Royal Revels (9 page)

“Oh, yes, perhaps even knowledgeably. He’s taken a couple of books about Virginia out of the library.”

“He said he’d never even been there!” Deirdre exclaimed.

“Well, he lies. I wanted to do a little research, hoping to trip him up, and he has the two books on the subject checked out of Donaldson’s this minute. They’re overdue,” he added irritably.

“That does look a little suspicious,” she admitted.

“There were other things as well. I notice he called himself a ‘colonial’ a few times. I should think real Americans consider that a term of contempt since their break with England. He spoke, too, as though his father still had a good spread of land when he died, yet Smythe is penniless. If he’d lost a fortune in gambling, people would have heard of it,” Belami said.

“Perhaps the plantation was mortgaged,” she mentioned. “If you don’t think he’s from America, who do you think he is then?”

“It’s too early to say. He wears provincial tailoring. Provincial, not American, and his clothes aren’t new, not purchased within the past few months. The nap’s off the cuffs and the edges here and there. And if that’s an American accent he has, I’ll turn in my ears. Some slight drawl in it suggests Devonshire. He’s educated, but not terribly well educated. He holds his American upbringing to account for knowing no Latin or Greek. I’d say he was tutored by some country parson and has done a bit of reading on his own. I don’t know what to make of him,” he said, tossing up his hands.

“He didn’t mention being connected to the Prince Regent, though he did say he’d met him. He called him a queer nabs, which is not at all a filial thing to say.”

“He said the same thing to me. Since he’s not pushing forward a claim of kinship with the prince, there seems no point in falsifying his background. Unless he’s wanted for some crime in Devonshire or wherever he comes from,” Dick said, frowning in perplexity.

“Couldn’t he have had his jackets made in England and sent to America?” Deirdre asked.

“The odd dandy might go to such extremes, but that sort of gentleman would send to Weston or Stultz, not to an unknown provincial tailor. And it wasn’t only the jacket. His curled beaver, his shirt, his boots—every stitch he had on was English. I’ve met a few Americans over the years. There are little oddities, differences in their tailoring. The buttons are different and the stitching—just little things, but they add up to a look. Smythe didn’t have the American look.”

“You’d think he would have taken care to get the look if he meant to hazard such a project as passing himself off as the heir to the throne,” Deirdre said with a puzzled frown.

“For such an ambitious project as that, it would have been worth his while to go to America for a year or so, to learn the accent and customs and to outfit himself with all the required bits and pieces. His only bit of Americana is an occasional quote from Ben Franklin.”

“He probably got that from Donaldson’s too. Pronto couldn’t find it on the shelves,” she said, disgusted with Smythe.

“You know, I begin to think he doesn’t even want this title of royal prince shoved on him. He didn’t mention it to you, and he didn’t breathe a word of it to me. He didn’t move into the Royal Pavilion either, when the Prince invited him to.”

The duchess looked up at the mention of her favorite word, “prince.” The couple knew their time was limited, and Belami said rather urgently, “There’s one more thing, Deirdre. I think Smythe is a bit suspicious of me since I asked Pronto to arrange a meeting. He quizzed me rather closely as to why I’m in Brighton out of season. I told him I’m doing some research into the history of Brighthelmstone for a literary quarterly.”

“Oh, dear! He asked me the same thing and I said Auntie wanted to see your summer residence. He must suspect us already!”

“I’ll smooth it over next time I meet him, say the reason I brought you and your aunt with me is to allow you to refurbish this house. Mind I don’t want you transmogrifying it into another Royal Pavilion on me,” he added lightly.

The duchess overheard “Royal Pavilion,” and decided she was missing some good conversation. “What’s that you say, Belami? Are you speaking of the prince?” she asked. Her commanding eye beckoned them toward her sofa and soon her lips repeated the command. “Come here to the fire. You’ll both take your death of cold standing in that wretched draught.”

“Dick was just saying the prince invited Mr. Smythe to stay at the Royal Pavilion,” Deirdre invented swiftly, “but he refused.”

“The ninny! Why would he do such a thing?”

“It was a bit reckless of the prince to invite him,” Belami said.

“The prince? I mean why did Mr. Smythe refuse?” she clarified, offended at being misunderstood.

