Free Royal Revels by Joan Smith Page B

other.
    “How very nice of you. We’d be delighted,” Deirdre said at once. She couldn’t take her eyes from Mr. Smythe’s face. It wasn’t his beauty that held her gaze, though he was handsome. Tall and well-formed, with a reddish-brown lock of hair falling boyishly over a wide forehead, he had bright blue eyes, full of mischief, a Roman nose, and a strong jaw. But what held her eyes was a search for any resemblance to the Prince Regent. She could find none. If there had ever been any, it was long since buried under the sagging flesh and fading eyes of the older man.
    “Now that’s what I call a coincidence,” Pronto said two or three times. He knew from Belami’s lessons that a coincidence was always suspect, but, try as he might, he could discover no evil in this one.
    “What brings all you fashionable folks to Brighton out of season?” Smythe asked. “I had thought I’d have it to myself.”
    Deirdre sought about wildly for some coherent reason. “We came to look over Belami’s summer home. My aunt was particularly interested,” she said, knowing it for a paltry excuse.
    “I always taggle along with Belami,” Pronto said.
    “I expect you’ll be darting back to London now that you’ve seen the house,” Smythe said. There was no suspicion on his face, but the eyes were sharp and alert.
    “Perhaps we’ll stay a while,” Deirdre said. ‘‘My aunt will want to rest a little before returning. And Brighton is nice, even in winter. Mr. Pilgrim has just taken me to the library. Have you been there yet, Mr. Smythe, or are you a newcomer to town?” She listened sharply for any word that might betray him or his origins.
    “I’ve been here a few months, but I haven’t been to the library. I was in London when I first came from America.”
    “Mr. Smythe comes from America,” Pronto inserted, since pretending to an ignorance about him was apparently the route being taken by Deirdre.
    This unusual fact was discussed till the cocoa was ordered and arrived. It was interesting to hear from his own lips that he had gone to America a quarter of a century ago as an orphan, but the information was hardly new. They knew this was his story.
    “What part of America are you from?” Deirdre asked.
    “My father had a small tobacco plantation in Virginia,” he said briefly.
    “Had? Your father is dead, is he?” Pronto asked.
    “Yes, he passed away a year ago. I returned to England with some notion of setting up a hop farm, but I found my money didn’t go far. The trip was expensive, of course, and being an innocent, I managed to lose a fair bit in London with card sharks.”
    “You want to stay away from Captain Stack,” Pronto cautioned.
    “I know it well. I’ve had a few hands with him. He’s too sharp for me. What I must do before I’m completely in the basket is find myself a position. Farming is so expensive when all one’s help has to be paid,” he added. “My father had slaves in America to do the hard labor. It’s unconscionable, of course.”
    “You won’t find a position in Brighton,” Pronto told him. “London is where the positions are. All the MPs hire secretaries. Lords as well.”
    “I don’t feel at home in a large city. I hope to find a place as a bailiff or steward on some gentleman’s farm. The trouble is, my experience is all in tobacco and of course it isn’t grown hereabouts. But I shall find something,” he said cheerfully.
    This innocent talk certainly didn’t make it sound as if he planned to palm himself off as the Prince Regent’s legal son and heir.
    “Have you met many people in Brighton?” Deirdre asked artfully to lure him into more revealing conversation.
    “You’ll find it hard to believe, Miss Gower,” he told her frankly, “but I have been to the Royal Pavilion and met the Prince Regent. Pretty good for a young colonial! They won’t believe it when I write the story home to my friends in Virginia. He’s a famous fellow, the prince, but a bit of a