London, England, June 1813

“Good morning, Your Royal Highness. It is past ten and ‘tis a fine day,” said the Groom of the Chamber, The Honorable Percival Waverly.

Unlike the regular servants, he, as one of the personal head retainers to the Prince Regent, was permitted to wear his own clothing. Above him in position was the Gentleman of the Chamber who was generally derived from peers of a higher station, like earls or dukes. He was not present this day.

Sir Percival was perfectly attired in a navy-blue tailcoat with a white silk waistcoat that covered the top of the trouser. Underneath, he sported a crisp white linen shirt with a featured starched chin-high neck collar to accommodate his light blue neckcloth. Black shoes with silver buckles adorned his feet.

“Go away, Waverly. I need to sleep…oh, God, the pain,” croaked the Regent.

“As I said, Your Royal Highness, it is a fine morning. And the beginning of a splendiferous day for the knighthoods taking place later today.”

“Knighthoods?”

“Yes, Your Royal Highness,” insisted Sir Percival.

“Argh…the light! ‘Tis blinding me,” complained the Regent, shifting his prodigious bulk to one side in an attempt to escape from the stabs of sunlight coming through the sash window.

“Dawson, how many times did I tell you on the way over here that you are to wait for my order before opening the curtains. His Royal Highness is allergic to the light this early in the morning.” Waverly shook his head and looked down his long aquiline nose, “Tut tut, Dawson, really.”

“Sorry, Sir Percival. It won’t happen again.”

The young man dressed in the livery of a household servant hastily started to draw the heavy satin curtains shut. His attire was impeccably tailored and came at a great personal expense to the Regent.

His uniform consisted of a fancy red coat, knee breeches, silk calf-hugging stockings, and powdered hair. As this particular gentleman, like his fellows, was often in the presence of the Regent, special care was taken that he looked perfect. He had even been required to provide his height when advertising for the position, because it was considered absurd to have a pair of personal servants that didn’t match in tallness.

“Dawson, what are you doing now?”

“I am pulling the curtains shut, Sir Percival,” said the young man with the auburn hair and the freckles on his already reddening cheeks.

“Yes, that is what I thought you were doing. Dawson, please don’t bother. Come here. We are to dress His Royal Highness, the Prince.” Sir Percival waved his hand frantically. “Well, come on, boy.”

“Yes, Sir Percival.” He rushed over to where the other man stood.

“There’s no need to run. Don’t they teach you anything these days?”

“Sorry, Sir Percival.”

“Stop apologizing, man. It’s most unbecoming,” huffed Sir Percival. He resembled a pelican standing on one leg. His back was straight to a breaking point and his small head like the bird’s perched on his neck as if lingering for its mother bird to feed it.

“Thanks to your bickering, I am awake now,” rasped the Prince Regent, peering from under the quilted blankets on his bed with two beady eyes.

“My intention exactly, Your Royal Highness. Now, come along, you have a big day ahead of you.” Sir Percival clapped his hands theatrically.

“I still don’t see why bother. Knighting some plebs…for what…I say?”

“Because they have done their duty to their King, their Regent and the Empire, Your Royal Highness.” Sir Percival swiveled his attention to the other chamber servant, standing by the door. “Well, come on, Wallis, the Prince Regent isn’t going to dress himself.”

Chastened, the other man, robed identically to Dawson, dashed across the vast bedchamber toward the bed.

“It’s like teaching monkeys to juggle. No running in the Prince’s chambers,” said Sir Percival, rolling his eyes.

“Sorry, Sir,” said both young men simultaneously.

“I now have three of you looking at me. This is most disconcerting. Where’s Gussy? He’s much nicer to me in the mornings,” said the Regent still peering from under the coverlets. He referred to his Gentleman of the Chamber.

He’s not here because the Duke of Uxbridge gets as drunk as you do, Your Royal… Pffft…Highness. I cannot discern which one of you two gentlemen is more debauched? The fat Prince Toad or the fat Duke of Toad. Sir Percival bowed laconically. “Your Royal Highness, I only do what’s best for you.” He paused. “Do you wish to use the privy before you get dressed?”

The Regent arched one eyebrow. “Yes, Waverly, I think I shall.”

“Very good, Your Royal Highness.” Sir Percival whispered to Wallis, “You are in charge of privy duty this morning.” He had to hide his amusement because of the horrified expression on the man’s face.