“I expect he didn’t care for Prinney’s friends,” Deirdre said.

“Hmph, doing it pretty brown for a mere foreigner,” the duchess decreed. “What else had he to say, Belami? Give me your opinion of the young man.”

Belami repeated those things he had already said to Deirdre. As her aunt appeared to hold no particular grudge against Smythe, Deirdre decided to admit she, too, had met him. She felt one secret kept from her aunt at a time was enough.

“But he seemed gentlemanly?” the duchess asked.

“I only had lunch with him,” Belami pointed out. “He manages his knife and fork like a gentleman and is well spoken enough.”

“The trouble is,” Deirdre explained, “we don’t really know what the prince looked like when he was young. If Mr. Smythe resembles him, it’s difficult for us to see it.”

“My thoughts exactly,” the duchess said in a rare expression of good humor. This gave her the excuse she craved to have Smythe presented to her without revealing vulgar curiosity. “I am a little leery about the wisdom of it, but I see no other way but to have you bring him here, Belami,” she announced.

“But in the eventuality that he is an impostor...” Belami began and was summarily cut off.

“I believe my reputation can bear the strain,” she said, donning a haughty stare. “I remember dear Prinney very well when he was a quarter of a century old. Such charm, such grace, and the eyes! We were all madly in love with him. It seems like yesterday. I also knew Maria Fitzherbert well. I am the logical one to assess Smythe,” she decided. “Tomorrow morning at eleven you may bring him to me, Belami.”

In fact, Mr. Smythe came to call that same evening after dinner. Pronto had met him in the common room at the Old Ship and happened to mention that he was going to visit Belami after dinner. It seemed unsociable not to ask him along, and from there it was an easy step to discover an excuse to do so. It would be an excellent way to keep an eye on Smythe and to study him further. When he learned Smythe had a letter from the prince in his pocket, the matter was settled. Old Charney wouldn’t close the door on a fellow who had a letter from the prince inviting him to a private dinner the next night. Even the fact that Prinney was hastening toward Brighton would cheer the old girl up no end. Been sweet on him forever.

It was a strange evening altogether. Just as Charney had been bedazzled by the prince three decades before, she now became infatuated with Mr. Smythe. The feeling was perhaps more maternal than loverlike, but it was noticeably warm. Smythe had no sooner entered the door and made his bow than she arose and performed an extremely awkward curtsy. Prime ministers she greeted from her chair, but there was something in Mr. Smythe that got her to her feet. She was as startled as the others when she realized what she had done and tried to ignore the deed, but for one strange moment she thought she beheld the reembodiment of the young prince.

It was only Mr. Smythe who did not realize the honor he had received. He was quite at his ease. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Charney,”‘ he said. Even his reducing her from “your grace” to a mere “Lady Charney” didn’t rattle her. Pronto stood with bated breath waiting to be castigated for bringing him, but no such thing happened.

The wine was brought out immediately, and, as it was Belami’s wine, it wasn’t watered. For the first fifteen minutes, the conversation skirted uneasily around Mr. Smythe’s coming from America and conditions there. Belami assumed Smythe had been looking into his books from the library when he now located his father’s plantation on the banks of the James River. Belami had found a book on tobacco growing in his own library and tested Smythe’s knowledge.

“How do you manage the weakening of the soil after growing tobacco? I understand it leaches all the good out in a few years.”

“We had to do a deal of fertilizing,” was the vague answer.

Before Belami could inquire what fertilizer was used, the duchess barged in. She was firmly convinced that she had a gentleman of royal birth in her saloon and didn’t seem to care much that he was from the wrong side of the blanket. It was time to wade forward from polite platitudes and get down to the hard core of the case.

“So you have a letter from the prince!” she said gleefully, reverting to an earlier conversation. “He seems mighty fond of you, Mr. Smythe. Is there a special reason for it?” Anyone but a moonling would realize she knew something of the matter. She was fairly drooling with anticipation.

Smythe blushed and said, “I can’t imagine what he sees in the likes of me. But then I’ve heard he takes these inexplicable likings for people of no particular consequence. Beau Brummell, for instance, a few years ago, and at present his physician, Sir Henry Halford.”

“Come now!” the duchess teased. “A little bird told me there is more to it than that!”

