The Stuart Sapphire Read online

  He guessed she was past fifty but, well-treated with respect and a measure of happiness, she would still be devastating at seventy. For this strange enchantment had nothing at all to do with youth and physical beauty. Quite plain women often had it, to the envy of others who had whispered down the ages: ‘Can’t see what he sees in her. She’s quite old really and so ordinary-looking.’

  The short distance traversed along narrow lanes behind a scowling maid protecting her mistress made conversation impossible, but Tam realised delightedly that he was to have his chance of further acquaintance.

  At the steps of Steine House, where he expected to be politely dismissed, Mrs Fitzherbert turned with that radiant smile and said: ‘Thank you for escorting me, Mr Eildor.’ Then, head on side: ‘You are from Scotland, are you not? At least, you sound like a Scotchman.’

  Tam bowed and she nodded: ‘His Royal Highness speaks highly of you.’

  Tam was somewhat taken aback by this considering that he had only arrived two days ago, when, as if correctly guessing his thoughts, she continued: ‘I must confess that news runs like wildfire through Brighton, every piece of gossip takes wings and flies through the air.’

  Pausing, she wagged a finger at him: ‘And you, sir, are in danger of becoming a local celebrity already. Snatched from the sea, the only survivor of a sinking ship. What a drama!’

  Smiling, she waited for comment, but Tam could think of none.

  ‘Perhaps you would care to have a dish of tea with me, if you are not already engaged.’

  Tam bowed. ‘I would be honoured, madam.’

  Following her into the house, all his anger and frustration at being ignored by the wretched boy whose life he had saved at almost the cost of his own, vanished. And so did the urgent reason for his visit to the town: to track down the thief of the sapphire and the murderer of the Marchioness of Creeve.

  He was enjoying a delicious moment of being shown into the salon, a large sunny room with three handsome windows overlooking the sea. Its walls were adorned by charming silhouettes of Mrs Fitzherbert’s many friends, side tables here and there were stacked with fine ornaments, while a splendidly ornate French clock bearing a Greek god perched precariously on horseback added a melodious chime to the delightful room.

  Surrounded by a wealth of precious objects on every side, Tam took a seat on a handsome sofa, while he waited for her to return from removing her cloak. That did not take long, and she took a seat alongside him, while her maid attended to the ritual of tea and dainty biscuits.

  ‘His Royal Highness tells me that you are from Edinburgh, Mr Eildor. He is devoted to all things Scottish, particularly to the lives of the Stuart kings. As he did not inherit the throne from them, but in rather less than happy circumstances, I must confess I am somewhat taken aback by this obsession.’

  Pausing, she smiled fondly as if referring to a small boy, then, suddenly endearingly informal, she added wistfully: ‘You know he takes great fancies to people and causes and is utterly ruled by them, can talk of nothing else. Indeed, every conversation is diverted to include what is for him a new discovery.’ She stretched out a hand and patted Tam’s knee. ‘Like yourself, Mr Eildor – you are the latest in a long line.’

  Then, sadly, she sighed, narrowing her eyes and gazing out at the sea’s far horizon as if it might have an answer. A shrug, almost a whisper: ‘And a short while later, alas, all are forgotten. Just as if they never existed. Discarded like a child’s toy.’

  Yet she herself had survived after a period of being discarded. The prince would – Tam guessed, seeing the kind of woman she was – return to this his first real love, who had swept her magic over him and was now his dearest friend.

  Turning to Tam, she smiled again. Did that little speech contain a warning that the Prince Regent was not entirely to be trusted, he thought, as with a rapid change of subject she talked of the Pavilion.

