The Diamond of London

by Andrea Penrose

Genres: Biographical

Synopsis

Born into an illustrious family of swashbuckling war heroes and brilliant political leaders, Lady Hester Stanhope was a Regency-era adventuress who lived on her own terms and refused to conform.

Fans of Shana Abé, Theresa Ann Fowler, and Fiona Davis will be captivated by the unforgettable spirit at the heart of USA Today bestselling author Andrea Penrose’s dazzling new historical novel based on the real life of Lady Hester Stanhope (1776-1839), a British aristocrat, antiquarian, and adventurer who defied all conventional strictures of what a woman could and couldn’t do during the Regency era.

Even with her privileged life, Lady Hester Stanhope knows that claiming the adventurous life she truly wants will not be easy, thanks to her eccentric father’s stifling grip. With the help of her renowned statesman uncle William Pitt the Younger, she takes on the glittering, treacherous heights of London Society. Her formidable intelligence, outspoken opinions, and headstrong determination gain the favor of the beau monde’s leading taste-maker Beau Brummell—and she quickly learns to bend the rules of the ton to her own advantage. And as her uncle’s hostess, she astutely uses her skills to preside over—and give advice to—the most influential figures of her day, rising to a position unequaled in society . . .

But when it comes to holy matrimony, Hester will settle for no less than a passionate match of equals—a search marked by challenges and heartbreak. Her affair with a charismatic naval officer tempts her with forbidden pleasures—even as it threatens her reputation. Her love for a sophisticated, brilliant diplomat offers the marriage of her dreams . . . and unsuspected betrayal. And as England is plunged into war, Hester’s world changes forever, causing her to find courage and strength amid loss, chart a completely unexpected future—and make a glorious legacy forever hers . . .

Release date: January 23, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

Summer 1800

The steel was cold as ice against my throat, and yet I wasn’t afraid.

“Put the knife away, Papa,” I said calmly. “One little slip and you might accidentally prick your finger.” I could always govern my father better than anybody because I could bear his oddities and understood how to use humor to coax him back to reason when plain sense and argument would have failed.

The flame from his desk lamp shivered, casting a flicker of light over his face. I saw the spasm of conflicting emotions—razor-sharp logic warring with his increasing eccentric ideas about power and privilege, and how our family should live within the rarified world of the British aristocracy.

“I am like King Lear! My daughters have abandoned me!” His voice was plaintive, as if he couldn’t comprehend how such a thing had come to pass. “And all the noble principles upon which I raised them.”

I felt more sorrow than anger. The truth, noble or otherwise, was that his unorthodox method of raising us had been a cause of consternation among all our relatives.

Papa was an ardent admirer of the eminent Enlightenment philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who believed that mankind was born innocent and it was Society’s rules and hierarchies that corrupted our natural state. Thus, while he taught us the rudiments of reading, mathematics, and a smattering of French, we were forbidden to have any intercourse with books, even the Bible, until he deemed that we had learned our primary life lessons from Nature. My younger half brothers—my own mother, a very charming and well-educated lady, a member of the illustrious Pitt family, had died when I was three and Papa quickly remarried—had found themselves apprenticed to the local blacksmith in order to learn the moral rewards of manual labor, despite being the sons of an earl.

“Clearly I haven’t abandoned you, Papa,” I replied. “Here I am, and the basic laws of physics say that I can’t be in two places at once.”

My quip make him smile.

The night breeze rattled the windowpanes. Moonlight fluttered over the library’s bookshelves, illuminating shelf after shelf of Papa’s leatherbound books. His scientific instruments and journals cluttered the worktables, his cabinet of curiosities rose up from the gloom, its wondrous collection of strange and exotic things coming to life for just an instant as a quicksilver gleam danced over the glass.

Genius and madness, blurred in the shadows.

My father’s intellect was unquestioned. His interest in electricity led him to form a fast friendship with the American luminary, Benjamin Franklin, as the two of them become the leading experimenters in the field. His other scientific inventions drew accolades, including an innovative printing press and the Stanhope lens, which allowed microscopes to create a greater magnification. It was his emotional stability that descended into the netherworld of darkness.

“Ah, Hester . . .”

Feeling his muscles relax, I dared to slowly ease away his arm, which was pressed against my chest, pinning me to the wall. I didn’t really think he was planning to slice through my windpipe, but the blade was making me uncomfortable.

“Clever, clever, Hester.” He patted my cheek. “I have missed our little games of logic.”

