Royal Revels by Joan Smith

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