The Stuart Sapphire (11 page)

‘During your visit you must be sure to see and enjoy all
the wonders, it is an unforgettable experience. His Royal Highness is a connoisseur of art – from all countries, France in particular, although they have long been our enemies and an invasion from just across the Channel is greatly to be feared. But George thinks they are the very greatest artists in every kind of culture. As for China,’ she shrugged, ‘a strange foreign land indeed, he has little hope of ever visiting it, but their ancient civilisation is always in his mind—’

As she talked so wistfully, Tam looked around, wondering why she then chose to live in surroundings modest by comparison. As if interpreting his thoughts, she said:

‘I am unable to live under the same roof as HRH. There are difficulties. My faith forbids divorce and, in the eyes of God, despite Princess Caroline being regarded as his wife and the future Queen of England, I am still his legal wife. We are bound together until death do us part. The marriage was not of my desire, I knew inevitably that the Prince of Wales, as he was then, must make a dynastic union. But he threatened to take his own life if I refused him. I had no option in the matter.’

She paused and shook her head, as if the weight of remembrance was suddenly too heavy. ‘Little joy has come of it for either of them. Right from the outset, a coarse and smelly woman and George is so very fastidious about his person. His accounts of her personal lack of cleanliness were unbelievable. He found her very presence intolerable and he was very drunk indeed on their wedding night when, fortunately for him, Princess Charlotte was most probably conceived. He could not bear to sleep with her again. How he wept, poor dear soul, and shuddered at the very idea. A great pity the little princess had not been a
prince, then the future of England would have been assured.

‘Charlotte is the very image of her father – in every respect, no use denying paternity. A difficult child, who has sadly been used by her own mother as a pawn in the game of politics, and in any spiteful manner calculated to cause suffering or discomfort to her father.’

Tam decided not to mention his encounter with Charlotte and that he had formed some unfavourable ideas of his own, when again, as if reading his mind, she said: ‘You will not have had a chance to meet her, of course.’

Tam smiled vaguely. ‘We met in the gardens earlier this morning. Her Royal Highness was on the way to the library.’

Mrs Fitzherbert clapped her hands. ‘The library. Ah yes, a very bright child indeed. I see that the idea of a princess heading to the library surprised you. But all is not as it seems. This particular library is the social hub of Brighton,’ she added, confirming Brummell’s statement. ‘We all use it, rich and those who would be regarded as rich and noble, anyone who wishes to be regarded as anyone must follow the rules. It is the first place when one arrives to sign the Master of Ceremonies book, to know who is already here and how to get an invitation to the best social events. The Master is formidable, quite stern about his rules and very forbidding. No one takes liberties with that gentleman. As for the princess—’

Pausing, she gave him a quizzical glance. ‘But you have met already,’ implied that she was eager for his reactions as she went on: ‘Ah yes, and I have a feeling that you will have many more encounters with Her Royal Highness during your short stay.’

She laughed. ‘You see, she is at a very vulnerable age, fifteen years old, a difficult time for a princess when parents’ thoughts loom towards a marriage that has also suitable political and financial benefits.’ She sighed. ‘Poor Charlotte is very confused, for she will never know if young men want her for herself, or for the enticement that one day she will be Queen of England.’

Leaning back a little in her chair, she regarded him, smiling. ‘I can well imagine how delighted she will be at the prospect of an acquaintance with a very presentable young gentleman, especially on a brief visit from Scotland, one who has become something of a celebrity and who does not fit into any such category.’

Eager to change the subject, Tam asked: ‘Have you any children of your own, madam?’ The words were out before he realised the implications.

She glanced up at him sadly and whispered: ‘Such dear ones must always live in the shadows, in the background of one’s life, never to be acknowledged.’

While Tam was trying to work out the significance of what her vague reply implied, a maid entered, curtseyed: ‘Mr Brummell is here, madam.’

Mrs Fitzherbert gave an exasperated sigh. ‘On the wrong day. How tiresome.’ And to Tam: ‘Have you met?’

Tam rose to his feet and bowed. ‘We have indeed, madam, and I will not intrude on you further. My thanks for your kind hospitality.’

She held out her hand. ‘And mine too for escorting me home so safely. You must come again.’

