“Yes, indeed! He remembers it, does he? It was the merest bauble, not even a stone in it, but it had great sentimental value for Maria. She was so sorry to lose it,” she said, shaking her head in sad memory.
Belami jerked forward, but Deirdre spoke on to distract Lady Donwin’s attention. “Isn’t that always the way!” she exclaimed quickly. “We manage to lose or displace what is most precious. A ring in particular is so small and easy to lose. How did it happen, do you know?”
“Not really. It happened eons ago, but I still remember Maria’s lamentations. It was inscribed on the back—love me true—so romantic, from a poem or song that was popular then. She insisted she didn’t lose it at all, but that someone stole it to make mischief. She didn’t breathe a word to the prince and made us all promise not to tell him either. He never noticed, for he had given her showier pieces by then.”
“Who did she think took it?” Deirdre asked, her heart racing. Belami sat holding his breath for the answer.
“She never knew for certain. She always kept it in a little brass box on her dressing table, and all her friends were in and out, but I don’t think a lady would sink to stealing.”
“Perhaps one of her servants did it,” Deirdre said, hoping to jog her memory.
“That’s what I told her! Help was in short supply, and everyone was stealing servants from everyone else and hiring anyone who came along. Maria required more than most because of the entertaining she had to do, though she eventually got a regular crew.”
“When did she lose the ring? Was it before she got her staff regularized?” Deirdre asked doggedly.
If Lady Donwin found this keen interest in history peculiar, she was too polite to say so. “Yes, it was early on. I seem to remember we all thought it was her newest upstairs maid. A saucy chit who gave herself great airs. I saw her with my own eyes trying on one of Maria’s bonnets one day when she didn’t know anyone was around. She looked so very like Maria I thought it was her—just at a quick glance, you know.”
“You wouldn’t remember her name?” Deirdre asked, and directed a questioning look to Dick, wondering if she was pressing too hard. He nodded his encouragement.
“Bless me, I haven’t a notion. I think she was an Irish girl. No, it comes back to me now. She was engaged to an Irishman, a lieutenant, which is why she was so above herself. Pretty good for a maid, nabbing an officer, but he was no one we had ever heard of,” she said dismissingly.
“Do you remember the officer’s name?” Deirdre asked.
“No, I only heard him mentioned once. He was a nobody, a career soldier. I remember that girl’s face so plainly and can’t put my finger on the name. It will come back to me. I remember someone saying that mean—somebody—stole the ring, and it was three M’s in a row. Now how did I ever remember that after thirty years? But I’m boring you silly with all these old reminiscences. I must be getting old to be harking back to the past. When is Bertie coming to Brighton, Belami?”
There seemed no point in questioning Lady Donwin further. They finished their coffee and their conversation and soon left.
“Was it worth the trip?” Deirdre asked when they were alone.
“It certainly was! We know that if Smythe’s mother did, in fact, leave him that ring, she hadn’t received it from Prinney. And she knew Prinney didn’t know it was stolen, so it was safe for him to produce it.”
“His mother must be that ‘mean M. M.’ maid,” Deirdre said.
“That’s the obvious thing, though Smythe might have got it elsewhere. The mean M. M. might have pawned it, for instance,” he suggested.
“At least we know Mrs. Fitzherbert didn’t give it to him,” she said.
“And he’s not who the prince thinks he is. All we have to do is have Lady Donwin tell Prinney about the ring and he’ll stop thinking Smythe is his son. I’m going to nip over and tell McMahon about this right away, Deirdre. I’ll deliver you home first, then go to the Pavilion.” She sensed the urgency in him and didn’t try to prolong his visit. “You’re a great little questioner,” he complimented. She glowed with pleasure at this faint praise and went home happy.
He met McMahon at the stables, looking at his bays. “I don’t like these damp breezes,” McMahon said. “What’s the point of setting up a stable as fine as any drawing room you might enter when the poor horses have to brave the outdoor winds? Foolishness,” he said, grouchily, revealing he was in a bad mood.
“Can we talk in private?” Belami asked, ignoring the mood.
“Aye, we’ve got a deal to discuss,” the colonel replied, his temper worsening. “Our friend, Smythe, is playing off more tricks.” They walked into the garden where they were quite alone.
“What is he up to now?” Belami asked in alarm.
