She shrugged. The name meant nothing, and she’d been keeping careful track of whom she met.
Thus, after the meal which Hargrove paid for in full, he took her arm, and they began the long walk up toward the Royal Crescent. In the front of the shallow arc of terraced houses facing the sea, at its heart was a statue.
They walked around it, observing it from all sides.
“It’s Prince George, is it not?” Glynnis asked.
“It is. Paid for by Mr. Otto, a man from India and of some wealth, who wished to impress His Royal Highness and obtain an invitation to the Pavilion.”
Glynnis took another long look. It was impressive, she supposed, at least for its height, which she guessed to be about seven feet. And it was set upon a pedestal that was much taller than her. But the flaw was obvious.
“Why does it only have one arm?”
Hargrove roared with laughter, until she caught his humor and chuckled, too.
“We shouldn’t,” she said. “If the prince saw us, he’d be angry.”
The viscount nodded, but it took him another few moments to catch his breath.
“The sculptor, a man named Charles Rossi, was commissioned to make it from Coade stone, supposedly quite durable to the elements.”
“Apparently not in this case,” Glynnis pointed out. The entire statue had pits and a sad, weathered look.
“It displeases Prinny greatly,” Hargrove admitted. “Because of the arm, people have started to mistake if for Admiral Nelson.” He laughed again.
“Oh my,” Glynnis murmured, thinking how annoyed the Regent must be.
“I’m sure Prinny will order it removed soon. And as far as I know, Mr. Otto fell forever out of the prince’s favor.”
Glynnis had stopped listening for she’d noticed a lady strolling back from town. And the closer the woman came, the more certain she was of one thing.
“That woman has my parasol!”
Hargrove followed the direction of her gaze.
“How can you tell? It looks like every other parasol.”
“Mayhap it does, but I believe it is mine,” Glynnis insisted. The lady drew closer, nodding to both her and to Hargrove before making a circle of the statue.
“It used to look much nicer,” the woman declared. “I live right there,” she boasted, pointing to one of the exquisite homes standing parallel to the road. Each was faced in black-glazed mathematical tiles, and where the sun hit them, they shone with a brilliant iridescence.
But Glynnis could only stare at her parasol.
“Were you at the prince’s picnic?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon?” the woman replied.
The lady lived in one of the nicest homes in Brighton, second only to the Pavilion itself, or maybe Mrs. Fitzherbert’s home. And yet, she’d snatched Glynnis’s precious parasol, which she’d been unable to afford to replace. Her dudgeon was high.
“What kind of person helps themselves to someone else’s parasol?” she demanded.
The lady’s jaw dropped, then her mouth compressed into a thin line.
“I’m sure I have no idea, but perhaps you have been out in the sun too long and ought to procure a parasol with all due haste.” She turned to walk away.
“Miss Talbot,” Hargrove began. “Surely, you are mistaken.” He looked uneasy, when she’d hoped he would stand up for her and demand the return of her personal possession.
Darting forward, Glynnis snatched at the silk umbrella, ending up grabbing it by one of its tassels.
