Whether the Beau still thought of fortune, or whether having once tried
matrimony, he was so enchanted with it as to make it his cacoëthes, does
not appear: the legend explains not for what reason he married the
antiquated beauty only three weeks after he had been united to the
supposed widow. For a time he wavered between the two, but that time was
short: the widow discovered his second marriage, claimed him, and in so
doing revealed the well-kept secret that she was not a widow; indeed,
not even the relict of John Deleau, Esq., of Whaddon, but a wretched
adventurer of the name of Mary Wadsworth, who had shared with Mrs.
Villars the plunder of the trick. The Beau tried to preserve his
dignity, and throw over his duper, but in vain. The first wife reported
the state of affairs to the second: and the duchess, who had been
shamefully treated by Master Fielding, was only too glad of an
opportunity to get rid of him. She offered Mary Wadsworth a pension of
£100 a year, and a sum of £200 in ready money, to prove the previous
marriage. The case came on, and Beau Fielding had the honour of playing
a part in a famous state trial.

With his usual impudence he undertook to defend himself at the Old
Bailey, and hatched up some old story to prove that the first wife was
married at the time of their union to one Brady; but the plea fell to
the ground, and the fine gentleman was sentenced to be burned in the
hand. His interest in certain quarters saved him this ignominious
punishment which would, doubtless, have spoiled a limb of which he was
particularly proud. He was pardoned: the real widow married a far more
honourable gentleman, in spite of the unenviable notoriety she had
acquired; the sham one was somehow quieted, and the duchess died some
four years later, the more peacefully for being rid of her tyrannical
mate.