The Stuart Sapphire Page 3

  The order was given and Tam Eildor, more dead than alive, was carried into the closed carriage and transported across the short distance into the royal residence.

  His sopping uniform jacket was replaced by a thick blanket and, restored to full consciousness by some foul-tasting liquid being forced down his throat, the events of the night after he had been struck over the side of his head by the smuggler’s oar were hazy indeed.

  He shared the physician’s belief in a miracle that he had survived but, as a drowning man clutches at straws, so had Tam in similar condition grasped at a floating board from the wreckage of the Royal Stuart.

  Once a cabin door from the doomed ship, it did admirable service as a raft.

  Pulling himself aboard, he had tried paddling with his arms, but the effort was too much for him. He collapsed from pain and exhaustion, his fatal mismanaged time-quest over as well as his life, or so he thought when the emergency microchip in his wrist had failed to respond.

  His rescue and arrival at the Pavilion were similarly hazy but he recognised with gratitude that even in his weakened condition he was no longer aimlessly adrift in a merciless sea, but alive and on dry land. And unless there were further dangers lurking, rapid recuperation might reasonably be expected.

  He looked around cautiously and found his surroundings remarkably opulent. This was undoubtedly the Marine Pavilion, a neoclassical mansion, bearing not the slightest resemblance to the original somewhat dilapidated farmhouse belonging to Thomas Kemp, MP for Lewes. In 1796, aware that the Prince of Wales was searching for a permanent residence in Brighton, Kemp leased it to him on condition that he would rebuild it. Henry Holland, the royal architect, was commissioned, and completion resulted in a large mortgage which the prince urgently required to raise an annuity for Mrs Fitzherbert. Difficult to imagine anything as commonplace as cows, sheep and geese amid such splendour, Tam thought, as a flunkey summoned him with the words:

  ‘His Royal Highness the Prince Regent wishes to see you as soon as you feel able. Your name, sir?’

  A short while later, hastily clad in a borrowed shirt, breeches and shoes, apparently from the servants’ wardrobe, which fitted tolerably well, he was escorted into the breakfast room where Prince George, attired in the quilted banyan or Eastern dressing gown made popular in the eighteenth century, was poised before the table, about to break his fast. Such was his custom returning from sea-bathing, and before going to his wardrobe to be dressed in one of his many uniforms appropriate to the events of the day.

  Introduced by the lofty flunkey, a regal hand gestured Tam to be seated. Judging by the number of chafing dishes he realised that this daily routine was likely to take some time.

  A servant hovered by his chair and after a courtly bow and a murmured thanks to his royal host, Tam needed no second invitation to address himself to the said array of covers and, unaware of the real reason for his presence, namely 200 guineas, the payment of a gambling debt, he was puzzled to know why he should have been honoured by this informal meal with the future King of England.

  True, the circumstances of his rescue were dramatic, but was the prince given to impulses of picking up shipwrecked mariners and bringing them to the Pavilion? Was an almost childish impulse the solution to this little mystery?

  Surreptitiously glancing at the royal diner whose frame overflowed the chair, he considered the face emerging from the high neckcloth above several chins, and suddenly Tam could see exactly what the forty-nine-year-old Prince Regent had looked like in childhood. The now corpulent frame and overblown features were a clear indication of the solemn warning (that had gone unheeded): “What are follies at twenty are vices at forty.” But from a lifetime devoted to wine, women and sundry debaucheries, there remained the ghost of a once handsome infant. Curls now vanished had been replaced by large quantities of false hair, but the tendency for merry laughter lurked in the pouched eyes while pouting, petulant lips hinted at grim determination to have his own way from a very early age.

  Tam shrugged, unlikely to ever know the answer to this particular mystery, and, hard-pressed to remember exactly when he had last eaten anything, the prospect before him was enticing. Roasts of pork, beef and lamb jostled with pigeons, quail and a display of kidneys, liver and a further array of colourful but anonymous side dishes. Nor had the prince’s appetite for sweetmeats been forgotten. All in all a meal future centuries would regard as a celebration feast rather than an everyday repast.

