As he was thirty years of age, he could hardly claim such an incredible feat as writing at all then, much less remembering it verbatim.
The duchess went on fondling the ring. “I’ve seen this before,” she assured them all. “This is the ring Maria wore before their marriage. For the actual wedding, it was Georgiana, the dear Duchess of Devonshire, who had to supply a ring, as the prince didn’t have one with him. I wish Georgiana were alive today. She could tell us so much.”
She didn’t blink on the word Devonshire, but it clicked into place in Belami’s head. “Where was your adoptive father, Alexander Smythe, from?” he asked Smythe.
“Devonshire,” Smythe told him blandly.
“You inherited his accent from him,” Belami said.
“Yes, I don’t have much of a Yankee accent. Our plantation was isolated, and our neighbors were also from Devonshire, so that something of our homeland accent remains with us till this day.”
“That explains it,” Belami said, but it didn’t explain how a plantation on one of the major rivers was “isolated.”
“Your father must have been fairly well off, to have been able to migrate to America and set up a plantation,” he said leadingly.
“It’s a rum thing, that,” Smythe said, not reluctant to follow up anything he was asked. “The tales he told me of life in England were hard, but he came into a little money around the time of his wife’s death, and that was what got him to America and set up in the new line of work. We didn’t have one of the finer plantations, of course,” he finished.
The duchess nodded her head in satisfaction. “It’s clear as daylight what happened. Maria wanted to hustle you out of the country and made a settlement on Alexander Smythe to be your guardian. They were beginning to put pressure on Prinney to marry a German princess by that time. A son out of wedlock would have caused him no end of embarrassment, and that is why your mama took the precaution of sending you away. She didn’t dare to tell anyone who you were. I’ll tell you frankly, there were plenty who would have been happy to see you buried. Her great friend, Mrs. Mallory, was from Devonshire and likely arranged the details of it, which accounts for its being a Devonshire man who did the job,” she said, looking around for praise of this deep reasoning.
“The prince places great importance on my father’s name being Smythe,” George told her. “It was Mrs. Fitzherbert’s maiden name, I believe?” he said, making it a question.
“Who else would Maria trust but family on a mission of such importance?” the duchess asked in a rhetorical spirit. “No doubt she chose a trustworthy relative, but I’ll warrant Mrs. Mallory handled the details. They were the greatest of friends, and Mrs. Mallory was often home in Devonshire. It’s a pity you hadn’t come home while your papa was alive, so we would be able to confirm it. Mrs. Mallory has passed away as well, just last year.”
“Do you have relatives still living in Devonshire?” Belami asked.
“I stopped at Ottery but couldn’t trace the family at all. My father’s family was from a farm a few miles north of there. He had a spinster sister who died over a decade ago. No one could help me at all.”
“There must be someone still around who would know,” the duchess said, becoming cross.
“Mrs. Fitzherbert is the obvious one,” Belami mentioned. “As soon as we discover where she’s holidaying, we can check these matters.” He slid a surreptitious glance at George as he spoke, but if that gentleman was wary of meeting his alleged mother, he didn’t betray it by so much as a blink. Neither did he claim any eagerness to meet her, as he might have done if the pair of them were working together. Belami’s own impression was that Mrs. Fitzherbert knew nothing of this hoax going forward.
Eventually she would be contacted and quizzed, but meanwhile he would be busy on his own. The prince’s return to Brighton spoke of his eagerness to bring Smythe forward and to throw the nation into a paroxysm. He needed help in managing this case. Someone had to get after Mrs. Fitzherbert—he could count on McMahon for that. Someone had to go to Devonshire and trace Alexander Smythe’s history, and someone had to stay here and keep a sharp eye on Mr. Smythe, who, despite his facile claims of nor being the prince’s son, had every detail arranged to support the belief that he was. And, on top of it all, someone had to haggle or romance Lady Gilham into a reasonable settlement. Barring that, the letters and other memorabilia must be stolen from her.
He saw a busy week looming up before him. It hardly left a moment free for his fiancée. If she weren’t entertained, she’d be throwing herself into his investigation, probably with disastrous results. Already Smythe suspected he was under investigation. Why else had he asked Deirdre why she was here after he himself had given him a reasonable explanation? Why else had he come to Marine Parade this very night, but to nose around and see what he could discover?
