Royal Revels Read online

  “I speak of my youthful physique, of course,” the prince was saying when the ringing in Belami’s ears stopped.

  “Is he here now?” Belami asked.

  “Ah, no, McMahon and some of my advisers thought it wiser to leave him in Brighton till I get these few details ironed out.” Ridding himself of a wife and daughter and repealing two acts of Parliament were sunk to “details.” Certainly the man was mad.

  “Might I see Mr. Smythe when I go to Brighton to take care of the other business?” Belami asked. He was eager to get away now and talk to Colonel McMahon.

  “I hope you will look him up. He isn’t well connected with the right sort of chaps because of being raised in America. I would take it as a personal favor if you would befriend George. Show him his way around society. You will be a very proper model for him, Belami. We admire your style,” the prince said with a smile and a bow of his head.

  “I’m eager to meet him.”

  “It will be best if you not tell him you act on my request. He will be more at ease if he thinks you just a friend and not an emissary.”

  “Yes, that might be best,” Belami agreed. “I’ll go and find Colonel McMahon now,” he said, then began bowing himself out.

  “You’re a fine fellow,” the prince proclaimed, chatting amiably from his chair as Belami inched away. “A dashed well-cut jacket you have got on. We must take George to meet Weston, what?” A glass of wine teetered in his fat pink fingers.

  Belami got out the door and closed it behind him. It was not only the infernal heat of the chamber that caused him to wipe a film of perspiration from his brow as he went in search of McMahon.

  The colonel was awaiting him around the first corner. “I judge by the blank look on your face that His Highness has let you in on it,” McMahon said in a sardonic way. He was a tall man with a military bearing and a down-to-earth manner.

  Belami shook his head, dazed. “Where can we go to talk in private?” he asked.

  McMahon led him to his office and poured him a glass of wine. McMahon leaned his shoulders back against his chair and propped his feet up on the desk. “The cat sits poised to swoop amongst the pigeons,” he said in an ominous voice. “You’re an intelligent man, Belami. I’m sure the consequences of such rashness as we anticipate are clear to you. The prince is barely able to hang on to his position by the skin of his teeth as it is. If he takes it into his head to inflict Mrs. Fitzherbert’s bastard on the populace as their ruler, there will certainly be a revolution.”

  “Is it true then? Is Smythe her son?”

  McMahon sat silently for a moment. When he spoke, he said, “I don’t honestly know. There’s a superficial resemblance. Fitzherbert could have had a son and had him shipped off to America.”

  “Hasn’t anyone asked her?” Belami inquired in astonishment.

  “This is entirely a new turn. Smythe only fell into favor during the New Year’s festivities at Brighton. The prince has written to Mrs. Fitzherbert, but she hasn’t answered his letters in years. She sends them back unopened. Actually, she wouldn’t have received the latest yet. It was sent to London from Brighton, and when we arrived here we learned that she had gone out of town for the holiday. She had her house closed up. We haven’t been able to find out where she has gone. She lives quite out of society nowadays. But it makes little difference whether Smythe is her son or not. He’s illegitimate in any case.”

  “True, but if he’s not even her son, it will be easier to turn the prince away from this folly,” Belami pointed out. “It sounds like a ruse to me.”

  “If you’re fingering Smythe as a rogue, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. He was more surprised than any of us. He makes no claim to being of royal blood. It’s all Prinney’s idea.”

  “Does he not have a set of parents?”

  “No such luck. He’s an orphan. A nice, simple lad, good-natured. It’s the coincidence of his name being George Augustus Smythe that did the damage—along with a certain physical resemblance.”

  “Half the male population of England bears the name of the royal princes. That’s pretty flimsy,” Belami said doubtfully.

  “Their last name isn’t Smythe,” McMahon pointed out. “I feel partly responsible myself. I am the one who brought them together, quite by chance.”

  “How did you happen to meet Smythe?” Belami asked with quick interest.