At a young age, I sensed that my father thought me the cleverest of all his six children. On the whole, he paid little attention to any of us. However, he seemed to enjoy devising philosophical puzzles for me to reason out.

“Think, think, Hester,” I recall him saying when I was twelve years old. “You are the best logician I’ve ever seen. Why, when you put your mind to it, you can talk through a problem and bring Truth to the point of a needle.”

Staring at the knife in his hand, as if seeing it for the first time, he blew out a sigh and set it aside. “Come, let us sit by the fire and talk about philosophy. I have a theoretical question that will test whether your reasoning is as sharp as ever.”

Oh, yes, I am sharp, I thought. Sharp enough to see that his increasing eccentricities, both personal and political, were fast alienating him from all his family and friends.

Including me.

The French Revolution and its ideals had been the catalyst for my father’s transformation from august aristocrat to radical republican. “Citizen Stanhope” was now the laughingstock of London, fodder for the pens of London’s satirical artists, who dissected his foibles with surgical skill. His scathing criticism of his own country alienated his close friend, my uncle William Pitt the Younger—who was serving as the prime minister of Britain—and turned him into a lifelong enemy.

As for his family, there was a terrible irony to his ideas. His reverence for liberty, equality, and fraternity was in confounding contradiction to his despotic rule over our household. My stepmother soon wearied of his quirks and turned distant. She spent less and less time at Chevening, our ancestral estate, leaving all of us children to fend for ourselves.

Decisions, decisions.

It was at that precise moment, with the chill of the blade still lingering on my throat, that I finally resolved to make an emotional and physical escape from the tyranny of his misguided genius. Though in truth, I suppose the rumblings of my discontent had been growing ever louder over the past year. An opportunity to spend time in London with my relatives had allowed me tantalizing glimpses of the world beyond the confining gates of Chevening.

And the experience of the last twelve months had kindled a spark in my Pitt blood and given me a yearning for adventures.

Spring 1799

“Lady Hester, do come here and allow me to introduce you to Lord Robert Ashton and his cousin, the Honorable Frederick Thornwood,” called Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire.

The magnificent drawing room of Devonshire House, a grand residence known for its opulent glitter and scintillating parties, was ablaze with light from a trio of ornate chandeliers, their candle flames reflecting off the intricate cut-crystal baubles and casting flickers of fire over the crème de la crème of London Society.

I dutifully crossed the carpet, taking pleasure in the sensuous swoosh of fine-spun silk frothing around my ankles.

Fearing the corrupting influences of aristocratic entertainments, my father had forbidden me and my sisters to dress in pretty clothes once we were old enough to mingle in Society. Sack-like gowns made of drab muslin—another of his peculiar rules—were meant to trumpet a disgust of the rich and their frivolous indulgences, as well as discourage a gentleman’s attention on the rare occasions when we were permitted to accept invitations.

No wonder my youngest sister had eloped at age sixteen with the local apothecary three years ago.

As I approached the duchess, I saw a momentary spark in the eyes of the two gentlemen. Curiosity, perhaps? Wondering, no doubt, whether the eldest daughter of the eccentric Earl Stanhope also had an odd kick to her gait.

My chin came up a fraction as Georgiana began the formal ritual of introducing members of the ton to one another. She had been quick to befriend me when, pressured by the Pitt side of the family, my father had reluctantly allowed me and my sister Griselda to visit London and begin circulating in Society. I wasn’t quite sure why, given that my uncle—known as William Pitt the Younger to distinguish him from his father, the legendary politician William Pitt the Elder—was currently prime minister of Great Britain and Georgiana was an ardent supporter of Charles James Fox, Pitt’s greatest political rival. Maybe she had heard that I was headstrong and opinionated, and was hoping that I would embarrass Pitt by making a cake of myself.

“Lady Hester, how delightful to make your acquaintance.” Lord Ashton performed an exaggerated bow over my hand. “You look the very picture of feminine beauty in that particular shade of blue.”

What a tarradiddle! I was too tall and too thin for such an inane compliment.

“Do you consider yourself an expert on female beauty, milord?” I shot back, challenging his platitude. I had always been forthright, and was determined not to be intimidated by London Society.

He hesitated, looking confused on how to respond. However, he was saved by his friend, who smoothly replied, “One need not be an expert to recognize beauty when one sees it.”