His vexation was complete when the duchess invited Mr. Smythe back the next day for “a good, long cose.”
When Smythe left, the duchess turned a radiant face to Pronto Pilgrim. “What a splendid notion it was for you to bring Mr. Smythe for me to view him, Mr. Pilgrim. Swift thinking for you to know I was the only one of the proper age to verify his origins. There is no doubt in my mind that he is Prinney’s natural son. He has an aristocratic manner, has he not? So easy-going and natural. None of that stiffness you find in the respectable middle class. That man was born spurred and booted to ride, not saddled and bridled to be ridden. Breeding will tell in the end.”
“We haven’t one single piece of proof that any of his story is true,” Belami said dampeningly
“He has Maria’s ring,” she reminded him happily.
“He has a ring, of a not uncommon sort,” Belami countered.
“What of the inscription and the lock of hair?”
“The hair was remarkably similar to his own, and anyone can have a ring inscribed,” he countered.
“Aye, his hair is exactly like his papa’s,” was the duchess’s fond remark.
“He knows the details of the prince’s affair with Mrs. Fitzherbert, and, as he’s young himself, that suggests he’s working with an older person,” Belami said pensively.
“‘Twas old Captain Stack that introduced him to McMahon,” Pronto reminded him. “He’s the right age.”
“Hardly the proper social background, yet you never know,” Belami said consideringly. “Till we can get hold of Fitzherbert herself, I must discover who her friends were in the old days—surviving friends, I mean,” Belami said, looking to the duchess for help.
The duchess sat rigid as a gargoyle for a long moment. When she spoke, it was only to throw a spanner into the works. “No, we’d best leave Fitzherbert out of it,” she decided. “It could be all a trick on her part to win back Prinney and the throne into the bargain. She was always ambitious. Nothing would suit her better than to get her broad derriere onto a throne. Even if she knows nothing of the matter, she might back up Smythe’s story to discomfit the prince. Let her go on holidaying well away from society. She still has connections who would egg her on to mischief. I wouldn’t put it an inch past Brougham and the Whigs.”
“How else can we learn the truth?” Belami asked impatiently. “Give me a name—some old friend who still lives here.”
“That’s your job,” she told him simply. “I only saw Maria in London. Her friends here were not at all the thing, you must know. You claim to be clever at these little problems. You’d best get busy and solve this one quickly, Belami. Much as I like the prince’s son, I cannot feel I want to end my days in the midst of a revolution. It was the unconscionable behavior of the rabble that killed off our class in France. All that will happen if the prince convinces the world his wedding to Fitzherbert is valid is that he’ll be dumped, and we’ll have York on the throne. I prefer Prinney.”
She settled her shawl around her, gave a commanding nod to Deirdre and said she would retire now. Deirdre gave Belami a meaningful look and trailed after her aunt obediently.
“I fancy she’ll be back,” Pronto told him. “Slipped her the clue this afternoon.”
Chapter Seven
Deirdre darted out her door and downstairs the minute she heard her aunt’s door close. Belami gave an approving smile and held one shapely hand out to her.
“Well done! We’ll have you reformed into a hoyden in jig time,” he complimented. He led her to a sofa, and the three sat down to discuss the case. These were some of her favorite moments, when she was taken into Dick’s confidence.
“What’s the verdict on Smythe?” she asked.
“Didn’t look spurred, booted, and riddled to me,” Pronto said with a sniff.
“What?” Deirdre asked in confusion, thinking she had missed this bit of their talk while upstairs.
“What your aunt was saying about his aristocratic bearing. Looked more like a demmed caper merchant to me. Imagine him not knowing a duchess ain’t a lady. Ain’t called one, I mean. Call her your grace, no matter if it don’t suit her.”
“They don’t use titles in America,” Deirdre told him.
“What’s to do then, Dick? Tell us what you want. We’re raring to go,” Pronto said.
That casual “we” alarmed Belami to no small degree. Pronto’s intrusion into the case alarmed him. Introducing Smythe to the duchess and Deirdre alarmed him. That was bound to be laid in his own dish when the recriminations were eventually ladled out and the man proved a scoundrel.