  “He came to England last autumn, hung around London for a while, then went to Brighton, probably because living was cheap off season. He met an old army acquaintance of mine at the Old Ship Hotel, where Smythe is staying. They played cards there at night. I dropped in and invited the army man—Captain Stack is his name—to the Pavilion to join us for faro there. Just as an afterthought I asked young Smythe to join us. Company was thin at the time and Prinney likes to see a new face. I could see right away that Smythe was a success. It seemed harmless, another friend of the Beau Brummell sort, I thought. Smythe was invited back again and again, each time the party shrinking in size, till, the last night before we left, it was only Prinney and Smythe. It was after that meeting that we were hit with this misbegotten theory. I dragged the prince back to London at once, hoping the thing would die a natural death, but it’s taken such a hold on his imagination that it’s become an obsession.”

  “It’s a pity,” Belami said, shaking his head.

  “Yes, but a perfectly understandable one. The people hate the prince. He’s hissed and jeered at when he goes about in public. His wife has left him to traipse through Europe with a ragtag and bobtail caravan of foreign ruffians, and his daughter seems unable to produce an heir. She’s miscarried twice since her marriage. The prince is ill and worries about the succession. Securing that would bolster his popularity. He longs for a stout-bodied son to carry on and has convinced himself he’s found one,” he explained.

  “How did he convince himself the son is legitimate?”

  “Power and folly are old friends. We’re all quoting Benjamin Franklin these days. He’s Mr. Smythe’s favorite author, you know. The prince did undergo some sort of wedding ceremony with Mrs. Fitzherbert. He knows in his mind the marriage is invalid.”

  “He’s beginning to worm his way around the various acts of Parliament that forbid it. He’ll never convince Parliament, but if he convinces himself, he’ll be hard to hold back,” Belami said, frowning into his glass.

  “He’s convinced himself, all right. He forgets the divine right of kings is history. He believes that if he brings Smythe forward and the lad becomes incredibly popular, Parliament will go along with him to avoid an uprising. If Fitzherbert doesn’t deny it and claims herself a non-Catholic, he might just pull it off. And furthermore, she just might abet him. She’s ambitious,” McMahon said, shaking his head.

  “We don’t even know if he is Fitzherbert’s son. If she’s as ambitious as you think, she wouldn’t have sent him off into anonymity all those years ago,” Belami pointed out.

  “They had tiffs, then would get together again. She might have feared a son would prevent a reconciliation,” McMahon said thoughtfully.

  “The likeliest spoke to stick in the wheel is to find out who Smythe is, and I mean to tackle it,” Belami said with an air of resolution.

  “You’re welcome to it, but it won’t be easy to trace down a twenty-five-year-old orphan from America. This is really why I urged the prince to call you in, Belami. Lady Gilham was only a pretext to get you off to Brighton without alerting the prince that you were involving yourself in his affairs, the Smythe affair, I mean.

  “I confess it’s the Smythe affair that interests me more,” Belami replied with a smile.

  “It’s extremely urgent. Prinney is champing at the bit to bring his son forward. I’d say you have about a week before all hell breaks loose.”

  “Then I’d better get to Brighton,” Belami said and arose. “Ah... Lady Gilham’s address and the money to buy her silence. What’s the real story on her?” he asked with mild interest.

  “Nothing
very interesting there. She’s just a clever, pretty hussy who set her cap at Prinney and managed to attract his interest for a few weeks.”

  “Does she, ah, pass for a woman of virtue or is she the other sort?”

  “She passes for respectable in Brighton. Pure as the driven snow to hear her tell it, but I believe the snow has a few paw marks in it. She was cunning enough to get him to write her billets-doux and knew enough to hang on to them. It shouldn’t be necessary to pay her sort anything, but the mood the papers are in, it might be best to keep her quiet if we can,” McMahon replied.

  He drew open a drawer and handed Belami a bag of gold coins. “There’s something in there to cover your expenses as well. His Highness won’t be ungenerous in his non-monetary rewards,” he added vaguely. He was hinting at some court sinecure, Belami supposed, but didn’t press the matter.