‘You honour me, madam. I would love to see you again.’

She walked with him towards the door. ‘Before you leave – promise!’

‘I promise.’ Again Tam bowed, thinking this was an easy promise to make to such a charming woman as he walked down the steps and returned to the reality of obeying the Prince Regent’s command and the business of tracking down a thief and a murderer.

Maria watched him leave from the window. He moved swiftly, lightly, with such grace. A remarkable young man indeed, quite unlike anyone she had ever met, although on consideration there were faint traces in Tam Eildor of the best persons she had ever encountered and those most dear to her.

Confused by her thoughts, she shook her head. The last hour had been a most extraordinary experience. Here she was, a woman discreet on all occasions, dictated by the delicacy of her role in the Prince Regent’s life, positively pouring out her heart to a stranger. Not because of his looks alone. Not really the most handsome man she had ever met, but there was something about his eyes perhaps that seemed to look into her soul and invite her trust.

Dear George, always so very much more susceptible than she, small wonder that he was impressed by Tam Eildor. Yet a future king ready to take this young man to his bosom, a nobody, a shipwrecked survivor, was that not odd? Or was it just the novelty? That sort of thing had a definite appeal to George. Or the fact that Mr Eildor was
from Edinburgh and George yearned towards all things Scottish and French, despite the bloody deeds that declared them England’s enemies.

Remembering her conversation with Mr Eildor, she frowned darkly at her reflection in the mirror. Was it possible that the Prince Regent nursed feelings of guilt since the Hanoverians had swept away the Stuarts, ignoring their hereditary Divine Right of kings? No, that did not sound like George either.

She sighed. Politics were too deep; not for her, never had been. She found them very confusing indeed, the daily parliamentary battles, the constant sway of power between Whigs and Tories. George had given up in despair trying to explain who was in and who was out, and why. Just as well perhaps that she had never been in any real danger of becoming Queen of England, much as George would have fought parliament and all comers to have her at his side. But she shook her head. She believed one had to be bred to the role, it had to be in the blood.

As her maid did her hair, she found herself thinking rather fearfully that the change in George had begun with the wreck of the
Royal Stuart
. For the past two nights he had slept with her at Steine House. She was used to him staying occasionally but not two nights in succession with the promise of more to come, since he had hinted that all was not going as planned at the Pavilion.

She had closed her mind to the reason for this, seeing that such matters usually concerned the latest in his string of mistresses, although she pretended not to know or care that she had long ago ceased to provide any sexual novelty for the Prince Regent. Even in the heyday of their marriage, he had never been faithful, but he still liked to come to her sometimes and lie in her arms. There he would
sleep – and snore dreadfully – with his head on her bosom.

She smiled. He did so love a good bosom, that had always been his boast, and the larger the better. He never did care for flat-chested women.

She sighed. They were just like an old married couple, comfortable with each other. But last night was different. She felt that he wanted to confide in her but could not find the words. She knew him well enough to guess that something was preying dreadfully on his mind. He was like a young boy afraid to confess his first love, his first imagined wrong-doing.

When she asked him was anything amiss, he looked at her gravely for an instant. His lips trembled then he shook his head. Quite frankly, she was relieved. His legal wife in the eyes of God, she did not encourage confidences, finding it very indelicate to be the recipient of intimate confidences regarding each new mistress who fleetingly occupied his bed. There had been so many she had forgotten their names and, to be honest, she had to admit she was also jealous, especially as she was losing her looks and growing old and stout. How could an ageing woman hope to compete with young and beautiful women who threw themselves so eagerly at George? He himself was no beauty – he was extremely fat and had gout, and under the Truefitt nut-brown wigs, worn now for many years, his face remained childishly petulant with no more than a trace of his once-good looks. But somehow in a man, in a prince who was one day quite soon to be King of England, no woman seemed to mind that in the least. Young and even older than herself, all were eager to slip between the sheets of his bed, eager to be his lover, ready to meet his demands however outrageous, noblewomen ready to behave like the vilest whores and never bat an eyelid, for favours in the
way of exquisite jewels and, for the more fortunate, a substantial income, an insurance for the future when his interest waned in their power to arouse him and excite his lust.

