Royal Revels

  ROYAL REVELS

  Joan Smith

  Chapter One

  The Dowager Duchess of Charney’s drawing room was noticeably cool on that morning in early January. Wind drifted in around the ill-fitting window frames and rustled the draperies. A sluggish fire smoldered in the grate, emitting more smoke than heat, till she felt some fear of being kippered alive. Though the duchess was bundled into a stout shawl, she was chilled to the marrow and was impatient, waiting for her guest to arrive.

  “It seems to me that Belami might make some effort to be on time when he comes to visit his bride-to-be,” she told her niece with a scowl from her close-set eyes. “I should never have allowed the match. I can’t imagine what possessed me to do it after his behavior at Beaulac,” she added, tugging at the ends of her shawl to block out an errant breeze.

  “Now, Auntie, we’ve all been through that,” her niece replied calmly. It was easy to be calm now that she was, indeed, betrothed to the only man she had ever loved. Nothing could dampen Miss Deirdre Gower’s spirits. Not her mean-spirited chaperone, not the faded Mustard Saloon in which they sat, not the dreary view of snow turning to slush beyond the window, not even Dick’s tardy arrival. “He could hardly tell the Prince Regent to hurry, as he has an appointment with his fiancée,” she said to remind her aunt that Dick was late for such a royal reason.

  It was quite an honor for Belami that the prince wished to consult with him on a personal matter, and the magical words Prince Regent always managed to bring a smile to the raddled countenance of the duchess. When she spoke again, however, her tone was irritable. “If it weren’t that he is with the prince, I should bolt the door and not let him in.”

  Really, it was only impatience and curiosity that jangled her nerves so. She was on thorns to learn what scrape Prinney had fallen into that he required the services of Lord Belami, sometime investigator into criminal matters for his friends. Prinney had been settled down with Lady Hertford as his flirt anytime this past decade. As the lady’s husband was entirely agreeable to the arrangement, it was unlikely that Lady Hertford was the cause of it. Blackmail, Belami had mentioned. After women and drink, spending inordinate sums of money was Prinney’s little weakness. Had he borrowed privately and found himself unable to pay up? The cent-percenters might be nipping at his heels, threatening some dire revenge or revelation.

  But Belami would fish him out of hot water. He had just rescued his own reputation and the duchess’s diamond when the latter—and much more important in the lady’s view— had been in jeopardy. A clever rascal, Belami, but she did not care for that proclivity for dabbling in criminal matters. After he rescued Prinney, whom she could not abandon in his hour of need, she must either persuade Belami from his avocation or persuade Deirdre from marrying Belami. Neither course would be easy. Her thin lips assumed the unnatural position of a smile to contemplate the challenge.

  While the duchess schemed and Deirdre sat in a happy daze, dreaming of her honeymoon in Italy, Lord Belami was led through the sumptuous rooms and passages of Carlton House, the prince’s London residence. The private chambers were situated at the back of the south side, to afford a view of St. James’s Park and perhaps to necessitate passing through the rest of the house to admire such treats as the Blue Velvet Closet, the Crimson Drawing Room, the Chinese Parlour, and the Library. Belami bit his lip to control the wayward smile that wanted to peep out. Such vulgar opulence, with gold upon gold everywhere, quite overwhelmed him. His own preferred mode was understated elegance.

  Colonel McMahon, the prince’s private secretary, was Belami’s guide. “You’ve met the prince, of course,” McMahon said as they walked briskly along.

  “Only at public gatherings,” Belami replied. Though he would sooner have lost his hair than admit it, he was nervous.

  “He’s easily pleased. Pretend you’re amazed with his banalities and he’ll love you forever.”

  “Can you give me any idea what’s troubling him?” Belami asked.

  McMahon wore a worried frown. “Truth to tell, Belami, what’s troubling him isn’t what’s troubling the rest of us. When he finishes discussing the blackmail with you, try if you can to urge him on to the subject of a certain Mr. Smythe. It won’t be difficult,” he added grimly.

  “Who is Mr. Smythe?” Belami asked, already thinking it sounded like an alias.