  Tam was heartily glad that the prince now applied himself solidly to the gargantuan task of satisfying his royal appetite in comparative silence, broken only by sounds of munching, crunching and the odd belch and fart, from which Tam realised that the consumption of food was a single-minded event, a solemn ritual from which his presence, apart from an occasional glance in his direction, seemed to have been forgotten.

  But he had misjudged his host. Prince George was shrewder than Tam imagined and already those casual glances were making a rapid assessment of this guest at his table.

  There seemed little doubt, judging by the rescued man’s hearty appetite, that his survival was guaranteed. However, he must be kept here in the Pavilion for a few hours or until Brummell chose to reappear. That 200 guineas must not be allowed to slip through the royal fingers by being unable to produce evidence in the person of the young man who sat opposite.

  A very personable young man indeed, this Mr Eildor. He was tall, above six foot, and enviably slender, about thirty years old with fine features that hinted at a class above the peasant. As if to confirm this, his teeth were excellent, which suggested a good lifestyle, a fine diet. It was a matter of regret to the prince who was fastidious in his bodily, if not his moral, habits, that so many otherwise beautiful young men and women were ruined by decaying teeth and bad breath as soon as they opened their mouths.

  Another firm glance made note of a pale complexion at odds with what he would have expected as a sailor’s weather-beaten countenance. A well-shaped mouth and firm chin, thick black hair. The prince’s once youthful pride in his own natural curls had set the fashion for men to wear their own hair, with wigs abandoned, thanks to a tax on hair powder (usually made of flour). However, ear-length hair, short and straight, seemed a strange choice among seagoing men, who normally wore their hair ponytailed.

  Perhaps fashions were different in Scotland. He must ask Mr Eildor about such matters. This very personable young man’s most remarkable feature was undoubtedly his eyes. The prince had not seen their like before, their colour dark but indefinable and of such a strange quality, so luminous in their depths.

  At last a word to a passing servant. Tam heard the word: ‘Brummell’ and then with a final belch, the prince leaning back in his throne-like chair, and regarding Tam benignly said: ‘Well, sir, tell us about your ship?’

  A difficult question but in the slight pause, the prince said: ‘The Royal Stuart, was it not?’

  Tam agreed eagerly and the prince continued: ‘A Scotch ship?’

  Tam agreed once more, thinking quickly, wondering how all this might give him a lead into some plausible account of his appearance in Brighton.

  ‘It would seem that you have been exceedingly fortunate, sir – that you were the sole survivor of the ship’s crew,’ said the prince, doing another quick calculation. If there were more survivors than this one young man, then there was a heartening possibility of extracting more guineas from Brummell, at 200 per head.

  ‘I was merely a passenger, Your Royal Highness,’ said Tam, ‘travelling from Leith.’ And a sudden inspiration. ‘I am an Edinburgh lawyer.’

  The prince’s eyes gleamed. ‘Ah, a Scotchman on board the Royal Stuart. How appropriate. What became of the crew?’

  Tam shook his head, looked appropriately sad. That was a poser, a question for which he had not the least idea of an answer.

  ‘We were pursued by a privateer and a sudden storm swept us into its path.’ (That sounded feasible, at least.) ‘We were boarded and the crew taken o
ff, pressed into service, I suspect.’

  The prince frowned and Tam continued hastily. ‘As I am a very bad sailor, I knew little of this and had retired below for the entire voyage. They looked at my papers and, deciding I was useless, left me there to go down with the ship. I staggered on to deck at the last moment and jumped into the sea. From there I was rescued only to find myself aboard a smuggler’s craft. They took exception to my presence.’ (That at least was true.) ‘I was hit on the head and thrown back into the sea as an excise man – they were deceived by an old naval jacket someone had given me while I was being so violently ill.’

  The prince tut-tutted a great deal and shook his head but looked constantly towards the door and much to his relief, Tam realised that the improbability of what he was saying was fortunately not getting the prince’s full attention. He was listening with only half an ear, his mind clearly on more important issues.