  “As to the more important affair, Belami, I don’t know if you are an ambitious man, but the government would be extremely grateful if you could circumvent a new scandal. You could name your own price if you bring off this one. Lord chamberlain, an earldom, relatives on the Civil List— anything within reason.”

  “Deciding will be a pleasant diversion from business,” Belami said lightly.

  “Where will you be staying if I need to be in touch with you?”

  “At my own place on Marine Parade,” Belami said.

  “I expect to see you soon. I won’t be able to keep Prinney away from Brighton for long, when his soi-disant son is there. Godspeed.”

  McMahon accompanied Belami to the door and along the passage to the courtyard, discussing further aspects of the case. “We must at all costs keep Smythe from moving into the Royal Pavilion. That would be too close for comfort. He has carte blanche to do so if he wishes. It’s strange he didn’t jump at the chance, is it not, when his pockets are to let?” McMahon asked. He directed a long, curious look at Belami.

  “Very odd,” he answered with a considering frown.

  This was the detail that occupied his mind as he hastened to Belvedere Square and Deirdre. Why did Smythe refuse to stay at the Pavilion where he could mix with the well-to-do, who might land him a good position? McMahon had intimated he was not well off. But then Smythe probably found the prince’s company suffocating, and the old cronies roosting there would hardly be to a young man’s taste. That must account for it.

  Or perhaps he’d found himself some female company that was not fit to introduce to polite society. His mind veered to Lady Gilham for a moment. He little thought what pranks that female had in store for him. He allotted half an hour to handling her case.

  Chapter Two

  “So we are off to Brighton! An odd season for it, I must say,” the duchess exclaimed when Belami informed them that he had to go there.

  His black eyes opened wide in horror at the mental vision of this dragon’s company. His work would involve him with rakes, rattles, and roués—every one of whom the duchess would hate on sight.

  “What fun!” Deirdre exclaimed, her large gray eyes shining with delight. Belami gazed at her and found his heart softening to the idea. It wouldn’t take him twenty-four hours a day to handle Lady Gilham and Smythe, and it would be good to have Deirdre near him.

  “It might be best if I go alone,” he said, but in no very firm way. Within a minute Deirdre had pouted her way to success.

  “You realize what I have told you is in the strictest confidence,” he told them.

  “We are not gossips!” her grace informed him with a gimlet shot from her sharp eyes. “Naturally I would never breathe a word to bring discredit on the dear prince. But just between ourselves, Belami, what do you make of this Smythe fellow? Is it possible he is indeed of royal blood? Fitzherbert was always fat as a flawn. It would be hard to know till the last few months whether she was enceinte. She hid herself away every time she and the prince had a tiff, so it might easily enough be true. I almost wish the prince could carry it off. The tales coming home from Italy about his wife are enough to turn us all into Republicans. I hear she runs about in outlandish states of undress, naked from the waist up with a pumpkin on her head, and dances with her servants. It would be a blessing if we could get rid of her once for all.”

  “But what of Princess Charlotte?” Deirdre asked. “She is the only member of the royal family who is in the least degree tolerable. The Whigs will work to dump the prince and put his daughter to rule the country.”

  “Even she is more than half hoyden,” the duchess said severely. “We must avoid it at all costs. When do we leave for Brighton, Belami?”

  “I plan to leave as soon as I can get a few jackets thrown into a case. Why don’t I run along today and have the servants make the house ready for your arrival tomorrow?” he suggested.

  “Tomorrow? Rubbish, we can be ready in a trice,” the duchess countered. Actually a week was her preferred packing time.

  “I’ll go and tell the servants,” Deirdre said, hopping up in her eagerness.

  “I’ll take my own carriage and follow you. Is an hour too long a delay before parting?” the duchess inquired.

  “That will be fine,” Belami said, blinking at her eagerness.

  She was so hot to be on the trail of Prinney’s son that she elbowed her niece aside at the doorway and darted down the hall, leaving Deirdre alone with her fiancé, a situation usually avoided.

  Deirdre turned and smiled at Belami. “It seems we must postpone our trip to the travel agent to arrange our honeymoon,” she said.

