Royal Revels (17 page)

“I wonder what London was named after,” Lady Donwin said, as she felt some comment was called for.

“Believe we stole it from the Frenchies. They call it Londres,” Pronto told her. “Don’t see why we must let the Frenchies be naming our cities. We borrow everything from them. Would you mind handing along that
ragoût
, ma’am, while Dick chops up the meat for us. As we’re serving ourselves, I’ll just tipple out a bit of that Burgundy. Yessir, it’s a caution how we ape the Frenchies in everything. No use for them myself. You don’t see them calling their gels miss after us. It’s mam’selle every time.”

“We’re having petits fours for dessert, Pronto,” Deirdre said, biting back a little smile, but he saw no mischief in it.

“Oh, good,” he said and splashed a blob of gravy on the linen tablecloth.

Belami had finished his carving and took pity on the guests. He entertained them with a short discourse on the various possible origins of the name London, favoring the opinion that its name derived from King Lud, who built the old walls around the city.

Dinner passed in this amiable fashion, and after the petits fours, the duchess led the ladies to the Blue Saloon, leaving the gentlemen to their port. At least no one had mentioned Smythe’s ring.

Pronto, deciding to get on with the case, turned a belligerent eye on Smythe. “What has old Ben Franklin got to say today, Smythe?” he asked.

“‘Beware of meat twice boil’d and an old foe reconcil’d,’” Smythe said and laughed.

“Twice boil’d or thrice baked,” Belami added with feeling.

Pronto considered this unhelpful interchange a moment, but could find no vice or sense in it. “I wouldn’t mind having a look at that almanac of Ben’s when you’re through with it. Where do you keep it anyway?”

“Buy your own, my friend. I never part company with Ben Franklin,” Smythe answered easily.

Before Pronto could utter any revealing secrets, Belami jumped into the conversation. “How did the party at the Pavilion go last night, Mr. Smythe?” he asked.

“About as usual,” Smythe answered blandly. Not a word about the letter, about “Georgie,” or anything else. “It should be a good deal livelier tonight with a larger company. The duchess was telling me an interesting story at dinner, something about her losing a diamond necklace and your recovering it,” George went on, rather hurriedly. It served to change the topic, and Smythe was such an enthusiastic listener that the telling of that tale took up the remainder of their isolation from the ladies.

In a benign mood, the duchess allowed Belami to transport Deirdre the few steps to the Royal Pavilion with no other escort, while she and the others went in her carriage, except for Pronto, who had orders to take his own. They all met under the domed porch of the Royal Pavilion, where lights blazed everywhere, beckoning them into the vestibule. They left off their outer garments in the entrance hall. While the ladies adjusted their toilettes in front of the mantelpiece mirror, Belami gave their names to be announced. They were called and went in a troupe into the Chinese Gallery.

The Prince Regent stood in the center, welcoming his guests. They were a motley crew for this hasty party—such society as Brighton had to offer, along with a few guests down from London. Most notable amongst these was the Countess de Lieven, the Russian ambassador’s wife, who always reminded Deirdre of a long-necked waterfowl with a dark crest of hair. The Marchioness of Hertford was noticeable by her absence.

Poor Prinney, the duchess noticed, was becoming fatter by the day. His ever-spreading girth was covered in magnificent apparel, plastered with ribbons and medals. She looked from him to George Smythe and shook her head sadly. At this moment, she discerned no real resemblance between them. She had to wonder, for the first time, if fond memory had led her astray. Had Prinney ever looked as much like Mr. Smythe as she thought? The pouches and sagging flesh he wore now made it difficult to remember his youthful visage, as listening to one tune will prevent a person from remembering another. Those bright and evanescent days had become a forgotten melody.

Then the prince turned to her, advanced with his hands out and a smile on his face, and all else was forgotten. So very proper of him to come to her first, for a special greeting.

“You have been too kind to my dear little George,” be said, smiling widely. “I appreciate your taking note of him. If only the rest of society would follow your lead, the thing would be done in the twinkling of a bedpost. You always knew how to lead them, your most charming grace,” he finished, lifting her gnarled hand to his lips.