“I’ve just come from the prince. He’s smiling from ear to ear and positively gloating over ‘dear Georgie.’ I wouldn’t be a whit surprised if he makes his announcement this very night.”
“What convinced him?” Belami demanded.
“It seems Georgie, as he’s now called, was reading his Bible last night and discovered a letter tucked into the pages. Damme, he showed me the letter today, and it is unquestionably written in the prince’s own hand, all aged and yellowing. It’s to Maria Fitzherbert, a silly love note, but where did Smythe get it if he’s not Fitzherbert’s son? I think we must begin to accept that he is. The prince is drooling over it this minute.”
“Think again. It was stolen by the same woman who stole the gold ring, if I know anything,” Belami replied and, of course, went on to reveal what Lady Donwin had told him.
McMahon’s face broke into a broad grin. “Well, that’s a weight off my mind. I’ll go and tell him your story this minute. I’ve told him a dozen times the ring could be a forgery, but I never thought it might have been stolen. He says Maria treasured it as though it were a crown.’’
“She never admitted losing it and coached her friends to say nothing as well. No word from Bath?”
“No, but my man should have spoken to Fitzherbert by now. I hope to God she doesn’t refute this story you’ve just told me.”
“Lady Donwin has no reason to lie. She knows nothing of Smythe and his claims,” Belami pointed out.
“At least I hope this prevents the prince from making any announcement tonight, but his behavior is so erratic there’s no saying what he’ll do.”
“And if he doesn’t do it early, I won’t even be there to see it,” Belami said, rather disappointed. “I must leave early to keep my date with La Gilham.”
“Hard to worry about a flea when we have a tiger raging at us,” McMahon said, but his temper had improved.
Belami didn’t mention his theory that Gilham and Smythe knew each other. The only clue that they did was Gilham’s knowing of Charney’s move so early in the day, and he was loath to draw attention to that move. So he kept it to himself, but he didn’t forget it. He stopped at the Old Ship before going home to change for the evening. Pronto was there, fortifying himself for the night ahead with a few drinks.
“Charney will have got the wine watered by tonight. It’s my plan to kill this bottle before I go.” He smiled a cagey smile at the wine bottle.
“Don’t kill it yet,” Belami said, removing it from his fingers. “I need your help, Pronto.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Pronto said, and saluted.
“Here’s what I want you to do. I’ve inquired at the desk, and Smythe isn’t in his room. I want you to go down to the lobby and waylay him if he comes in.”
“Why?” Pronto asked, screwing up his eyes in suspicion.
“Because I’ve got to get into his room and search it, and I would prefer not to be caught in the act.”
“How will you get in? Oh, I suppose you have that
passe- partout
key thing with you.”
“Yes, I have my magic key right here,” Belami answered, dangling it from his fingers. “I want to do it now, this instant. Pull yourself together and run downstairs.”
“What are you looking for?”
“A Bible, amongst other things.”
“A Bible? Damme, you’ve got one at home in your library.”
“A different Bible.”
“They’re all the same. Full of ‘begats.’ Now if you want a real book...” His eyes strayed to Plutarch’s
Lives of the Noble Romans
.
“Which is Smythe’s room?”
“Three down from mine, on the left. Never let it be said that Pronto Pilgrim stood in the way of a man getting religion.”
He babbled on as Belami led him to the door and headed him in the direction of the staircase. Then, with a quick look up and down the hall, Belami hastened to Smythe’s door and let himself in with his passkey. The room was neat and tidy, with none of the clutter generally accumulated when a person makes his home in one room. Belami went first to the dresser and quickly rifled the drawers. They held nothing but an assortment of linen, all of it of an English make.
Next he went to the clothespress and sorted through the jackets, pantaloons, and waistcoats hanging there, discovering nothing of interest. He went quickly through the pockets, finding a clasp knife, a few gentlemen’s cards with Brighton addresses, a deck of marked cards similar to Stack’s, a small comb, and a slightly bent farthing.
He shook out the few pairs of boots standing in the corner and again found nothing. The washstand held Smythe’s shaving equipment; the dressing table his brushes and comb, a bottle of lavender scent, and a bottle of hair oil. There wasn’t a Bible to be found anywhere.
