Amelia Carlyle stepped out of the carriage in front of Carlton House. She was with her father, Mr. Thomas Carlyle Esquire and her mother, Felicity. She had never been to visit the prince regent before. Her gaze shifted upward in an attempt to take in the vast structure before her.

The building faced the south side of Pall Mall, and its gardens abutted St. James’s Park in the St. James district of London. John Nash, who was busy altering the layout of London on the Prince Regent’s request, included the location of Carlton House in his plans. The soon to be ceremonial route from St. James’ Park to Regent’s Park, via the newly established Regent Street still under heavy construction to Portland Place and Park Square were based on the position of the front entrance to Carlton House.

It was as the regent wished since taking on the formal task of representing the monarchy after his father, who had been declared unfit for the role due to the illness that some called madness. George the Third was known as the man who had lost the American colonies. However, he was much loved by the populace nonetheless.

Behind Amelia, there were more transports waiting to discharge their eager passengers. All around her, the coachmen yelled, “Ya, ya…” and clicked their tongues as they coaxed their horses forward with the lash. The procession was endless. Everybody of note had been bidden to the Regent’s home to witness the knighting of the men who had done their bit for king and country.

Amelia’s father was one of those men. It had always been his lifelong ambition to come so far. Thanks to his ownership of a shipping company and his adept handling of that asset, he had attracted the attention of Prime Minister Robert Banks Jenkinson, 2nd Earl of Liverpool, who had suggested to the Prince Regent that he receive an accolade to reward him for his efforts.

Amelia did feel proud and to a certain extent happy for her father. A large proportion of her father’s ships supported the war effort against Napoleon by supplying the troops on the Iberian Peninsula with much-needed food, medicine, and other victuals. Of course, Amelia knew that he made a hefty profit on the side–what astute businessman wouldn’t. Yet, that was not what worried her.

Their relationship was a contentious one at best. His continuous efforts to marry her off above her station were a cause of great concern to her. So far, she had been fortunate that no prospective suitor had yet been found. But what would happen after he had made that first step up the ladder of advancement?

Amelia could not help but feel that fate was rounding on her like a pack of wolves ready for the kill. Oddly enough, despite her twenty summers, she had not yet been launched into society. She assumed that her father had a reason for that. He always was good at chess. This knighthood was all he needed to strategically plan his next steps of advancement. Now, he could flaunt his wealth to any impoverished lord, viscount, earl or duke and sell off his most prized asset to the highest bidder – namely me, she thought.

“Well, come on, daughter. It won’t do to dawdle. The Prince Regent will not wait for us,” said Amelia’s father happily.

“Yes, Father. I was just looking at the building. ‘Tis rather impressive.”

Her father arched his eyebrows. The gesture made him look slightly comical on his chubby face. He stood tall and was as bulky as a tree trunk. Every time he spoke, his jowls would wobble with his every utterance. In a way, his stout physique was a perfect reflection of his vast fortune – his key to unlock the greed among the nobles.

“Come on, Felicity…Amelia…” With those words, he marched up the steps to Carlton House, skipping as Humpty Dumpty might on a wall.

Amelia took one last look at the exterior of Carlton House before following her mother and father into the building – it was awe-inspiring, to say the least, comparable to a smaller version of the Palace at Versailles in terms of opulence.

The Prince Regent held a quasi-separate glittering alternate court to that of his parents at Buckingham Palace since the 1780s. The residence had recently been redecorated for the second time since the prince became regent in 1811 to encompass even more space. In London, the residence was referred to as a house. On the continent, many a European might suggest that it was more of a palace than anything else.

Amelia and her parents walked through a hexastyle portico of Corinthian columns that led to the main foyer. This room was flanked to either side by anterooms. Carlton House was very unusual in that the visitor entered the house on the main floor. Most unlike many of the mansions of the time, which followed the Palladian architectural concept of a lower ground floor.

Amelia could not take her eyes off the opulence of her surroundings. To her sides, more elegantly dressed men and women passed her by in an eager attempt to get inside. The women were resplendent in different colors of fine silks and damask. The men, as Beau Brummell, the epitome of the Regency dandy suggested, were far less ostentatious in their dark coats, white shirts, colored cravats, and trousers.