“Where did you hear such a thing?” he asked, sincerely shocked, and not happily either. All three of his young examiners later agreed he wasn’t pleased at the rumor’s being let loose. “Surely they’re not talking about it in London!”

“A whisper here and there, nothing to signify yet,” the duchess assured him. “I take it you disagree with the prince on this matter?”

“It’s too farfetched to be possible,” Smythe said simply. His broad, handsome face never looked more noble. “It’s true I don’t know who I am, but I know I’m not a royal prince.”

“How do you know it?” the duchess asked, pretty sharply. “Were you adopted our of an orphanage?” All shilly-shallying was left behind as she got down to business. “Mrs. Fitzherbert would never have put a royal bastard into an orphanage.”

“No, I wasn’t actually. My father—the man I called Father till he passed away last year—was always very vague about my origins. He told me my mother died when I was born. There was such a reluctance to discuss it that I suspected I was born out of wedlock. My natural father, he said, was a gentleman of high birth, but he never so much as hinted he was of royal blood. I thought he might have been my mother’s landlord—the local squire or some such thing. My adoptive father was some kin to my natural mother—or perhaps only a connection. He had just been widowed, losing both wife and son in childbirth. He decided to emigrate to America and start a new life, and took me along, to take the place of the son he had lost. It was a fortunate day for me when he made that kind decision,” Mr. Smythe said He wore a look of gentle wonder.

“Your natural mother died, you say?” the duchess asked.

“I was told so, but have no way of knowing whether it is true and no idea what her name was. It seems strange now, when it has become so important, that I can’t be more informative. The fact is, we hardly ever discussed it. I just thought of myself as Alexander Smythe’s son. I never knew any other father.”

“The resemblance to the prince is very striking,” the duchess told him with a fond smile. “A Hanoverian face. Still, it is odd he is so certain you are his son. I mean to say, there are half a dozen princes, and between them the nation is littered with by-blows. I can’t say I see much of your mother—Maria Fitzherbert I mean—in you. What caused him to insist you are her son?”

“It is this little ring that got him started on it,” Mr. Smythe said, holding up his left hand. On the little finger he wore a very plain gold ring with a domed top. He slid it off and took it to the duchess. He turned it over to reveal a clasp beneath, which he opened. Contained in the cavity was a lock of brown hair. “He says he gave this to my mother, meaning Mrs. Fitzherbert. I suppose there are dozens of similar rings,” he said doubtfully.

“Where did you get this one?” Belami asked, coming forward, as they all did, to view it.

“This is the only thing I have from my natural mother. I always thought it belonged to Ada, Alexander’s late wife, when I saw it in his room. He kept it in a box on the dresser. When I was twenty-one, he gave it to me and said my mother wanted me to have it when I was of age. It’s not much of a legacy, but as it’s the only thing I have of hers, I always wear it. The prince spotted it when we were playing cards and later asked me if he could see it. He opened it and that’s when he told me. ‘That hair is from my own head,’ he said. I thought he was making a joke and laughed. But when I looked up, there were tears in his eyes. He threw himself on my bosom and begged me to forgive him, to pardon him. It was terribly embarrassing,” he said, looking around at his spellbound audience. “I mean, what does one say, in such a circumstance?”

The duchess dabbed at a tear and said in a gruff voice, “You say he is forgiven, if you are a gentleman.”

“Then I am not even a gentleman, for I told him he was mistaken,” Mr. Smythe said. “I hardly understood what he was getting at. I felt as if I’d been thrust onto a stage without knowing what the play was or what my lines were supposed to be.”

Belami took the ring and walked to a lamp with it. “It’s inscribed,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll get a magnifying glass and see what it says.”

“It says
love me true
,” Mr. Smythe told him. “The prince assures me that was the message on the ring he gave Mrs. Fitzherbert, but he could be mistaken after so many years.”

Belami went for his magnifying glass, and both ring and glass were passed around the circle for all to verify the inscription. “Did he assure you that was his inscription before or after he had read this?” Belami asked.

“After,” Smythe told him with a knowing look.

“How could he be expected to remember the wording thirty years later?” the duchess demanded angrily. “I don’t suppose you claim to remember things you wrote three decades ago?” she asked Belami.