It was incredible that a man should carry so little of a personal nature with him. He had no other residence; this room held his worldly goods. How was it possible for a man of twenty-five years to have accumulated nothing save his clothing and personal toilet articles? Not a letter, not a miniature likeness of a parent or sibling or loved one, not a book of addresses, not one single memento from America.
The very absence of any cherished object was incriminating. Nobody was this detached from his past, unless it was a past he was anxious to conceal. This wasn’t Smythe’s home; it was just a room he had hired to perpetrate this hoax on the prince. Belami looked around a little more into nooks and crannies, under pillows and mattress, under the faded carpet, then slipped out, locking the door behind him. It flitted through his mind that Lady Gilham’s saloon was similarly bare of personal mementos. No picture of the late Sir John, of the daughter, of anything that reeked of Cornwall. It was a hired, furnished house.
From the top of the stairway he beckoned to Pronto, who came back upstairs to hear what had been found.
“He’s a liar all right,” Pronto agreed, when Belami told him his feelings. “I know he has one book he likes, for he’s always quoting Ben Franklin. And there’s those books he took out of the library. Where are they? He said his papa gave him that book on Franklin, and he cherishes it. Know how he feels. That Plutarch, Belami—great stuff. Mean to buy myself a copy when I have to take this one back to Donaldson’s.”
Belami nodded. “I’ll leave a note for Smythe at the desk that I’m picking him up for the duchess’s party tonight. I told Charney I would.”
“Good, then you can give me a lift as well. Not worth harnessing up a pair for such a short jog.”
“You forget I also have a jog to the Red Herring. Take your carriage and you can deliver the ladies home for me.”
“I will then, but I won’t promise to bring Smythe along. Liar, letting on he had a copy of Ben Franklin’s book.”
“I’ll leave you to Plutarch and go home to change.”
“I haven’t got time for Plutarch now. I’ve got to finish that bottle. Suggest you do the same, my lad. It’ll be a dry night at Charney’s.”
“And a hot one at the Pavilion,” Belami said.
“A hotter one at the Red Herring I’ll warrant,” Pronto said with a sapient look, and lifted his glass.
Belami was struck with a fear that Lady Donwin might notice Smythe’s gold ring and mention it, thus alerting him to the investigation. Should he alert her and warn her off? No, it would be best to ignore it and hope it would be overlooked. And if the subject arose, he’d be quick to divert the conversation. It was going to be an uneasy night, on many points.
Chapter Eleven
The duchess was not famous for her table. She was an excellent eater, but her best efforts were put forth at tables other than her own. With the ready-made excuse of a new cook, she spared all efforts at elegance and served a leathery leg of mutton, eked out with a beef stew that she decided to call a
ragoût
. After being served small glasses of watered wine, her guests went in formal state to the dining room, where her one male servant stood prepared to tend six persons.
“We are informal this evening,” she said. “You will not mind helping yourselves, country style.”
At the first sip from his wineglass, Pronto nodded knowingly to Belami. Watered, of course. Belami had unwittingly come up a notch in the duchess’s estimation when she learned he had taken Deirdre to call on Lady Donwin. He would have sunk lower if she had guessed the nature of the visit, but Deirdre had kept it from her. Her grace, with great condescension, invited Belami to carve the roast.
It was a task requiring all his strength, for the knife was as dull as the meat was tough. It left him no energy for speaking. A sluggish mood hovered over the table, and Pronto took it upon himself to get the conversational ball rolling.
“Too bad about Cleopatra,” he said to his companion, Lady Donwin.
“I beg your pardon?” she said, leaning closer.
“I say, too bad about Cleopatra. Dead, you know. An asp.”
“Ah—yes, I believe I heard something about it,” the confused lady replied. “You are referring to Queen Cleopatra, I take it?” She wore a confused frown.
“The same. Charming lady, if you have a taste for chicanery.”
“Is there a new book or play out about her?” Lady Donwin inquired, assuming there must be some reason for so obscure a subject to have arisen.
“Haven’t heard if there is. Did you hear about Rome?” was his next conversational gambit.
“Rome,” Lady Donwin said weakly, and looked around the table for assistance. She was met by a sea of perfectly blank faces.
“Named after a kid that was reared up by a wolf. Shocking,” Pronto said, shaking his head. “Next thing you know they’ll be naming London after a chimney sweep. I hope this notion don’t catch on.”