She frowned. Her thoughts flew back to Tam Eildor. There was something amiss in the Pavilion and she felt certain it dated from his arrival.

George was afraid, she could smell fear on him like some stale perfume, and that was why he had arrived so unexpectedly at her home last night, and before leaving this morning he had asked her if it would be convenient for him to sleep at Steine House while the alterations at the Pavilion were in hand.

She had regarded this request with astonishment. Could it be possible that he had tired of the elegance and luxury of his royal apartments, just as he tired of his mistress of the moment? Maria knew that there were many other beautiful rooms in the Pavilion. However, she did not complain, always glad of his company, docile as the legal wife, that role in which she regarded herself.

Again the image of Tam Eildor came to the forefront of her mind. Had she been wrong about him? Was his strangeness perhaps a little sinister? And George was so impressed by a nobody, as once he had been taken with Beau Brummell who was to have such an influence on his life.

The grandson of a household servant, his father had risen to become Private Secretary to Lord North, and Beau, seventeen years younger than Prince George, had been a mere cornet in the Dragoons when they first met.

Maria sighed, remembering he was waiting downstairs to be received. She rang for the servant. ‘Ask Mr Brummell
to be so good as to take a seat in the small parlour. I shall be with him directly.’

As she completed her toilette she felt rather irritated. This was an unexpected informal visit or he had mistaken the day. Perhaps there was some urgent piece of gossip he could not wait until tomorrow to pass on to her. For spreading some naughty piece of scandal, some shocking rumour, no woman was Beau’s equal.

In this case it so happened that Brummell had seen Tam Eildor sitting by her window. Overcome with curiosity, envy and jealousy, he had quite a tale to tell.

‘Madam,’ he bowed, kissing her hand.

‘You are a day early,’ said Maria reproachfully.

A profuse apology. Was his visit inconvenient? A look of astonishment did not fool Maria. ‘Now that you are here, pray do be seated.’

Brummell did so, leaning forward eagerly in his chair. ‘You have a new admirer, madam?’

So that was it. She smiled. ‘More of a brief acquaintance, Mr Brummell. You have met Mr Eildor?’

‘Quite so. Mr Eildor is His Royal Highness’s new protégé.’

She looked at him quickly. The curl of his lip spoke volumes. It told her that he did not like him. His opinion promised to be both interesting and revealing.

‘So?’ she said.

Brummell shrugged. ‘I should like to know more about Mr Eildor than such scanty information he has seen fit to give us.’

‘Information, Mr Brummell? In what way?’

Brummell shook his head and sighed, the very picture of regret. ‘I fear, madam, that this – gentleman – is not
genuine. He is not all he pretends to be.’

‘A spy, you mean?’ she whispered. That idea had not occurred to her.

‘Quite so, madam. I fear there is a distinct possibility as he is journeying to London.’

Looks were exchanged. The same thought in both their minds. A spy from the camp of the Princess of Wales, George’s estranged wife now living permanently in London.

Brummell sighed. ‘I fear that His Royal Highness is too trusting.’

Maria sighed, fearing that Brummell, fast losing his place in George’s favours, regarded any newcomer as a further threat to usurp him. He was thus eager as any jealous courtesan to inflame the prince’s suspicions.

‘Do you not agree, madam,’ he asked, ‘that there is something rather – odd, about this young man?’

‘Odd?’ Indeed there was, but nothing she could find a word for, so she took refuge in: ‘He is extremely
good-looking
, is he not?’

Brummell laughed harshly. ‘Agreed, but he is not one of us. Distinctly not.’

Maria could not deny that. He did not belong to the noble class or the aristocracy at all, the kind of royal circles they moved in. He was quite, quite different. Yet not a common man, either.

Brummell placed the fingers of both hands neatly together and gave her a profound look. ‘I think, madam, that we would be well advised to investigate Mr Eildor’s background most scrupulously. I have friends in Edinburgh. And if he is a spy—’ He shrugged, ardently hoping that would be the case. What a coup! That would surely reinstate him in the prince’s regard.