It seemed wise to get Pronto out of Brighton, and he had just the job for him.
“If you really want to help, go to Devonshire for me and find out everything you can about this Alexander Smythe. Who he is, where his sudden inheritance came from that saw him off to Virginia. Find out, if you can, where George suddenly materialized from—if there even is such a person as George Smythe. It’s my belief he’s the illegitimate son of Alexander’s spinster sister and the father put up the money to spirit them out of the country.”
“You said he wasn’t even from America!” Deirdre exclaimed.
“I don’t think he is, but what Pronto will investigate is his claimed origins. We’ve got to start somewhere.”
“Devonshire! Damme, that’s miles and miles away!” Pronto objected.
“That’s why I can’t spare the time to go myself,” Belami told him. “I need a really reliable man to do it for me. It’s actually the most important feature of the case, Pronto. You won’t be out of it by any means. You’ll be at the very vital core of it all. Probably bring us back proof that solves the whole thing.”
These carefully chosen words appealed strongly to Pronto’s imagination. The “vital core” was obviously the place to be, and solving the whole case also charmed him. “How would I set about it then?” he asked.
“You’d better get out your pad. We’ll make a list. One, look at the church records, the local registries in Ottery itself, and see if you can pinpoint exactly where Alexander lived. Two, go there and check their parish books. Ask around for the family. Who do we know from that part of the country?” he asked, rubbing his forehead to aid his concentration. “I wish Bertie were here. Mama knows everybody.”
“Willie Wyckerton,” Pronto said at once. “Lives in Ottery. Knows everyone, by Jove. A regular old lady for gossip and family connections. He even knows what a once removed relative is. And his mama is worse. They’re in London now, I believe. That’ll save me a long haul in bad weather. I’m off to London,” he said, squeezing the list into a ball and tossing it toward the grate.
As long as he was off to somewhere, Belami didn’t mind. The trip to Ottery and back would take four or five days, and the time involved in tracing Smythe would take another two or three—too long to be of much real use. The prince would have gone public before that if they didn’t stop him. The Wyckertons just might prove helpful too. They were as Pronto had described them, busybodies with a good knowledge of their neighbors and neighborhood.
When Pronto had left, Deirdre turned to her fiancée.
“What do you really think of all this, Dick?” she asked.
“I think Mr. Smythe is a more cunning adversary than McMahon told me. He’s convinced everyone he’s nothing more than an innocent tool of the prince, but in fact he’s done his homework well. I wonder where he got that ring and if it’s actually the one Prinney gave Fitzherbert. If I could be sure, I’d have somewhere to start. It must have been lost or stolen—she’d never give such a gift away.”
“He smiled and said the prince only remembered the inscription after he had read it. He always seems to be cutting the ground from under his own feet.”
“Its purpose was to convince the prince, not us. Once that was achieved, he wasn’t eager to convince me. He doesn’t want to be revealed as a crook when the thing blows up in his face. All he has to do is raise his hands and say, “I told you so!”
“But what does he hope to get out of it?” she asked.
“Money, probably. A quiet settlement from Papa—the prince—and a gentlemanly offer on his own part to remove himself from the public eye. A perfect gentleman, you see. That must be why he keeps the whole thing so low key.”
“But where did he get the ring? Where did he even get the idea?” she asked.
“I smell an older person behind it, and Captain Stack is the only one who’s turned up thus far. Keep hounding your aunt for old friends of Fitzherbert. She must know someone I could talk to.”
“I will. There’s Mrs. Morton, Dick. She is fiftyish, the right age.”
“Morton?” he asked, surprised. “You’ve got your cases mixed up. She’s part of the Lady Gilham affair,” Belami reminded her. “That’s what we get for coursing two hares with one hound.”
“So she is. I forgot for a moment. Yet there are a few similarities between the two cases. An older woman and a young lady on one side; an older man—Stack, I mean, and a younger man on the other. Both trying to relieve Prinney of money. You have mentioned the importance of method in the past. Their methods are vaguely similar.”
“The timing, too, coincides,” he said, always ready to consider all angles. “Gilham came in September and Smythe not much later. Both were in London before that and both from an inconvenient distance. It’s an interesting notion, but for the present, I mean to concentrate on Smythe. He’s the bigger hare.”