“I’ve read,” Lark said, leaning forward like he had some good gossip, “that the mad race for an heir is on. With the royals, I mean. Cambridge is marrying some German princess.”
“Indeed,” said Owen. “The rumor is that Queen Charlotte has ordered her unmarried sons to find wives and get to fathering an heir as swiftly as possible, now that Princess Charlotte has departed this world and Prinny has essentially put his wife out to pasture.”
It was publicly known that Prince George loathed his wife, so no one expected them to have any more children. Thus the king’s other sons were expected to beget heirs with all possible haste to prevent the collapse of the monarchy.
“There is a running bet going among the Lords in Parliament,” Owen went on, “about how long Prinny lasts once he ascends to the throne. I’ve got money on five years.” By all accounts, the king’s health was failing, and the Prince Regent was not exactly in peak physical condition.
“That’s terrible,” said Lark. “How do I get in on that bet?”
Owen laughed.
It was true, after Prince George’s daughter passed, there was new pressure on his siblings to beget heirs with all possible haste. The Duke of Cambridge, one of the king’s younger sons, was the first to marry, it seemed, but the rest wouldn’t be far behind..
“Perhaps the real bet,” Fletcher said, “is which of the king’s sons succeeds in fathering an heir first.”
“We have a pool on that, too,” said Owen.
“The oldest sons have wives they are either estranged from or who are too old to bear children,” Lark pointed out.
“Wasn’t Clarence married to that actress?” asked Fletcher.
Lark’s eyes practically sparkled. He’d always been a terrible gossip. “They were never married but the king allowed their relationship to carry on, and all of their sons have titles even though they are not legitimate and cannot be in the line of succession. But the relationship ended some years ago, I think. And Clarence is apparently on the hunt for some Europeanprincess or wealthy heiress to marry now, too, even though he’s no spring chicken. He’s in his fifties, I think.”
“That is hardly an age of infirmity,” said Hugh. “I hope to still be able to make love to my wife regularly when I am in my fifties.”
“Godspeed,” said Fletcher.
“I know Lark is a sad sack now,” said Owen, “but do you, Fletcher, intend to find some beautiful heiress to marry this Season?”
“I suppose I must eventually. I currently have no prospects.”
“Why didn’t you marry Louisa again?” asked Hugh.
“That is not the nature of our relationship.”
“Surely there are worse outcomes than marrying a friend,” said Lark.
“Yes, but as we’ve just discussed, the begetting of heirs is an important aspect of marriage, and I’ve never viewed Louisa in that light.”
“You’ve never imagined her and… bedsport?” Owen asked. “Never.”
Fletcher sighed. To sayneverwould be an exaggeration. “All right, fine. I have eyes. I can see she is a beautiful woman. So notnever. But definitely not seriously. It is possible for men and women to be friends with each other without there being sexual attraction between them. And even if I did find her attractive, she clearly doesn’t findmeattractive, because she’s marryingRotherfeld.”
“Hence the luncheon today,” said Owen. “And how did that go? You didn’t tell us.”
Fletcher frowned. How to describe it? “Do any of you know Rotherfeld?”
Everyone shook their heads. Owen said, “Not well.”
“Not well?”
Owen shrugged. “Our paths have crossed but if I’ve ever had a conversation with him about anything more substantive than the weather, I’ve forgotten it.”
“See, this is my issue. Rotherfeld is…boring.”
“As I said,” Lark said, lifting his hand.
“Boring?” asked Hugh.