Maria’s eyes widened at that. Was he hinting that some secret society, working to undermine the present regime, had sent a spy who threatened dear George, possibly even an assassin? And she remembered uncomfortably that dear Thomas Fitzherbert, her second husband, had been head of an ancient Catholic family who were among the first Catholics to forsake the exiled Stuarts and openly declare their allegiance to the Hanoverians.

As fearful thoughts of espionage and regicide rushed through her mind, Brummell continued: ‘An upstart, madam, worming his way into the prince’s confidence. A paid spy.’

Was Mr Eildor blackmailing George? Did that account for the feeling she had that George was afraid of something, terrified and unable to talk to her about it? Was his pretended obsession with this new acquaintance masking some deadly threat to the very future of England?

Suddenly she was ashamed, remembering how she had confided in Mr Eildor. Then another terrifying thought occurred to her about his strange luminous eyes. Was he also a mesmerist? And she recalled the evening she had spent in London at the Duchess of Abercorn’s supper party. The chief guest was a disciple of Franz Mesmer, the Austrian physician who had used a secret power called animal magnetism by which he could read people’s minds and make them do his will.

Maria remembered how he had sat opposite her at the table and, holding her gaze, she had whispered certain secrets of her early life. Unable to resist those strange hypnotic eyes, she had tried to banish the memory afterwards, and had almost succeeded in doing so until
now, as she realised that Mr Eilder’s eyes had held the same strange power.

What had she done? Trembling inwardly, she decided not to share this piece of information with Mr Brummell.

In the Pavilion it was observed by those close to the Prince Regent that he was not himself, and had not been himself, in fact, since the drama of the shipwreck two days ago. Short-tempered, inclined to be forgetful and intensely irritable, even his daily sea bathing was affected. His behaviour had not been as usual: roguish, full of fun, shrieks of merriment and boyish glee, playful splashings on bystanders. Instead it was a solemn ritual affair taken more from duty than pleasure.

Around him heads were shaken, there were a few behind-hand whispers too. A tiff with Mrs Fitz perhaps, with whom he had spent the night after the shipwreck, then back at the Pavilion next morning, he had cast a lacklustre eye on the uniforms required for the day. Unable to make his usual prompt decision, and far from his excitement at dressing up for the day, he had stood biting his lip and frowning, his thoughts clearly elsewhere. Very irritable too, shouting angrily at the guiding suggestions of his valets, he had stamped out in a fury.

Lord Henry, who was friendly to everyone in the condescending manner that was familiar to them, nodded vaguely. He could hardly be quizzed about the prince’s behaviour, since everyone in the Pavilion, and quite a few beyond it, knew he was yet another favoured royal bastard.

As for the other groom, Lord Percy, he didn’t talk much to anyone, kept his own counsel. Very superior, he was. No one knew much about him except that with a wife and children conveniently stowed away in a handsome mansion
in Surrey, it had got about that he had a penchant for lower-class female servants and found a maid on her knees scrubbing a floor quite irresistible.

Now, much to his chagrin, Lord Percy was informed that only Henry was to accompany the prince into the royal bedroom.

Closing the door, the prince looked around his once favourite room with distaste. He regarded that massive panelled French bedstead, once so comfortable with its five mattresses, white satin sheets and feather bolster, its five cloud-like pillows, its fine blankets, once the highlight of his nights, and shook his head.

Never, never could he sleep in that bed again, its luxury destroyed forever by memories of the marchioness’s murder.

Without a word being said, Henry understood. He did not possess a great imagination, but even crossing the threshold and remembering what he had seen made him shudder. He was not in the least surprised when the prince said:

‘We have been thinking, Henry, and we have decided that it would be more convenient to change our sleeping quarters. Have our bedroom downstairs, next to the dining room.’ Pausing, he managed a croaky, unconvincing chuckle. ‘Easier to fall into bed while the wine is rosy, don’t you agree?’

Henry, who would have agreed to anything said by his royal father, nodded nervously. It was becoming increasingly difficult, a considerable effort requiring the services of several of the strongest servants, to elevate the prince’s increasingly corpulent frame up the splendid staircase, after a supper consisting of sixteen courses and several bottles of wine before the inevitable final attack on the brandy.

His smile was genuine as the prince waved a vague hand around. ‘We will make this the guest bedroom in future.’