“Is anyone going to help me,” snorted the Prince as he attempted to get off the bed. He resembled a beached whale as he rolled this way and that on the vast mattress.

“But of course, Your Royal Highness. Dawson, Wallis, chop chop,” said Sir Percival. The three men promptly advanced toward the bed. “One, two, three…heave.”

The Prince Regent stood swaying before them in his linen nightshirt with his initials emblazoned in red silk on the right-hand side of the garment. His face was red flushed from the exertion of lifting his corpulent frame off the bed, or was it because he and the Duke of Uxbridge had indulged in too much food and drink the previous evening? Most probably both.

The preceding evening’s dinner that was more of a banquet of lucullan proportion had consisted of two double portions of partridge, trout, and four beefsteaks (one of the regent’s favorite foods), each in their own savory sauces. Phenomenal amounts of vegetables accompanied this bacchanalian feast. The two men had shared copious amounts of champagne, wine, and brandy throughout the evening.

“Your banyan, Your Royal Highness,” said Sir Percival, bowing, and proffering a burgundy red silk garment for the prince to slide over his bulk. The regent smiled, clearly satisfied with the garment that was the epitome of elegant morning dress in Regency England. It was a taste the English had picked up on in the Orient.

“What would I do without Jonathan Meyer? He does make the finest clothing, you know.” The Prince pirouetted on the spot in imitation of a spinning top. “Mm, we might have to call upon him again. This is rather snug around the midriff – I think he made a mistake with my measurements.” His face lit up. “I shall summon Beau Brummell; he will know what to do. It was he who recommended the man as a tailor in the first place, you know.”

With those words, the prince marched off in the direction of the privy like a charging bull. Following close on his heels went Wallis. The two other men quickly busied themselves with the preparations for when the prince returned. Sir Percival had trouble getting over the prince’s hubris – it was evident to him that the regent had grown in size since he last wore the vestment.

“No, no, no, I shall first have breakfast, Waverly,” commanded the prince on his way back from his visit to the loo. He flapped his hand frantically at the clothing held in his direction as if a nest of hornets had just inhabited them.

“But of course, Your Royal Highness…will it be the usual?” asked Sir Percival, dreading the prospect.

“Yes, yes, I think it shall. Arrange for it to be brought to me in my dining room,” said the prince almost salivating onto the carpet and rubbing his hands with glee.

The prince’s route took him along the entire length of the lower ground floor at Carlton House that was composed of a suite of low ceilinged rooms, which included a gothic dining room, a library, a Chinese drawing room, and an astonishing gothic conservatory constructed of cast iron and stained glass.

This suite of rooms was equipped with folding doors that provided impressive enfilade when opened. Like most mornings, the doors were closed. However, when open, the entire length could be used for one enormous banqueting table. All of the ground floor rooms faced the elaborate garden fronting the Mall.

By the time Sir Percival arrived, the Prince Regent was already attacking an assortment of foods as if it would be his last meal. His breakfast consisted of two pigeons and three beefsteaks, three parts of a bottle of mozelle, a glass of dry champagne, two glasses of port and a glass of brandy.

Sir Percival watched on in consternated horror throughout and shuddered at the denouement of the meal. He had never been to Africa, but he could imagine that a pride of lions feasting on a carcass had nothing on the prince regent. The two footmen standing in the chamber stared straight ahead, knowing of the prince’s wrath should they be caught ogling.

“Ah, that’s better,” said the prince, emitting a contented burp, flowering his words. “Waverly, I shall be having my medicine now.” He gnawed on a bone in an attempt to find another tasty morsel – to his great chagrin he was unsuccessful.

Sir Percival nodded to one of the footmen who promptly jutted into action. Within moments, he returned with a small vial neatly presented on a silver salver.

As well as alcohol, George, the regent, was also addicted to laudanum, a liquid form of opium. He’d take 100 drops in preparation for a public appearance, enough to knock most people senseless. There was no limit to his desires, nor any restraint to his profusion.

The regent lifted his bulk from the seat. The action looked like a volcano prior to eruption. “Waverly, I shall get dressed now.”

Sir Percival bowed as the prince promenaded past him, back in the direction of his private suite. He already dreaded the next hours. It was his least favorite part of the day.