She was flattered to death and assured His Highness of her continued support in any project he might undertake.

“It is such circumstances as this that show us who our real friends are.” He cast an extremely meaningful and long look into her eyes.

While he welcomed the other guests individually, Deirdre took the opportunity to gaze around at the splendor that surrounded her. The long Chinese Gallery was divided into sections by decorative iron bamboo. Overhead in this central portion hung a highly decorated Chinese canopy. There was much evidence of oriental finery—cabinets built into yellow marble niches, a brass and metal fireplace, a porcelain pagoda and glass lanterns everywhere, some of them fashioned into tulips and lotus flowers. On the painted canvas portion of the walls, images of more flowers and birds flaunted their beauty. The lights, the heat, and the overpowering opulence of it all were difficult to assimilate.

“By jingo, I haven’t seen anything to equal this, not even the Pantheon in London,” Pronto said, craning his short neck at awkward angles to take it all in.

“Quite a Chinese bazaar,” Belami opined, but even he was impressed at the display.

“I never saw anything so gorgeous in my life,” Deirdre breathed, her eyes as big as saucers. “My, and to think I was impressed with your place at New Year’s,” she added artlessly to her fiancé. She even knew why her aunt had urged George Smythe on her. But as she looked from Belami to Smythe, she knew she’d rather live in a shoe with Dick than in a mansion with George.

A servant passed by with a tray of drinks, and the duchess’s party moved on to make way for other arrivals. They walked north toward mirrored doors that stood open.

“Excellent! His Highness is going to entertain us with a little music,” the duchess declared, as these doors led to the music room where all manner of lights blazed. Red and gold were the predominant colors of the room, with more Chinese splendor of columns and canopies, dragons and flowers, another marble fireplace, topped by an outrageous clock, featuring Cupids and Venus and other Roman deities.

“They may rant about bad taste all they like, you must own this is very good poor taste,” Pronto said.

“The very best poor taste I’ve ever seen,” Belami agreed.

As the prince made his way toward the mirrored doors, every heart younger than forty years sank. “We’re in for it now; he’s going to play for us or sing,” Pronto said, groaning. Even as he spoke, the orchestra was filing into place on the platform, where the prince’s violoncello rested against a stand.

“Worse, he’s going to do both,” Belami said.

The duchess and a few older people smiled approval, and the others resigned themselves to the concert. The Prince Regent first played for them, then was kind enough to sing as well. His opening selection was “Sleep You or Wake You.” The younger guests were much inclined to accept the former, but livelier glees and catches followed. There was a general stirring of excitement when the prince announced that one of the guests had agreed to join him in a duet. Heads turned this way and that till Mr. Smythe was seen to rise to his feet and join the prince.

It had all been prearranged, obviously. Excitement was high amongst the London guests. “Who is he?” the Countess de Lieven was heard to inquire. “He looks familiar—something in the shape of the forehead.”

Standing side by side with the prince, one could see some sort of resemblance, but Belami thought it was only a resemblance of types. He searched around the room for McMahon, wondering that the news from Lady Donwin hadn’t quenched the prince’s ardor, but McMahon hunched his shoulders. “I’ve told him and this is the result,” that despairing face said.

The pair sang “When Laura Smiles,” an uninspired choice, and executed it without much vigor. The prince’s eyes, with tears standing in them, never left George’s face. George was clearly embarrassed and looked at a point on the rear wall.

After the one duet, the prince apologized most humbly and proclaimed that his throat was a little rough from the weather. The band would continue without him. This was good news as it meant the guests could leave without giving offense to His Highness.

“We are informal this evening,” he announced to the throng. “The youngsters might want to dance. The Crimson Saloon is at your disposal. We oldsters shall soon retire to the card room.”

As he spoke, he put a fatherly arm around George Smythe’s shoulder and herded this one youngster off with him, to present him informally to his London guests. He withheld the words “my son,” but his outstanding condescension and his singular kindness throughout the evening had a very paternal air to it. When he went on to the card room later, he had Smythe at his table.