Mr. Thornwood appeared to possess a modicum of wit and cleverness. Ignoring Lord Ashton, I turned my attention to him. “Are you equally good in recognizing the fine points of horseflesh, sir?” I was a neck-and-leather rider and, as most gentlemen of the ton paid attention to horse racing, I was eager to discuss the upcoming races at Royal Ascot.

A cough. “I consider myself to have some skill in all things equestrian, milady.”

His understated response further piqued my interest.

“Excellent.” I waved for one of the passing footmen to bring me a glass of champagne, a gesture that drew disapproving titters from the Duchesse de Gontaut and her trio of sycophants. I had heard through friends that the haughty French emigree thought I was not comme il faut.

Tant pis.

I responded with a challenging stare before looking back to Thornwood with a smile. “I should very much like to hear your opinion on which horses you think are the favorites for winning the Queen Anne’s Plate.”

“Come, Lord Ashton.” As Georgianna hooked the baron’s arm, I thought I detected a smirk. “I see Marquess of Downdell’s daughter has arrived. She’s a charming and polished young lady. I’m sure you will find her to be amiable company.”

Games within games were being played. Though inexperienced in Society, I knew that feminine wiles had a feline quality. Ladies moved gracefully around on soft little cat paws, purring quietly until the moment when they saw an opportunity to unsheathe their claws.

Alas, my temperament was not one of subtlety. No wonder I preferred the company of men.

To his credit, Thornwood didn’t shy away from my request. We spent a pleasant interlude discussing the merits of the entries in the prestigious Plate race as well as their jockeys—his knowledge was impressive—before one of his cronies beckoned for him to join a discussion on politics and the latest measures my uncle was seeking to push through Parliament.

For an instant, I was tempted to follow. I far preferred talking about politics with the gentlemen to joining the ladies in their pea-brained chatter on the latest fashions for flounces and furbelows. However, I recognized the group as prominent Whigs and decided that we would only end up in a shouting match.

And naturally, I would be the only one accused of scandalous behavior. Unfair, but that was the way of the world. A lady had few weapons with which to fight back. Especially as our hands were, metaphorically speaking, tied behind our backs.

I handed my empty goblet to one of the footmen serving champagne and took up a full one before wandering into one of the side salons in search of my uncle, who had kindly offered to chaperone me for the evening despite his less than cordial relationship with Fox and the Devonshire crowd.

I smiled. Despite all the pressure of his political office, my uncle had been remarkably supportive of me and my sister, and our desire to partake in the normal pleasures of aristocratic Society. I think that my youngest sister’s elopement had made the Pitt family painfully aware that Griselda and I were past the age when most highborn ladies should have been passed from patriarch to husband.

Marriage was considered an elemental duty for those of our sex—not for our own happiness, of course, which was considered irrelevant, but for the advantage of our family, whether it be for money, joining aristocratic bloodlines, or forming alliances for power and prestige. My sense was that my uncle felt honorbound to the memory of my mother—his beloved favorite sister—to free us from our father’s tyranny and see that we did not suffer the stigma of sliding into the pitiable state of spinsterhood.

I paused to take a sip of my sparkling wine, listening to the trill of feminine laughter and buzz of masculine voices twining with the clink of crystal and discreet serenade of a string quartet playing Haydn’s Opus 54, No. 1.

The symphony of privilege and pleasure.

The bare flesh on my arms began to prickle.

A quick inhale. The lush tickle of Parisian perfumes filled my nostrils as I looked around me. The jewel-bright colors of the ladies in their sumptuous gowns punctuated the black-and-white elegance of the gentlemen in their evening attire . . . Velvet draperies, marble collonading, gilded furnishings—all the sights and sounds were a feast for the senses.

The night was young and there was a thrumming of heady anticipation swirling through the air. The promise of flirtations and assignations beckoned from the shadows . . . smiles gleamed in the candlelight, innuendo whispered from the walls . . . one could almost see the silvery strands undulating through the crowd, weaving a shimmering web . . . alliances formed, deals brokered, secrets betrayed . . .

A shiver of excitement danced down my spine. In truth, I was in no hurry to shackle myself to a husband. The taste of freedom was sweet on my lips and I wanted to enjoy—

“Hetty.” My uncle came up beside me and offered his arm. “Come sit with me for a bit.” He looked with longing at the small sofa set in an alcove shadowed by a Roman-style plinth topped with a classical urn filled with flowers. “I confess, my foot is aching like the devil.”