  At that moment the door opened and the servant reappeared. A murmured conversation of which Tam heard only a few of the words. Brummell, it appeared, was not on the premises, could not be found. None knew where he had gone or when he would return.

  The prince’s face flushed scarlet. Brummell’s arrogance was beyond belief. He was a personal attendant, sartorial advisor and boon companion of his youth, but, as the prince tended to tire of even his closest friends, so had Brummell – the acclaimed dandy adored by men and women alike – fallen from grace, with one more score to settle in a growing list.

  Now the prince looked in imminent danger of apoplexy as he shouted: ‘Then you are to find him, dig him out wherever he is, tell him he is commanded – aye, commanded to our presence immediately – and that we will not tolerate the slightest delay or excuse.’

  The servant bowed, scuttled off. The prince’s attention returned to Tam once again. ‘It would please us to have you remain here for a short while – before continuing your journey – to fully recover from your recent ordeal. We have ordered a room to be prepared for you.’

  Tam had expected at most to be dismissed and left to his own devices. But a room? He was expected to stay. What on earth for? He had fully expected the prince’s gesture of hospitality to end with a royal breakfast, certainly not to be extended to a room in the Pavilion.

  He could hardly refuse a royal invitation as, with a brief nod to Tam’s bewildered thanks, the prince stood up indicating that the audience was over.

  Tam bowed and, in the look they exchanged, the prince, with a flash of insight he was to remember later, decided that this was a man who was to be trusted, a loyal friend – or a deadly foe. And watching him follow the servant out of the room, he noticed how lightly he walked, almost as if his feet glided across the floor, his borrowed shoes leaving no echo of footsteps on the polished floor.

  The prince frowned, shrugging aside the thought that before Mr Eildor continued his journey and his own purse was the richer by 200 guineas, during what promised to be a very short acquaintance he would have little chance of finding out more about this peculiarly enigmatic young man.

  The room seemed suddenly very empty and with a sigh he realised that he could now return to his bedroom and commence his daily toilette, happy in the knowledge that royal whores were strictly reserved for the night’s entertainment only.

  Tam’s exit was also witnessed by Princess Charlotte. He bowed politely, her unprepossessing appearance suggesting an upper servant or lady-in-waiting. He was quite unaware of the turmoil his presence had raised in the fifteen-year-old’s bosom.

  Unloved by either parent and passed from one to the other, a pawn to be manipulated in the royal separation, a chance to score points, Charlotte was extremely sensitive to the reactions of her mother Princess Caroline in Carlton House, where a grown daughter was an embarrassment among her many lovers. As for her father, he had never liked her from the day she was born and had made that clear by never forgiving her for not being the male heir he craved.

  Not particularly pretty, a little top-heavy and cumbersome, Charlotte’s already over-ripe body poised on rather too-small feet, she was acutely aware that every man with a title who paid her lavish compliments, which her appearance did nothing to justify, was looking at a point beyond her to the English throne which she would eventually inherit.

  No one, it seemed, could ever love her for herself alone, except perhaps an ordinary young man, handsome but hopelessly ineligible, whose ambitions must fall short of advancement.

  Her eyes followed this intriguing stranger briefly set down in Brighton by a shipwreck – and wasn’t that romantic! – with nothing to gain.

  There was something in his bearing, different from any of the titled lords and princes, something indefinite, mysterious and appealing that put him in the frame of the lover she yearned for.

  And so poor Charlotte fell in love with Tam Eildor, romantically shipwrecked, at first sight.

  Chapter Four

  As Tam was led along a corridor, guarded at frequent intervals by soldiers in the uniform of the prince’s own Hussars, he realised these were the king’s private apartments. The servant ushered him into a handsome room overlooking the Pavilion Gardens, and with a bow, since he had had no further instructions regarding this unusual guest, left him to his own devices.