Their route took them through the foyer and on toward a two-story lit entrance hall. Passing it, they moved on to the grand staircase where Amelia and her family followed the others down the steps in the direction of the throne room.

“Stop fidgeting, Amelia,” hissed her mother. “It is most unladylike. Someone might think that you have never been here before.”

“But I haven’t, Mother…and neither have you if I might add,” she countered, receiving a hostile look from her mother.

Resuming her perusal of her surroundings, she gulped. Being interested in the classics and art, Amelia could not believe what she saw. It was a paradise for anyone with a more discerning disposition when it came to all things beautiful.

Besides the magnificent and opulent Louis XVI-style French décor and furniture, a superb collection of works of art adorned the walls of Carlton House. The prince regent collected many of the finest paintings for his main residence.

He was renowned for patronizing modern artists: Gainsborough, Stubbs, and Reynolds. With Sir Charles Long and the Third Marquess of Hertford acting as his art advisors, the Prince Regent also bought paintings from the old masters: Rubens, Rembrandt, Van Dyck, Cuyp, and Jan Steen. He may be a bon vivant and a spendthrift, but the Prince definitely has taste, thought Amelia.

“This is unbelievable, Mother – look,” Amelia said, demurely indicating with her hand at the walls and marquetry wall tables as she continued following the flock of people to the throne room.

Her mother took no notice of her daughter’s antics – to her all that mattered was her husband’s advancement; she could barely organize the rush of excitement in her mind: who was she going to invite first? Or should it be a garden party? Or maybe something more formal – yes, we shall have a banquet in the prince’s honor. She decided at last.

Amelia was primarily interested in art, humanities, and geopolitics; all her mother cared about was station. This was the greatest day in Felicity’s life. She soon would be Lady Carlyle, 1st Baronet of Windom. She had used her onetime beauty to ensnare a man with potential, and had achieved that with flying colors. She was attractive, but in a bland way that would not entice undue attention.

And there he was as the small family shuffled into the throne room that like the rest of the residence was opulently decorated in Louis XVI-style French décor. The other invitees stood in a semicircle around the Prince Regent, his mother, and two footmen holding vigil slightly behind him.

Amelia gulped as she watched her father being directed away from them to a group of four other men who were also to receive their titles in due course. With eyes the size of saucers, she followed her mother to a free spot next to a lady and gentleman who looked almost as regal as the prince himself. Amelia cringed when her mother attempted to engage them in conversation even though it was openly apparent that they had no interest whatsoever in conversing with her.

She decided to calm down and focus her contemplation on the prince. While she was doing this, her eyes fell on a gentleman who had his gaze glued to her. He was handsome in a strange sort of way. However, his privileged heritage was there for the world to see – thin scowling lips, his head raised high, displaying a sort of aloof bearing when he looked at her. It was as if life itself had become so predictable because he always got what he wanted. Amelia looked away quickly and watched the prince regent who seemed as bored as sin.

A notoriously vain man, the prince Regent wore a whalebone corset under his shirt and a bright-yellow waistcoat and a claret-colored tailcoat, displaying his medals. An especially high cravat helped to disguise his double chins and fleshy jowls. On his head, he wore a chestnut-colored wig.

On his face, makeup had been carefully applied to make him look quite handsome despite his enormous size. It was common knowledge that it took the prince three hours to get laced into his corset and dressed so that in the end, he resembled a great sausage stuffed into a pastry covering.

“I see you found the most eligible bachelor in London, Amelia,” whispered her mother.

“I don’t quite know what you mean?”

“Don’t be coy with me. I saw you looking at him – handsome isn’t he.” It was not a question, but a statement of fact.

“I don’t know; he has something decidedly evil about him.” She turned to her mother. “Anyway, we are here for father and not to launch me into society.” Amelia pleated her brow when she saw a slight smirk flitter across her mother’s lips. What’s she got planned now? she thought, knowing of her mother’s caprices.

Amelia’s mother wore the most superb dress of ruby velvet and white satin; the draperies in every part trimmed with a rich imperial gold border, and a profusion of splendid gold tassels that were rope trimmed with pointed lace. On her head towered a matching ruby turban inlayed with jewels and feathers.

