Royal Revels by Joan Smith Page B

ambitious project as that, it would have been worth his while to go to America for a year or so, to learn the accent and customs and to outfit himself with all the required bits and pieces. His only bit of Americana is an occasional quote from Ben Franklin.”
    “He probably got that from Donaldson’s too. Pronto couldn’t find it on the shelves,” she said, disgusted with Smythe.
    “You know, I begin to think he doesn’t even want this title of royal prince shoved on him. He didn’t mention it to you, and he didn’t breathe a word of it to me. He didn’t move into the Royal Pavilion either, when the Prince invited him to.”
    The duchess looked up at the mention of her favorite word, “prince.” The couple knew their time was limited, and Belami said rather urgently, “There’s one more thing, Deirdre. I think Smythe is a bit suspicious of me since I asked Pronto to arrange a meeting. He quizzed me rather closely as to why I’m in Brighton out of season. I told him I’m doing some research into the history of Brighthelmstone for a literary quarterly.”
    “Oh, dear! He asked me the same thing and I said Auntie wanted to see your summer residence. He must suspect us already!”
    “I’ll smooth it over next time I meet him, say the reason I brought you and your aunt with me is to allow you to refurbish this house. Mind I don’t want you transmogrifying it into another Royal Pavilion on me,” he added lightly.
    The duchess overheard “Royal Pavilion,” and decided she was missing some good conversation. “What’s that you say, Belami? Are you speaking of the prince?” she asked. Her commanding eye beckoned them toward her sofa and soon her lips repeated the command. “Come here to the fire. You’ll both take your death of cold standing in that wretched draught.”
    “Dick was just saying the prince invited Mr. Smythe to stay at the Royal Pavilion,” Deirdre invented swiftly, “but he refused.”
    “The ninny! Why would he do such a thing?”
    “It was a bit reckless of the prince to invite him,” Belami said.
    “The prince? I mean why did Mr. Smythe refuse?” she clarified, offended at being misunderstood.
    “I expect he didn’t care for Prinney’s friends,” Deirdre said.
    “Hmph, doing it pretty brown for a mere foreigner,” the duchess decreed. “What else had he to say, Belami? Give me your opinion of the young man.”
    Belami repeated those things he had already said to Deirdre. As her aunt appeared to hold no particular grudge against Smythe, Deirdre decided to admit she, too, had met him. She felt one secret kept from her aunt at a time was enough.
    “But he seemed gentlemanly?” the duchess asked.
    “I only had lunch with him,” Belami pointed out. “He manages his knife and fork like a gentleman and is well spoken enough.”
    “The trouble is,” Deirdre explained, “we don’t really know what the prince looked like when he was young. If Mr. Smythe resembles him, it’s difficult for us to see it.”
    “My thoughts exactly,” the duchess said in a rare expression of good humor. This gave her the excuse she craved to have Smythe presented to her without revealing vulgar curiosity. “I am a little leery about the wisdom of it, but I see no other way but to have you bring him here, Belami,” she announced.
    “But in the eventuality that he is an impostor...” Belami began and was summarily cut off.
    “I believe my reputation can bear the strain,” she said, donning a haughty stare. “I remember dear Prinney very well when he was a quarter of a century old. Such charm, such grace, and the eyes! We were all madly in love with him. It seems like yesterday. I also knew Maria Fitzherbert well. I am the logical one to assess Smythe,” she decided. “Tomorrow morning at eleven you may bring him to me, Belami.”
    In fact, Mr. Smythe came to call that same evening after dinner. Pronto had met him in the common room at the Old Ship and happened to mention that he was