  ‘During your visit you must be sure to see and enjoy all the wonders, it is an unforgettable experience. His Royal Highness is a connoisseur of art – from all countries, France in particular, although they have long been our enemies and an invasion from just across the Channel is greatly to be feared. But George thinks they are the very greatest artists in every kind of culture. As for China,’ she shrugged, ‘a strange foreign land indeed, he has little hope of ever visiting it, but their ancient civilisation is always in his mind—’

  As she talked so wistfully, Tam looked around, wondering why she then chose to live in surroundings modest by comparison. As if interpreting his thoughts, she said:

  ‘I am unable to live under the same roof as HRH. There are difficulties. My faith forbids divorce and, in the eyes of God, despite Princess Caroline being regarded as his wife and the future Queen of England, I am still his legal wife. We are bound together until death do us part. The marriage was not of my desire, I knew inevitably that the Prince of Wales, as he was then, must make a dynastic union. But he threatened to take his own life if I refused him. I had no option in the matter.’

  She paused and shook her head, as if the weight of remembrance was suddenly too heavy. ‘Little joy has come of it for either of them. Right from the outset, a coarse and smelly woman and George is so very fastidious about his person. His accounts of her personal lack of cleanliness were unbelievable. He found her very presence intolerable and he was very drunk indeed on their wedding night when, fortunately for him, Princess Charlotte was most probably conceived. He could not bear to sleep with her again. How he wept, poor dear soul, and shuddered at the very idea. A great pity the little princess had not been a prince, then the future of England would have been assured.

  ‘Charlotte is the very image of her father – in every respect, no use denying paternity. A difficult child, who has sadly been used by her own mother as a pawn in the game of politics, and in any spiteful manner calculated to cause suffering or discomfort to her father.’

  Tam decided not to mention his encounter with Charlotte and that he had formed some unfavourable ideas of his own, when again, as if reading his mind, she said: ‘You will not have had a chance to meet her, of course.’

  Tam smiled vaguely. ‘We met in the gardens earlier this morning. Her Royal Highness was on the way to the library.’

  Mrs Fitzherbert clapped her hands. ‘The library. Ah yes, a very bright child indeed. I see that the idea of a princess heading to the library surprised you. But all is not as it seems. This particular library is the social hub of Brighton,’ she added, confirming Brummell’s statement. ‘We all use it, rich and those who would be regarded as rich and noble, anyone who wishes to be regarded as anyone must follow the rules. It is the first place when one arrives to sign the Master of Ceremonies book, to know who is already here and how to get an invitation to the best social events. The Master is formidable, quite stern about his rules and very forbidding. No one takes liberties with that gentleman. As for the princess—’

  Pausing, she gave him a quizzical glance. ‘But you have met already,’ implied that she was eager for his reactions as she went on: ‘Ah yes, and I have a feeling that you will have many more encounters with Her Royal Highness during your short stay.’

  She laughed. ‘You see, she is at a very vulnerable age, fifteen years old, a difficult time for a princess when parents’ thoughts loom towards a marriage that has also suitable political and financial benefits.’ She sighed. ‘Poor Charlotte is very confused, for she will never know if young men want her for herself, or for the enticement that one day she will be Queen of England.’

  Leaning back a little in her chair, she regarded him, smiling. ‘I can well imagine how delighted she will be at the prospect of an acquaintance with a very presentable young gentleman, especially on a brief visit from Scotland, one who has become something of a celebrity and who does not fit into any such category.’

  Eager to change the subject, Tam asked: ‘Have you any children of your own, madam?’ The words were out before he realised the implications.

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p; She glanced up at him sadly and whispered: ‘Such dear ones must always live in the shadows, in the background of one’s life, never to be acknowledged.’

  While Tam was trying to work out the significance of what her vague reply implied, a maid entered, curtseyed: ‘Mr Brummell is here, madam.’

  Mrs Fitzherbert gave an exasperated sigh. ‘On the wrong day. How tiresome.’ And to Tam: ‘Have you met?’

  Tam rose to his feet and bowed. ‘We have indeed, madam, and I will not intrude on you further. My thanks for your kind hospitality.’

  She held out her hand. ‘And mine too for escorting me home so safely. You must come again.’

  ‘You honour me, madam. I would love to see you again.’

  She walked with him towards the door. ‘Before you leave – promise!’

  ‘I promise.’ Again Tam bowed, thinking this was an easy promise to make to such a charming woman as he walked down the steps and returned to the reality of obeying the Prince Regent’s command and the business of tracking down a thief and a murderer.