  “God only knows. Some American who turned up at Brighton and has been more or less added to the royal retinue, but in no official capacity as yet. It would be appreciated if you’d do a little looking into the fellow’s background—see if you can learn who he is and what he’s up to.”

  McMcMahon stopped at a pair of high, broad doors embellished with gilt and panels. A page in dark blue livery, trimmed in gold lace, opened the door, revealing the Prince Regent. His Royal Highness sat alone with a glass in his hand, smiling sadly into it. He had not yet dressed for the day. He wore a mauve silk dressing gown with an embroidered pocket and looked like an overaged, overweight satyr. He looked up and made a beckoning gesture with one graceful hand. Belami followed the colonel into the very hot chamber, wishing he had worn a summer jacket. It must be above ninety degrees, he thought.

  “Kind of you to come, my dear Belami,” the prince said in weary but cultivated accents. He made a sort of nominal motion of rising, but his corpulent body didn’t actually leave the chair.

  Though the prince was only in his early fifties, a life of indulgence had not been kind to his appearance. Despite, or perhaps because of, the various ointments and unguents he lavished on his face, it had assumed a waxy quality. His gray eyes were bleary and his chins sagged, to be caught up and concealed in the immaculate folds of a high neckcloth. He wore this device even with his dressing gown. His brown hair was artfully brushed forward to conceal time’s ravages on the hairline.

  “You may leave us now, McMahon,” the prince said, motioning Belami to the chair beside him. A flick of the royal wrist sent the page boys hopping from the room, hastened forward by the colonel.

  “How can I be of help, sir?” Belami asked.

  The prince looked at the lean, young face before him and felt an awful pang of envy. Once he himself had been known as an Adonis. Really, Belami was not so much an Adonis as a Corsair, out of a poem by Lord Byron. There was a whiff of danger in those coffee-black eyes and of romance in the exaggeratedly long lashes that a girl might covet. It was a marvel how the skin sat so tightly against the classical bones of the lad’s face. And he wore a fine jacket—Weston, of course—upon a fine set of shoulders. Damme, but time was a traitor.

  “A mere trifle,” the prince replied indolently. “McMahon feels it would be best handled by an objective third party whose discretion could be counted on, and he suggested you. Can I offer you a glass of wine?”

  “Thank you,” Belami said, accepting the glass. The warm, sweet Madeira being poured into it would do nothing to assuage the glaring heat of the room.

  “It will involve a jaunt to Brighton,” the prince continued.

  Belami did not betray by so much as a blink that this was dismal news for him. He was newly engaged and wanted to be with his fiancée, wanted to get on with the marriage and to plan the honeymoon in Italy.

  “You’re welcome to stay at the Pavilion, if you wish,” the prince added.

  This was a rare favor, and one to be avoided at all costs. Belami dodged the invitation by saying, “What is to be handled at Brighton? McMahon mentioned blackmail….”

  “That is a harsh word. Pressure, perhaps, is closer to the mark. There is a young lady who wishes to sell me certain objects of a personal nature. She has set an inflated price on them, as she appears to think she can exact a high sum from the newspapers,” he said, his florid complexion deepening with anger or embarr
assment.

  “Letters, I take it?” Belami asked, showing no censure.

  “A few notes written in a sentimental mood after a lonely spell in which I sought solace from a glass of wine,” the prince explained. “I met the woman—Lady Gilham she calls herself—one afternoon at St. Ann’s Well last autumn. My—better friends”—Belami quickly translated this into Lady Hertford—“were in London at the time, and the woman invited me to call upon her if I happened to be passing nearby. A man gets so desperately lonely,” he said with a quick peep to see if he was eliciting sympathy. He saw none on the impassive face before him. The young were all brutal. Lady Gilham was brutal. Who would have thought that that sweet-faced chit would betray him?

  “I quite understand, sir. All I shall require is the lady’s address and your instructions. Do you wish to purchase the letters or have you something else in mind?” Pay, you fool! he said to himself and feared for a moment that he had said it aloud. The prince was looking at him oddly, with a dissatisfied expression. Belami felt he was doing well by wiping all emotion from his features, not knowing he was expected to simulate sympathy as well.