Deirdre had been looking forward to the evening, but even when she finally got to dance with Belami, the mood was not what she had anticipated. His talk was all of Smythe and the prince, and worries about what was going forth in the card room. Dick was complaining of a nagging headache as well. She suspected nothing as his eyes did have a feverish glaze. At ten, Mr. Smythe escaped the card game and found his way to the Crimson Saloon. Colonel McMahon, looking daggers, was close behind him.

Belami led Deirdre from the dance floor and approached the colonel. “Was any announcement made in the card room?” he asked.

“His every word and gesture was an announcement, but nothing was said formally. I’m afraid the reaction of the friends present tonight will only egg him on to a more public demonstration, though. Too genial by half.”

“Didn’t you tell him what Lady Donwin told me about the ring?” Belami asked, startled.

“He doesn’t believe a word of it. He knows I have been against this scheme from the start, and he thinks I’ve invented it. He all but cut Lady Donwin dead.”

“Was there ever such an impossible man!” Belami exclaimed impatiently.

“Not to my knowledge,” McMahon said grimly.

“Deirdre, why don’t you have the next dance with Smythe? You might learn something, and the colonel and I have a few things to discuss,” Belami said.

She went, eager to hear what Smythe might have to say about the evening, and Belami turned to McMahon. “The prince knows I have to leave early?”

“Yes, yes, he puts up no stumbling blocks when it’s Gilham who is the target of our schemes. Does Miss Gower know?”

“No, I didn’t tell her. Perhaps you could explain that I had a slight headache and went home quietly to avoid disturbing her pleasure,” he suggested.

“Everything is arranged for North Street?” the colonel asked with a slight smile curling his lips.

“All set. The goods will be taken to my place for the night. I’ll bring them here tomorrow. Or should I just burn the letters?”

“The prince will want to be present at their incineration. No slur on your integrity, but to check their authenticity and for the sheer pleasure of it. This was well done of you, Belami.”

“It’s not done yet,” Belami pointed out.

“A good effort at least, and we shan’t forget it.” The gentlemen parted, but before Dick got away, the dance was finished and he saw Deirdre approaching him. He rubbed his temples and managed a wan smile.

“Are the lights and heat getting to you too?” she asked.

“A little. I believe I’ll go in search of a headache powder, but don’t worry about me,” he said. Her face was the very picture of concern. He felt a pang, to be deceiving her.

“Of course I shall worry,” she answered simply.

“Did Smythe say anything of interest?” he asked to divert her thoughts.

“He talked mostly about you and your work, asking what sorts of cases you’ve done in the past. He’s becoming suspicious, Dick,” she said. “He wondered how you found time for the research you came here to do and twitted me that I wouldn’t get a very good idea of your summer home when I am living elsewhere. That was the excuse I gave him for being here when I first met him, you recall. He also asked when we were leaving.”

“Did you get an opportunity to quiz him about the way the prince is singling him out?”

“Yes, but he only laughed and made foolish jokes about it. Something about having a foolish friend being like going to bed with a razor,” she said.

“Back to Ben Franklin, I expect, for that quote.”

Pronto ambled up to claim the next dance, and Belami took the opportunity to escape. He hastened to Marine Parade to rehearse the night’s job with Réal. “You’ve got the
passe-partout
?”

“She is here in the pocket,” Réal assured him.

“And you know exactly what to do?”

“
Mais parfaitement
! I attend till the lights are out for an hour; go softly into the hall, turn right into the dining room, pass the crockery out to Chubb, who is at the front door with his bag. Chubb hastens it to the carriage—the borrowed carriage that has not your crest on it. I have arranged all these details, me,” he said in a tone that inspired absolute confidence. “Next I ascend to the boudoir, where the letters will be on a table under a snuffbox. If I see a man’s shaving set, housecoat, and slippers, they, too, are included. Take
le tout
back to your stable, transfer it to your carriage, and guard it with my life till your return,” he said, and stood waiting for praise.

“And if you’re caught by Mrs. Morton or a servant?”

“Then I say nothings, in case they have the large ears and imagine an accent in my voice. I h’escape
toute vitesse
. If I am followed, I do not go to Marine Parade, but lose myself in the coaching yards of North Street. If I am captured—which will not occur—I say nothings.”