  Chapter Twelve

  Maria watched him leave from the window. He moved swiftly, lightly, with such grace. A remarkable young man indeed, quite unlike anyone she had ever met, although on consideration there were faint traces in Tam Eildor of the best persons she had ever encountered and those most dear to her.

  Confused by her thoughts, she shook her head. The last hour had been a most extraordinary experience. Here she was, a woman discreet on all occasions, dictated by the delicacy of her role in the Prince Regent’s life, positively pouring out her heart to a stranger. Not because of his looks alone. Not really the most handsome man she had ever met, but there was something about his eyes perhaps that seemed to look into her soul and invite her trust.

  Dear George, always so very much more susceptible than she, small wonder that he was impressed by Tam Eildor. Yet a future king ready to take this young man to his bosom, a nobody, a shipwrecked survivor, was that not odd? Or was it just the novelty? That sort of thing had a definite appeal to George. Or the fact that Mr Eildor was from Edinburgh and George yearned towards all things Scottish and French, despite the bloody deeds that declared them England’s enemies.

  Remembering her conversation with Mr Eildor, she frowned darkly at her reflection in the mirror. Was it possible that the Prince Regent nursed feelings of guilt since the Hanoverians had swept away the Stuarts, ignoring their hereditary Divine Right of kings? No, that did not sound like George either.

  She sighed. Politics were too deep; not for her, never had been. She found them very confusing indeed, the daily parliamentary battles, the constant sway of power between Whigs and Tories. George had given up in despair trying to explain who was in and who was out, and why. Just as well perhaps that she had never been in any real danger of becoming Queen of England, much as George would have fought parliament and all comers to have her at his side. But she shook her head. She believed one had to be bred to the role, it had to be in the blood.

  As her maid did her hair, she found herself thinking rather fearfully that the change in George had begun with the wreck of the Royal Stuart. For the past two nights he had slept with her at Steine House. She was used to him staying occasionally but not two nights in succession with the promise of more to come, since he had hinted that all was not going as planned at the Pavilion.

  She had closed her mind to the reason for this, seeing that such matters usually concerned the latest in his string of mistresses, although she pretended not to know or care that she had long ago ceased to provide any sexual novelty for the Prince Regent. Even in the heyday of their marriage, he had never been faithful, but he still liked to come to her sometimes and lie in her arms. There he would sleep – and snore dreadfully – with his head on her bosom.

  She smiled. He did so love a good bosom, that had always been his boast, and the larger the better. He never did care for flat-chested women.

  She sighed. They were just like an old married couple, comfortable with each other. But last night was different. She felt that he wanted to confide in her but could not find the words. She knew him well enough to guess that something was preying dreadfully on his mind. He was like a young boy afraid to confess his first love, his first imagined wrong-doing.

  When she asked him was anything amiss, he looked at her gravely for an instant. His lips trembled then he shook his head. Quite frankly, she was relieved. His legal wife in the eyes of God, she did not encourage confidences, finding it very indelicate to be the recipient of intimate confidences regarding each new mistress who fleetingly occupied his bed. There had been so many she had forgotten their names and, to be honest, she had to admit she was also jealous, especially as she was losing her looks and growing old and stout. How could an ageing woman hope to compete with young and beautiful women who threw themselves so eagerly at George? He himself was no beauty – he was extremely fat and had gout, and under the Truefitt nut-brown wigs, worn now for many years, his face remained childishly petulant with no more than a trace of his once-good looks. But somehow in a man, in a prince who was one day quite soon to be King of England, no woman seemed to mind that in the least. Young and even older than herself, all were eager to slip between the sheets of his bed, eager to be his lover, ready to meet his demands however outrageous, noblewomen ready to behave like the vilest whores and never bat an eyelid, for favours in the way of exquisite jewels and, for the more fortunate, a substantial income, an insurance for the future when his interest waned in their power to arouse him and excite his lust.

  She frowned. Her thoughts flew back to Tam Eildor. There was something amiss in the Pavilion and she felt certain it dated from his arrival.