  “She must be silenced. Five thousand pounds she’s asking for the letters. Out of the question. See her and tell her one thousand is what she’ll get, not a penny more. There’s nothing salacious in them, Belami. Nothing of the sort. I believed at the time she was a lady and was very proper,” he said earnestly.

  “Five thousand does seem very high,” Belami agreed, frowning. “There must be something incriminating if the newspapers have offered her five thousand.”

  “Bah, the newspapers! They make bricks without straw. They’ll twist and cut and paste my phrases till they have me offering to marry the wench. You’re old enough to remember how the Hunt brothers vilified me in the Examiner, and to try to suppress those fellows is worse than letting them have their say. There’ll be another raft of caricatures in shop windows. I tell you, my lad, it’s no easy thing being a ruler. The royal crown cures not the headache, as the admirable Ben Franklin so succinctly put it. I’d gladly trade all the royal trappings in for a simple cottage away from the cares of the world,” he said, allowing his eyes to roll sadly toward the window.

  Belami looked around the ornate chamber and took tacit leave to doubt this pious nonsense. “She may be happy enough to settle for one thousand and have done with it,” Belami suggested. “She’s bound to ask for more than she expects to get.”

  “That is the sum McMahon suggested. You would be well informed on such matters, I make no doubt. The colonel will give you her address and the money. It’s kind of you to take care of this little matter for me. Naturally you must get all the letters back from her—six in all. You might make a bid for a certain locket as well. Gold with a small heart picked out in diamonds on the front. A mere trifle, but the miniature of myself inside is something I promised to one of my sisters. It was only a sentimental gesture. She has a few other gewgaws—get them all back if you can.

  If the other trinkets were also laden with diamonds, Belami began to think, the price he had suggested was too low. “Perhaps another hundred douceur for the trinkets….” he suggested.

  “Yes, yes, whatever it takes. You’re the expert, my good fellow. I have no experience in these matters. I certainly don’t want any more scandal at this time,” he said irritably.

  Belami lifted one mobile brow, wondering why “this time” should be of particular importance. The words of McMahon were in his mind and the name of Mr. Smythe. “Is there a reason why the present is particularly inauspicious?” he asked carefully. One never knew how far he might intrude on the prince’s patience and privacy. In the proper mood, he’d bare his soul to a perfect stranger and, a moment later, he’d insult his bosom beaus.

  A beatific smile lit up the waxen countenance, and the bleary eyes sparkled. For a fleeting instant, Belami caught a glimmering of what people a few decades ago had found to admire in the man’s looks. There was a certain something—a charm.

  “As a matter of fact, there is,” the prince replied. Belami sensed an expansive mood had come upon him and encouraged him on to revelation with a smiling nod of interest.

  “It is incredible, something out of a fairy tale.” The prince sighed. “One hardly knows where to begin. It all started so long ago. I met her over thirty years ago,” he said dreamily. This tipped Belami the clue that they had reverted to the days of Maria Fitzherbert, and his heart plunged. In a long line of troublesome mistresses, Mrs. Fitzherbert had taken the lead. Her affair with the prince had nearly toppled the government. What she could possibly have to do with a Mr. Smythe was unclear, but there was surely some connection between them.

  “Maria Fitzherbert is the only woman I ever loved,” the prince continued, still gazing fixedly into the air, seeing a vision of his love. With a maidenly blush he pulled a locket up from his neck and turned his eyes to it. “You didn’t know her when she was young. A vision of loveliness, with her golden hair and the sweetest blue eyes ever bestowed on woman.” A tear swelled in his eye and trembled over the waxen cheek.

  Belami’s memory of the lady was more recent. She was a tall, portly dame with a hooked nose and an overly elaborate manner of dressing. Gossip had it the prince had actually married her, but he later denied it. A twice-widowed Roman Catholic of undistinguished birth, she was quickly sloughed off when his official wedding was performed.

  “I’ve heard her cried up as a great beauty,” Belami said vaguely.