Dark smudges accentuated the hollows beneath his eyes, and fatigue had pulled his sallow skin taut over his cheekbones, making the famous Pitt nose look even more prominent. I felt a stab of guilt. Work was his only mistress—he had never married—and she rode him hard. His health, always delicate, had suffered of late under the strain of steering the country through difficult times. Gout caused him much discomfort these days.

And yet, he here was, limping through hostile territory so that I might have an evening of fun.

“You dear, dear man.” I placed my glove on his sleeve and helped him take a seat. “Let me fetch you a glass of port.”

“Port,” he said, “would be most welcome.”

I quickly returned, on impulse bringing along one for myself as well.

Three gentlemen—two prominent aristocrats who were acquaintances of my father and an exquisitely elegant fellow who I did not recognize—had come over to converse with my uncle. Noting the two glasses in my hands, Pitt thought for an instant, and then smiled. “Thank you, my dear. You have, I see, anticipated that my thirst won’t be satisfied with just one libation.”

Clever man. No wonder he was such a good politician. Clearly he sensed what I was planning and was discreetly nudging me to seek safer ground.

But emboldened by the invisible current of high-spirited devilry humming through the gathering—or perhaps it was the two glasses of fizzy wine that I had just drunk—I threw caution to the wind.

“Oh, I shall fetch you a second glass when you have finished the first, Uncle,” I replied with a saucy grin. “As all you gentlemen are so exceedingly fond of port, I would very much like to try it for myself.”

Pitt’s brows arched up a notch but he refrained from comment. His companions did not. A series of inarticulate male huffs and snorts from my father’s two acquaintances, Lord Cullworth and Lord Farnham, articulated their shock.

Though I’m not sure whether the stricture actually appeared in any written set of rules, every lady knew that she was strictly forbidden to drink port. Indeed, in my admittedly limited experience with the world at large, I had noticed that gentlemen were loath to share a great many interesting things with those of my sex.

Which of course made them all the more alluring. Wearing trousers, riding astride, wielding a cavalry saber . . .

My mental list was interrupted by a low chuckle from Elegance Personified. As I looked up to meet his eyes, he gave me a wink.

“Now see here, Pitt, you must do something!” sputtered Cullworth.

“Indeed?” Pitt took a meditative swallow of his port. “What would you suggest?”

Cullworth’s lordly jaw opened and closed several times in succession but no words came forth.

“This is a very fine vintage, Hester,” added my uncle, cocking a small salute to me with his glass.

Stifling a laugh, I gave the garnet-red fortified wine a taste. Sweet, rich, the velvety port filled my mouth with a myriad of sensations.

All of them delicious.

As I swallowed, allowing the liquid to make a sensuous slide down my throat, Lord Cullworth and Lord Farnham turned and stalked away.

“Trouble,” murmured Elegance Personified, his dark eyes subjecting me to an intense scrutiny.

Unflinching, I met his gaze and lifted my chin.

Another chuckle. Even his low-pitched laugh seemed to fit him to perfection. “Pitt, why is it that I sense your niece is Trouble?”

My uncle hesitated. A careful man, he was known for taking his time to analyze the ramifications before making a decision.

The string quartet was now playing Mozart’s String Quartet No. 20 in D Major.

“Hester,” he said softly, his voice hard to hear over the notes of the violins. “Allow me to introduce you to George Brummell.”

Brummell.

I should have guessed. Unlike most young ladies, I regularly read the newspapers and scandal sheets, and made a point of perusing the latest satirical drawings by London’s great gadfly artists, James Gillray, Thomas Rowlandson, and George Cruikshank. Despite his youth, George Brummell had become something of a celebrity in Town.

“Ah, the Paragon of Fashion and supreme arbiter of gentlemanly style,” I responded.

His casual shrug didn’t cause so much as a miniscule crease to mar the shoulders of his impeccably cut coat.

After allowing a mock grimace to hover between us for an instant, I added, “Thank heavens you haven’t yet turned your discerning eye and caustic comments to the state of feminine fashion.” My fingers smoothed at the folds of my gown. “I fear that my attire would be found sadly lacking in panache.”

His gaze flitted over me and came to rest on my diamond ring. “Style is about far more than clothing, Lady Hester.”

I smiled and took another sip of port. “Then perhaps there is hope for me yet?”

A glint of amusement lit in Brummell’s eyes. “Do you care what others think about you?”

“Probably not as much as I should,” I admitted.

“She is way too clever for her own good,” added Pitt, though he said it with a fond smile. “You were right to call her Trouble.”

“I would rather be called Trouble than be called a Bore,” I said under my breath.