  George was afraid, she could smell fear on him like some stale perfume, and that was why he had arrived so unexpectedly at her home last night, and before leaving this morning he had asked her if it would be convenient for him to sleep at Steine House while the alterations at the Pavilion were in hand.

  She had regarded this request with astonishment. Could it be possible that he had tired of the elegance and luxury of his royal apartments, just as he tired of his mistress of the moment? Maria knew that there were many other beautiful rooms in the Pavilion. However, she did not complain, always glad of his company, docile as the legal wife, that role in which she regarded herself.

  Again the image of Tam Eildor came to the forefront of her mind. Had she been wrong about him? Was his strangeness perhaps a little sinister? And George was so impressed by a nobody, as once he had been taken with Beau Brummell who was to have such an influence on his life.

  The grandson of a household servant, his father had risen to become Private Secretary to Lord North, and Beau, seventeen years younger than Prince George, had been a mere cornet in the Dragoons when they first met.

  Maria sighed, remembering he was waiting downstairs to be received. She rang for the servant. ‘Ask Mr Brummell to be so good as to take a seat in the small parlour. I shall be with him directly.’

  As she completed her toilette she felt rather irritated. This was an unexpected informal visit or he had mistaken the day. Perhaps there was some urgent piece of gossip he could not wait until tomorrow to pass on to her. For spreading some naughty piece of scandal, some shocking rumour, no woman was Beau’s equal.

  In this case it so happened that Brummell had seen Tam Eildor sitting by her window. Overcome with curiosity, envy and jealousy, he had quite a tale to tell.

  ‘Madam,’ he bowed, kissing her hand.

  ‘You are a day early,’ said Maria reproachfully.

  A profuse apology. Was his visit inconvenient? A look of astonishment did not fool Maria. ‘Now that you are here, pray do be seated.’

  Brummell did so, leaning forward eagerly in his chair. ‘You have a new admirer, madam?’

  So that was it. She smiled. ‘More of a brief acquaintance, Mr Brummell. You have met Mr Eildor?’

  ‘Quite so. Mr Eildor is His Royal Highness’s new protégé.’
/>   She looked at him quickly. The curl of his lip spoke volumes. It told her that he did not like him. His opinion promised to be both interesting and revealing.

  ‘So?’ she said.

  Brummell shrugged. ‘I should like to know more about Mr Eildor than such scanty information he has seen fit to give us.’

  ‘Information, Mr Brummell? In what way?’

  Brummell shook his head and sighed, the very picture of regret. ‘I fear, madam, that this – gentleman – is not genuine. He is not all he pretends to be.’

  ‘A spy, you mean?’ she whispered. That idea had not occurred to her.

  ‘Quite so, madam. I fear there is a distinct possibility as he is journeying to London.’

  Looks were exchanged. The same thought in both their minds. A spy from the camp of the Princess of Wales, George’s estranged wife now living permanently in London.

  Brummell sighed. ‘I fear that His Royal Highness is too trusting.’

  Maria sighed, fearing that Brummell, fast losing his place in George’s favours, regarded any newcomer as a further threat to usurp him. He was thus eager as any jealous courtesan to inflame the prince’s suspicions.

  ‘Do you not agree, madam,’ he asked, ‘that there is something rather – odd, about this young man?’

  ‘Odd?’ Indeed there was, but nothing she could find a word for, so she took refuge in: ‘He is extremely good-looking, is he not?’

  Brummell laughed harshly. ‘Agreed, but he is not one of us. Distinctly not.’

  Maria could not deny that. He did not belong to the noble class or the aristocracy at all, the kind of royal circles they moved in. He was quite, quite different. Yet not a common man, either.

  Brummell placed the fingers of both hands neatly together and gave her a profound look. ‘I think, madam, that we would be well advised to investigate Mr Eildor’s background most scrupulously. I have friends in Edinburgh. And if he is a spy—’ He shrugged, ardently hoping that would be the case. What a coup! That would surely reinstate him in the prince’s regard.