  “And a good woman, Belami. A good woman. She is my wife, you know,” he added with a sudden change of intonation. He looked sharp now, alert, ready to defend this outrageous statement with all the royal prerogative at his command.

  Belami was too astonished to reply. The whole world knew his wife was Princess Caroline of Brunswick. “Oh” was the only sound to come from his lips.

  “You are surprised,” the prince said, in perhaps one of the understatements of the year. “Definitely, Maria is my true wife. Oh, they foisted that German princess on me when I was too young to stand up for my rights. There was coercion brought to bear, Belami. I was in debt at the time, due to the miserly bit of an allowance I was allowed. Yes, Maria Fitzherbert and I were married by the Reverend R. Burt, an Anglican curate, on December 15, 1785. The happiest day of my life,” he said simply.

  “Where did this take place?” was the only question that occurred to Belami.

  “It was in Maria’s drawing room. Certainly the marriage is valid,” he answered confidently.

  “But she’s a Roman Catholic,” Belami reminded him. “According to the Act of Settlement, you and your heirs would forfeit the right to succession if you married a Roman Catholic.”

  “Some things in life mean more than a crown,” the prince said calmly, though his next speech showed he had no intention of giving up his much-maligned crown. “Actually, there exists some doubt in my mind that Maria remains a Catholic after being married in front of an Anglican minister. It is possible she became a de facto non-Catholic when she married me, in which case the Act of Settlement would be irrelevant.”

  “There’s still the Royal Marriage Act,” Belami reminded him. “You were under twenty-five at the time and hadn’t the consent of the king. Without that consent, no legal marriage was possible.”

  “My dear father is, unfortunately, so confused in his mind that he no doubt has only the vaguest memory of those days, if he has any memory at all,” the prince answered with a very sly smile. Was he planning to claim a spoken agreement by the king?

  “Surely the consent must be formal and written,” Belami said, but he had, in fact, no idea if this was the case.

  “We are wallowing in details,” the prince said impatiently. “The fact is, Maria and I married in good faith before God and the wedding is morally valid and binding. Are we to put man’s laws before God’s? These ‘acts’ can be managed as King Henry VIII was obliged to do. Not that I mean to say I want a divorce. Nothing could be further from my m
ind. I want only the right to call my true wife my wife,” he said with a noble attitude.

  “What about Princess Caroline?” Belami inquired, carefully avoiding the words “your real wife.”

  The prince lifted his hands and hunched his shoulders.

  “That is another detail to be worked out. Some honorary title and a settlement must be made.”

  “What has brought you to this decision?” Belami asked, guessing he had only seen the tip of the iceberg.

  “It is not for myself,” the prince assured him. “No, it is for England and for my son.”

  “But you don’t have a son; you have a daughter,” Belami said, almost beyond rational thought. He felt as if he had fallen into a nightmare.

  “I do have a son, Belami!” the prince declared, wearing the reckless smile of a gambler. “I have, and I have found him. Maria had him shipped off to America, never telling me of his existence, the naughty girl. You must know there were periods of regrettable disagreement in our marriage. For long periods I didn’t see Maria, and it was during one of these that our son was born and shipped off to America.”

  Belami held his face under tight control. One did not laugh or scream at a prince. “What is your son’s name?” he asked, but he already had a good notion of the reply.

  “He goes by the name of Mr. Smythe—George Smythe. You understand the significance of this?” he asked, staring hard at Belami.

  “Is it that George is your own name?” Belami asked in confusion.

  “Just so, and Maria’s maiden name was Smythe. Fitzherbert was her second husband’s name. It proves, in my mind, that George Smythe is my son. But you must see him and judge for yourself. He has Maria’s eyes, I think, with something of his father’s hair and physique.”

  Belami heard a strange ringing in his ears. Had poor old Prinney finally gone completely mad like his father? What could be in his head to be rooting about in the past, unearthing such mischief? What did he plan to do with his real wife, the king’s cousin, and with his daughter, Princess Charlotte, the most popular woman in the kingdom? Did he actually think his subjects would sit still to see her consigned to illegitimacy?