Brummell fingered his chin, fixing me with another assessing look. “Even better is to be called Interesting.”

“Interesting?” I repeated uncertainly. There were a great many nuances to that word. My father was often called “interesting” as a euphemism for “blathering idiot.”

“Give me your glass,” said Brummell abruptly.

“Why?” I demanded. I was only half finished with my port and very much enjoying it.

“Because, Lady Hester, you’re about to get your first lesson in the meaning of style.”

Curious, I handed it over without further protest.

“I’ll take yours as well, Pitt, and refill it.”

My uncle flashed him a grateful look. “Consider yourself lucky, my dear,” he said once Brummell had moved off. “He’s quite discriminating when it comes to dispensing his favors.”

Why me? I wondered. According to the scribblers of London, the Prince of Wales and his Carlton House cronies all fawned over George Brummell, seeking his approval on dress and deportment.

Brummell was back before I had much time to mull over the matter and gave Pitt the same cut crystal glass, now refilled, its facets throwing off sparks of red. To me, he offered . . .

A frown pinched between my brows. “Why—”

An exasperated sigh cut me off. “You must trust me, Lady Hester.” Brummell spun the stem between his elegant fingers. “Otherwise this experiment will be an utter waste of effort.”

The word “experiment” raised my hackles. My father’s obsession with science and the scientific method had led him to conduct a grand experiment with me and my siblings to test his theory on education. And in my opinion, the result had proved disastrous.

But I was curious, and so I grudgingly accepted his offering.

“Is she always this difficult?”

Pitt cleared his throat with a cough. Or perhaps it was a laugh.

“Hold up the glass, Lady Hester,” commanded Brummell.

This time there was no hesitation.

He muttered something under his breath—something rather uncomplimentary—and pursed his lips.

The glass he had given me was a stemmed wineglass, but rather than rise in a tall, conical flute as was the current fashion, it was shaped like a shallow bowl, the wine a pool of shimmering deep red.

Brummell reached out and adjusted the angle of my elbow. “Grace, Lady Hester. You must hold it with grace.” He gave a tiny wince. “And an air of confidence.”

“I—”

He plucked the glass from me and assumed a pose. “Like so.”

How did a mere mortal contrive to appear so elegant and assured? He looked like one of those classical marble sculptures in the British Museum come to life. Only one tiny flaw, a small bump betraying a broken nose from some past mishap, kept him from appearing a paragon of heavenly perfection.

“I’m afraid that I don’t possess the art of making myself look like a Greek god or goddess.”

“Then pay attention and learn it.” Brummell softened the retort with a quick smile. “Attitude is everything. Use it as armor.”

It took me a moment to grasp the metaphorical message of his statement. Armor was forged to protect a person’s vulnerable parts . . .

He took hold of my right hand, curled my fingers around the stem, and slid them down to within an inch of the base.

“Relax,” he encouraged, once again positioning my elbow just so. “Now, thrust your hip out just a touch.” A smile blossomed on his lips as he stepped back and observed me. However, a critical squint quickly chased it away. “It’s a decent beginning, but you have much to learn.”

“Why this particular glass?” I responded.

“Because it is distinctive,” he shot back. “It is called a coupe, and it is the favored shape for champagne in France, while we here in Britain prefer the flute. Yet most wealthy and fashionable households possess them, so you may request your libation to be served in one.”

Brummell paused. “More importantly, it has a story. Legend has it that the shape is based on the left breast of Madame de Pompadour, mistress to the French King Louis XV.” An airy wave. “Though others claim it was the breast of Marie Antoinette. What matters is, you will have a titillating response to give when someone asks. And that will make you interesting.”

I lifted the glass a little higher, studying the way candlelight danced around its curve,

“From now on, at fashionable gatherings such as this one, you will drink nothing but port out of a coupe. The fact that you are drinking forbidden libation out of a slightly scandalous glass will make you distinctive. More importantly, it makes you intriguing,” he added after glancing around the room. “As you pointed out, most people are bores.”

“You have a very sardonic view of life, Mr. Brummell.”

“I prefer to think the worst of people. That way I am rarely disappointed.”

I bit back a laugh.

“Now come,” he said gruffly, “show me again how to stand so as to draw the eye of every man and woman in the room . . .”

He had me practice a few more times before inclining a brusque nod. “That will do.” A pause. “For now.”

“Zeus has made his pronouncement.” I looked up at the frescoed ceiling, with was painted with a profusion of classical deities. “Are thunderbolts about to rain down from Mount Olympus?”