Next to her, Amelia was more modestly dressed in terms of color and the amount of jewels on her person. Her dress was primarily white with pale pastel shades adorning her flanks. Her silky dark hair was elaborately fashioned. Her natural hair color burnished in obsidian splendor and was tied up on the top of her head in a tuft of elaborate chignons to reveal her long slender neck. A white feather completed her ensemble.

Looking around the elaborately decorated throne room, Amelia wanted nothing more than to escape her predicament. Her body felt so constricted by all of the skirts, hoops and trains on her frame. She felt like the feathered former host – the ostrich. Like the bird, her person was rounded and full because of the skirts that were enhanced with panniers that stood out very wide on either side of her body but leaving the front and back flat. The only thing that differentiated her from the bird were its spindly legs.

All around her, the women’s clothing was so elaborate, displaying a broad swath of beautifully embroidered fabric. Amelia could not see the point of it all. She was a loyalist or a monarchist, yes, but why did Queen Charlotte, the regent’s mother, insist on this pathetic pageantry?

In France, or when a private function was hosted in England, women would wear garments with the ‘empire silhouette’ imitating the ensemble worn by the former Empress Joséphine Bonaparte. These loose, formal dresses had a fitted bodice ending just below the bust, thus giving the appearance of a high waist, and a gathered skirt reaching the ankles.

This is ridiculous…I know that papa is receiving his knighthood today…and yes…it is an honor. But why do I have to look like a stuffed meringue? she thought. Amelia hazarded a glimpse at the queen. She gasped. She had never seen her before. She could not believe how unattractive she was. Her nostrils were too wide, her complexion overly pale and her forehead exceptionally low.

Amelia immediately chastised herself for being so insensitive. Queen Charlotte had always been an extremely dutiful wife to the mad king, providing him with fifteen children. The prospect made Amelia shudder – the poor woman must have been constantly pregnant.

This thought made Amelia study her dress more closely. She ran her dainty hands down the sides of the skirt, pressing slightly until it flounced back. She frowned. She very much resembled a young debutante. What was on her parents’ mind? she wondered.

The Prince Regent, George Augustus Frederick, who was also still the Prince of Wales, nodded. Amelia’s father was the first man to step forward. He hesitated for a heartbeat. Then taking a deep breath, he advanced further toward the Prince Regent.

He rested one knee on the knighting stool with the velvet-padded surface and lowered his head. This elaborate piece of furniture was carved with a gilt frame in the Louis XVI style.

The Regent did not utter a word. He just raised the knighting sword and tapped both of Amelia’s father’s shoulders. After which, an elongated, dark-blue velvet box was handed to him, containing the order of his rank and the deed was done. He was Sir Thomas Carlyle, 1st Baronet of Windom. And that was that. The entire process was repeated for the other candidates and the ceremony was over.

Like a crash of rhinos, the Prince Regent dashed off in the direction of the door that led to the gallery overlooking the garden and the Mall. When Amelia next saw him, he was attacking the assortment of delicacies on a long table that had been set up during the knighting ceremony. She watched him a while longer until she was interrupted.

“Amelia dear, I would like to present Lord Templeton French, oldest son to the Duke of Brandon,” said her father in a proud voice.

When she turned around, she saw her mother gushing with all sorts of emotions, none of which Amelia shared. She gulped. It was the arrogant-looking man she saw earlier.

“Well, do say something, Amelia,” chided her father. “She must be so overwhelmed by her father being knighted and now this – to be presented to the son of such an illustrious peer of the realm,” chittered her father in an attempt to ingratiate himself of the duke’s son.

Amelia could have killed him. He was behaving like a sniveling and groveling fool. However, she felt slightly uneasy under Lord Templeton French’s intense scrutiny. It was not a nice look and definitely not what she was seeking in a man. Before her was a male specimen who most definitely was a misogynistic sort with sprinkles of the vile to add to his unpleasantness. She did not know why she thought that, but her gut spoke volumes to her – the man had the visage of a coward.

“How do you do, Miss…oh, no; you are now the Honorable Amelia Carlyle. You must be pleased?” he said, chuckling like a fruitcake, while he scanned her body lecherously in a forlorn attempt to find some spot of her that was unclothed.

For the first time, Amelia was happy that she had so many garments on. Although not unattractive, this man had rapiers for eyes, unkind lips and sharp features. He stood in such contrast to her sweetness and softness of both character and appearance.