  “This won’t delay our wedding,” he promised rashly. “I’ll apply to the bishop for a special license as soon as we get back from Brighton and we’ll get married right away.”

  “Actually, Auntie has been speaking of having the wedding at Fernvale. Our friends and relatives aren’t in London at this time,” she said, looking for his reaction.

  “I don’t want to wait a minute longer than necessary. The spell I had cast over her might wear off before then,” he said lightly. “She’ll rescind her permission, and we’ll end up darting to the border for a wedding over the anvil.”

  “Then you’ll just have to get Herr Bessler out of Newgate and have her mesmerized again,” Deirdre said, as this was the spell originally used to bring the duchess into line. A light laugh escaped her lips at what she had just said. She would never have thought it possible to be involved in such havey-cavey goings-on as she had since her betrothal to Belami.

  Now the quickening of her blood told her another spree was about to begin. She was every bit as eager as the duchess to fly off to Brighton and meet up with the new set of characters Belami’s strange avocation threw in his path.

  His dark eyes softened as they regarded her. Deirdre was rapidly emerging from the chrysalis that had enshrouded her to spread her radiant new wings and enchant him. Her upbringing by the duchess had been severe, but beneath the antique gowns and hairdo there lurked an unsuspected flair for fun and fashion. He was never quite sure which he preferred, the innocent girl with the lingering trace of shyness or the new woman of fashion that peeped out at times. No matter, both had the raven-black hair, the stormy gray eyes, the short, straight nose and the full lips.

  “Her grace is not the only one who is mesmerized,” he said softly and pulled her into his arms. He sensed the reluctant girl holding herself back, felt the quiver that ran through her as he pressed his advances, and began tightening his grip for the final transformation.

  “Deirdre!” The shrill notes of the duchess sent them flying apart.

  “One of these days,” he said through gritted teeth, then left.

  His friend, Pronto Pilgrim, was waiting in Belami’s drawing room when he arrived home. It was a case of opposites attracting between Pronto and Belami.

  Pronto was an ungainly man whose major talent was for bungling things. His undistinguished appearance—short, small-shouldered, bow-legged, with a face whose most noticeable feature was a broken nose—was strangely at odds with Belami’s elegant physique
and striking good looks.

  “When are you and Deirdre getting leg-shackled?” was Pronto’s first speech. There was a hangdog look about him today. He had just recently decided that he, too, loved Deirdre Gower.

  “As soon as can be. Right after I get back from Brighton, I hope,” Belami answered. “I’m in a bit of a rush today, Pronto. Do you want anything in particular?”

  “Brighton? What the deuce are you going to Brighton for when you’ve just gotten engaged?” Pronto asked suspiciously. “Damme, Dick, this is no time to be oiling around some bit of fluff!”

  “Bite your tongue, you ridiculous object!” Belami answered with a laugh. “It’s not my bit of fluff I’m chasing this time.’’

  “All the worse, poaching on some other man’s. ‘Pon my word, Dick, you ain’t changing your ways a bit. You promised you’d swear off the muslin company.”

  “This is business, Pronto. Confidential business or I’d let you in on it. I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. I suggest you have your monkey suit pressed up and be ready to stand as my best man next week.” Belami looked impatiently at the clock on the mantelpiece.

  Pronto sniffed and began nibbling on the corner of his thumb, a great aid to concentration. “Charney don’t like your dabbling in crime if that’s what it is,” he felt obliged to remind his friend. “Just might be enough to turn her against you again.”

  “She likes it well enough this time,” Belami said nonchalantly.

  “You don’t mean she’s gone and lost that dashed diamond again after we just found it for her!” Pronto exclaimed indignantly.

  “No, no, it’s an entirely different matter, but mum’s the word.” A shapely finger was raised in admonishment.

  “I’ll be off then and let you get packed,” Pronto said with a suspicious alacrity. He normally reacted at the pace of an aged tortoise. “I’ll drop in and entertain Deirdre for you from time to time,” he offered with a cagey light in his blue eyes.