George's Chapel at Windsor on the tenth of March, praised her because 'she had no need to smile to look gracious' and thought she was 'very handsome, with fine delicate features and a lovely mouth.'

'What chance did I have with Bertie?' I thought, 'with all that admiration for the future Princess of Wales.' It became evident as the date of the wedding approached and the Prince's visits to Catherine Place were less frequent than formerly that his desire for his bride to be obviously preoccupied his thoughts. Nevertheless, he spoke often of our last night together just before the wedding.

A sumptuous supper was prepared for that evening when he was due to call at ten o'clock. Wanting everything to be perfect I went to great lengths to be at my best for I wanted it to be a night of love that would last in his memory for a long time.

Hearing the sound of horses' hooves outside at ten o'clock, I rang for my butler to tell him to be ready to serve the meal within a few moments. When Billings answered my summons he informed me a footman from the royal household had delivered a sealed envelope addressed to me. Breaking the seal, I took out a hastily scribbled letter from the Prince.

'My Dearest,

I received a letter from the Queen this morning requesting my presence at Windsor for a meeting in the afternoon with the Prime Minister to discuss the final details of the arrangements for the wedding.

It is impossible to express in mere words how distraught I am that we will be unable to be together tonight because Mama insists on my staying with her until Princess Alexandra and I are man and wife.

You will often be with me in my thoughts, for I remain ever yours. Affectionately, Bertie.'

To Nathaniel Rothschild

22nd September 1863

'My Dear Natty,

It is with some concern for the welfare of Lady Pulrose that I address this letter to you. I am informed that no one has seen or heard of her for some considerable time and the servants at her home in Catherine Place can give me no information as to where she may be.

As you well know, she was always an excellent friend and an amusing companion and now that my dear wife is confined to Marlborough House as she is expecting our first child sometime in January I am finding life rather dull and boring. So do be a good fellow and make some enquiries on my behalf as to the whereabouts of our mutual friend, Dara.

Bertie.'

To the Prince of Wales

30th September 1863

'My dear Friend,

After making many enquiries regarding Lady Pulrose, I am somewhat aggrieved that I have so little to report as to her situation.

Using my influence with financial associates led me to an interview with her bank manager. As you know, banks are reluctant to disclose any information about their clients but he did inform me that about mid-summer he received from Her Ladyship a letter with a New Zealand postmark, instructing him to transfer several thousand pounds to a bank in Auckland. If I should receive any further knowledge on this matter you can be sure it will be passed on to you immediately.

I remain your trusted friend, as always, Natty.'