  Tam sat down on the four-postered bed which was exceedingly comfortable and regarded his opulent surroundings. To his delight there was even a tiny dressing room with a basin of warm water, towels, even a razor for shaving had been remembered, plus a rather ornate hip bath and that rarest of all luxuries, a water closet.

  What a blessed relief. But what was he doing here, receiving such treatment? What was the purpose of this extended invitation, more or less under the royal eye, when surely even more illustrious visitors than himself would have been shown to the guest apartments somewhere in the rear of the Pavilion?

  With a sigh he decided he might as well make the most of what was currently on offer, while thinking about what was to be his next move, and where in Regency Brighton lay his time-quest.

  As he regarded his unshaven face in the mirror and considered the razor with some trepidation, he thought about the boy he had rescued, the boy whose name was Jem, sentenced to transportation for stealing a loaf of bread.

  Where had the smugglers taken him? He avoided thinking of how such a pretty young lad might fare at their hands. Wherever he was now, Tam hoped he would be safe and far from Brighton, their paths unlikely to cross ever again. Doubtless the lad’s poor abilities as a thief would be extended dramatically and directed into bigger and better crimes.

  His thoughts returned to that moment on the hulks when he had opened his eyes in the year of Our Lord 1811 and had seen the boy crouching nearby.

  A prisoner like himself. Tam frowned. There was something odd about that, something he should have recognised.

  He took a deep breath and was contemplating the razor poised above his chin when suddenly the silence around him was broken by a shout and the sounds of running footsteps in the corridor outside his room.

  The prince had climbed the stairs a short while after Tam, hopeful at least that the insatiable Sarah, Marchioness of Creeve, no longer occupied his bed. He had given her plenty of time to realise that he had been unavoidably delayed after the drama of the sinking ship.

  The chiming of some very handsome French clocks that were his pride and joy signalled the time as eight o’clock, time for her to have tactfully withdrawn by what looked like a continuation of the decorated walls, but in fact hid a secret staircase leading directly from the royal bedroom to an unobtrusive exit from the Pavilion. A step across the garden to a door where a carriage waited to carry her back the few miles to Creeve House and her own domestic problems.

  Some bore a bond-making similarity to the prince’s own. The thankless defiant young stepdaughter who had left Creeve House a month ago after a bitter disagreement with Lady Sarah. One of many, but sufficient for her to run off to her grandmother’s London house.

  It seemed
, however, that the girl had failed to appear. She had never arrived, and a few half-hearted attempts by her father, the Marquis, to track her down were abandoned. Her stepmother, singularly lacking in maternal feelings, especially for the girl she declared ‘a mere annoyance’, had long since done her duty and produced the required son to inherit the title.

  And that she decided was all that any decent husband could demand, considering herself free to live her own life. Which she did – to the full and brimming over.

  In London at the opera, she had caught the eye of Frederick, Duke of York, George’s younger brother. This mutual eye-catching had swiftly led to his bed and six months later, to the Marine Pavilion and one step higher into the bed of the Prince Regent.

  As he approached the bedroom door, such were the Prince’s thoughts. From their earliest days Frederick had been his rival, marked down as the declared favourite son of their father King George. To Frederick went all the love and affection their father was capable of, and so there had been a certain piquancy in secretly sharing the favours of Sarah with the blissfully unaware Frederick.

  Now that the novelty was wearing thin, as was the case with all George’s many amours, he had to admit he was finding Sarah somewhat trying in her passionate embraces and her addiction to jewellery. Giving jewels was the regular expected payment for favours, and in this too the marchioness was proving insatiable. Her addiction to wearing diamonds, rubies and sapphires during their lovemaking had at first seemed stimulating, but now seemed dashed tawdry. Odd how the most precious jewels in the kingdom could turn to glass worn on a woman’s naked body in the cold light of dawn.

  The prince sighed as he passed through the withdrawing room, acknowledging Lord Henry Fitzgeorge, Groom of the Bedchamber, who favoured him strongly in looks and in demeanour. The unacknowledged product – so he claimed – of an early affair with an actress, there were hints also unacknowledged that he was Maria Fitzherbert’s son.