A flash of amusement from Brummell. “Given your father’s expertise with lightning, I imagine you know how to avoid being burned to a crisp.”

“Ah, so you don’t think me completely lacking in the skills necessary for survival?”

Brummell looked at Pitt, who had finished his second glass of port and was sitting with his eyes closed. “We shall see, Lady Hester.” His voice held a challenge. “If you wish to test yourself further, meet me at Lady Hillhouse’s soiree tomorrow night.”

“You may count on it.” I drained the coupe in one long swallow and set it down atop the plinth.

Ignoring my bravado, he flicked a mote of dust from his coat cuff. “It’s late and your uncle is exhausted. Take him home.”

It was late. The moonlight was fading, ceding its place in the night sky to the first hint of dawn’s rosy glow.

The clatter of the ironshod carriage wheels on the cobblestones had roused my uncle. Leaning back against the squabs, he stifled a yawn. “Whatever his other egregious faults—and they are legion—the Duke of Devonshire possesses a very fine wine cellar.”

My stomach wasn’t inclined to agree, but my queasiness likely had more to do with my indiscriminate mixing of champagne and port than any fault with the duke’s choice of vintages.

“Tell me more about George Brummell,” I asked. “How did you come to be friends with him?”

“I’m not sure ‘friend’ is the precise word I would use to describe our relationship.” Like his father, Pitt the Elder, my uncle was much admired for his command of the English language. “Brummell has a certain magnetism—he’s used his wit, charm and sense of style to make himself welcome within the very highest circles of Society—”

“Is he not an aristocrat himself?”

“No, but through a combination of luck and patronage, his father secured the plum position of private secretary to our former prime minister, Lord North,” replied Pitt. “That allowed him to send his son to Eton, where young George began his forays into fashion by redesigning the traditional white tie required to be worn by students.”

“So, Brummell was a strong personality, even at an early age,” I observed.

A soft chuckle. “Yes, as were you, Jockey Girl.”

“You exaggerate,” I drawled, though the truth was that, as a child, I did indeed indulge in a number of unladylike rebellions. Riding like a demon was one of them.

“I do not.” His mouth twitched. “I seem to recall a family outing to the seashore at Hastings when you were eight years old. Intrigued by your father’s admiration of France, you spotted a small boat pulled up on the beach, and decided to sneak off and row yourself across the Channel to visit Paris.”

Another chuckle. “Thank God your governess spotted you bobbing away on the waves.”

“My stepmother rang a peal over the poor woman’s head, though it wasn’t Miss Cotter’s fault that she couldn’t control my impulses,” I replied. “I concede that I was ungovernable as a child.” Perhaps that was because I had so little loving guidance. Neither my father nor his second wife had any interest in offering any emotional nurturing to their children.

“Your mother . . .” My uncle closed his eyes for an instant and sighed.

I knew from my Pitt relatives that she had been his favorite sister and her early death had cut him to the quick.

“Your mother was a paragon of grace and intelligence,” he said. “She filled your household with good cheer and convivial company, and was the one person who could keep your father on an even keel. Her early death was a great loss to us all. Had she lived—”

“Enough about me and my family,” I said quickly, the talk of such memories making me uncomfortable. My mother had died when I was three and I couldn’t remember her. “Let us return to George Brummell. I would like to know more about him.”

Pitt hesitated. “Very well. But only because I wish to offer some caveats once I finish with his curriculum vitae.”

“You are going to warn me not to be seduced by his charm and aura of magnetism?”

Rather than answer, Pitt picked up the thread of his narrative. “From Eton, Brummell went to Oxford for a year, but then asked his father to buy him his colors in the Tenth Royal Hussars.”

That drew a murmur of surprise from me. It was standard practice for wealthy and influential gentlemen to buy their sons an officer’s commission in the British Army. But the 10th Royal Hussars was the personal regiment of the Prince of Wales, a very elite and exclusive group of young bucks from the most prominent families in Britain. That it opened its ranks to a commoner was highly unusual. Expense was one reason. Officers in such regiments were required to buy their own uniforms—they were permitted to add their own personal embellishments—and horses, as well as to pay for the regiment’s lavish dining and entertainments.

“Brummell immediately captured the prince’s fancy,” continued Pitt. “You know how vain the prince is. Brummell soon became one of his confidants, advising him on style and fashion. However, when it was announced that the regiment was being transferred out of London. . .