The Shadow of Great Britain

Chapter 1716: Chapter 67: My Dear? My Deer! (Part 2)

But in reality, Lady Melbourne was herself one of the illustrious social hostesses of the Whig Party, hosting London political salons for many years, and also serving as an informal royal mistress.

She maintained a close relationship with George IV for many years, though George IV himself never publicly acknowledged the relationship, their affairs were like lice on a bald man’s head—everyone could see what was going on. And Lady Melbourne fully utilized this connection, long acting as a middleman in George IV’s political circles, smoothing over many matters that were inconvenient for George IV to handle personally, back when he was still a prince.

In return, after ascending to the throne, George IV promoted her husband, Lord Pence, with a noble title—the title of Viscount Melbourne came precisely from this.

Apart from George IV, Lady Melbourne had many notable lovers, such as Charles James Fox, the soul of the Whig Party and leader of the Fox Faction, and the aforementioned Earl Egremont.

Considering there was a period when Viscount Melbourne and his wife were long separated, one cannot rashly conclude on Disraeli’s claims.

These claims, though never officially confirmed, were never clarified by Lady Melbourne either.

Perhaps to her, this uncertain blood relationship was part of her display of social power, raising her son’s political status.

After all, aside from the Earl Egremont, either Fox or George IV could also be the father of young Viscount Melbourne.

And judging from young Viscount Melbourne’s later developments, her strategy indeed seemed to work.

If one were to ask what the difference is between Lady Melbourne and her daughter-in-law, the answer would likely be that the former is much shrewder than the latter.

Arthur couldn’t help but laugh aloud at the thought: ”I had thought Viscount Melbourne could remain unaffected in his marriage because of his moderate personality; now I think, it might be because he’s simply had enough.”

As Arthur finished speaking, the carriage jolted abruptly, almost throwing Arthur and Disraeli out of their seats.

The next moment, a dull thud was accompanied by the coachman’s exclamation: ”My God! This is madness!”

...

At Brodrands Manor, the fog had not yet lifted, the autumn leaves rustled, and a group of gentlemen in hunting attire were strolling leisurely along the forest path.

Viscount Melbourne, wearing a gray-blue hunting cloak, rode atop a white horse, a mantle draped over his shoulder, holding a hunting rifle, his expression as usual, so faint it seemed barely more distinct than the fog, as though he was here not to hunt, but to find a sunny spot to doze off.

To his right, riding a black horse, Viscount Palmeston appeared much more spirited.

He wore a well-tailored deep brown hunting outfit, with a dark green deerskin mantle, freshly polished tall boots, a powder bag slung at his waist, and a new flintlock rifle with a leather-covered stock over his shoulder.

Palmeston did not rush his horse forward, his gaze swept over the forest floor, suddenly stopping at a clump of bushes to his left front.

”Shh...” he gestured quietly to the servant, then raised his hand to point to a mossy stone beside the bushes.

Sunlight pierced a line through the fog gaps, a daft-looking pheasant stood by the mossy stone, tilting its head warily at these uninvited guests.

Palmeston said little, he simply turned the rifle, his shoulder lightly touched the stock, finger pulling gently.

Boom!

The muzzle roared with fire, the pheasant flapped its wings, attempting to fly, but as it rose it somersaulted, landing back beside the mossy stone, fluttered twice, and quickly lay still.

”Nice shooting.” Melbourne lazily patted the saddle.

Palmeston did not immediately respond to the compliment, he put away the gun, waved to the servant behind him: ”Go, bring ’Nick’ and fetch it, we’ll have stewed pheasant tonight.”

The servant, upon receiving orders, promptly led a sleek, low-eared setter hound to where the pheasant lay.

Palmeston glanced down, tidying his gloves, casually remarked to Melbourne: ”Last year, right here, shot a pair, the kitchen ended up cooking them too old, spoiled a good thing.”

”Since when did you become so picky about the kitchen?” Melbourne yawned: ”I remember when you were young, you even had potato soup for breakfast.”

”People change. Especially when national affairs are harder to digest than dinner.” Palmeston saw the hound returning with the pheasant, took the game with a casual look, then tossed it to the servant: ”We’ve all stepped down, but His Majesty the King’s attempt to let the Tories regain power won’t last, this country won’t continue to tolerate it. Soon, Peel’s government will collapse. Meanwhile, I’ll enjoy this leisure as much as possible.”

Melbourne chuckled lightly, perhaps in agreement, perhaps in drowsiness.

Seeing this, Palmeston turned to ask: ”However, some recent signs do need our attention. William, what do you think about the election situation in London?”

Melbourne spoke calmly: ”11 seats to 7 seats, we won with difficulty.”

”Not 11 to 7, but 9 to 7.” Palmeston corrected: ”I suspect Brougham and his faction are no longer aligned with us, before His Majesty dissolved Parliament, Brougham and Dalhousie’s people have repeatedly abstained from voting with the party in the Lower House. Therefore, my view is - the two seats in Westminster cannot be counted as Whig Party.”