All Amelia could do was feign female timidity and some semblance of awe – Goodness, if only I was not so well brought up, she thought. It was all the invitation he needed – the introduction continued with her parents gushing admiration and awe beside the tedious lord.

However, what had vexed her the most was the cadence of his voice. It started off as a squeak that soon morphed into a series of trills and unconvincing attempts at baritone deepness. Lord Templeton French may never have ended puberty. It was what Amelia thought all the while he was telling her about how incredibly marvelous he was.

When the tone of his voice miraculously lowered into a deep hum, she steeled herself for the continuation of the introduction – she prayed for some change in his manner; Amelia wanted to believe that perhaps her initial opinion of the man was wrong; the pitch of his voice perchance only a small anomaly.

When Lord Templeton French started regaling her with the details of his group of acquaintances that were, to her mind, obviously more accomplished and important for they constituted the ‘Dandy Club’, she knew that she had been right all along: this man considered himself more stylish than Beau Brummell, a greater ‘Corinthian’ and sportsman than Lord “Beau” Petersham, Charles Stanhope, The Viscount of Petersham and even wittier than William Arderne, The Baron Alvanely. The hubris of the man, she thought.

What a windbag; you’d never catch any member of the ‘Dandy Club’ boasting of their accomplishments with such obvious self-aggrandizement, continued Amelia, her mind providing more fuel for her dislike. She prayed his monologue would be brief as she bored her emerald-green eyes into him, hoping, praying that he might back off.

“It is an honor to meet you, My Lord,” said Amelia, curtseying. It was all that came to mind as a riposte as excellent upbringing instinctively took a hold of her.

“The honor is mine, my dear,” he said, bowing and brushing his lips on the back of her hand.

Amelia cringed – my dear; I’ll show you my dear, you arrogant toad. There was something inherently wrong with what was going on. Her parents were oblivious to the happenings or were they? As she had been brought up, she made a few compliments about his exalted lineage and how accomplished his family was and closed her mouth – deed done – oh, no. He has more to say.

Lord Templeton French was about to open his mouth again. Amelia saw that he flitted gazes at the profligate buffet to his left. I don’t want to share food with you. I just want to leave and be as far away from you as soon possible.

“Lord Templeton French, do tell us how does your dear papa fair? I pray the gout is not as acrimonious as one hears.”

God, mother, you are so out of touch. But thank you - you saved me from having to converse further with the man – for how much longer I wonder?

While Lord Templeton French spoke with her parents, he constantly shot furtive gazes in her direction. When he smiled, it seemed like it was an effort or that he had just spent an hour on the privy.

The color drained from her face when the young lord, who was no older than twenty-four, mentioned that he would love to introduce her father to his. The words were accompanied by another glimpse in her direction – the grin that escorted it was more of a sneer. This is all getting out of hand. Father has to stop this. I know where this is going.

Her mind worked at twice its usual pace as her father started to discuss business with the duke’s son. Amelia heard none of the words. All she could do was stare at the man’s malevolent looking mouth as it moved. Each time he spoke, his lips twitched upwards unpleasantly. What was worse was that he was lecturing her father about the shipping business, even though it was apparent that he had no clue on the subject.

“You look downright bored to death, my dear. Someone as beautiful and as young as you should never have to put up with the tedium of idle business talk. Come, young lady, let me show you some of the delicacies we have on offer here at Carlton House. Afterward, I would like to delight you with some of my newest additions to my art collection.”

Before the prince regent could whisk an almost fainting Amelia away, he turned to Lord Templeton French. “My Lord, ‘tis most unbecoming to discuss business in my house – I shall not have it. You are surrounded by some of the most exquisite artwork in the world – I suggest you regale yourself with it and not bore lovely young ladies with the tedium of your commercial avarice…good afternoon.”

“Your Royal Highness,” said the others in unison and almost toppling forward and stumbling with their bows and curtseys.

“I was not aware Amelia was acquainted with the Prince Regent. How absolutely wonderful…ha, ha, ha,” said Amelia’s mother.

Sir Thomas rolled his eyes at his wife’s stupidity. He could have strangled her as he watched his daughter exchange words with the regent. He quickly returned his attention to the duke’s son. “I have a proposal for you…”