“What a fellow he is! That cry sounded human,” the Prince exclaimed. He raised his quizzing glass to better examine the feline.
Chakkri holds the distinction of being the only Siamese cat in England. His face, ears, paws, and long slim tail are of the deepest velvety brown. His lean, muscular, fawn-coloured body is more compact and limber than any other cat I have seen. But the feature that intrigues me the most is Chakkri’s expressive deep blue eyes that hold the secrets to the mysteries of the East. Or perhaps just the clues to what he wants for dinner.
I suppose it would be remiss of me not to mention he possesses the palate of a gourmet and a rather loud, demanding voice. But he has a sensitivity to beauty and a fastidiousness in regards to the grooming of his person I can only approve.
A snicker at the source of the commotion, quickly stifled, escaped one of the men. I noticed with some relief that the guards had lowered their weapons.
One of them, whom I presumed to be the leader, shot a stern glare toward his troops lest one of the others dare find amusement at the Prince’s panic. He then turned to stand at attention in front of his Royal Highness. “How may I serve you, sir?”
“Return to your stations,” the Prince ordered gruffly, allowing his quizzing glass to fall to his chest. When the command was obeyed, and we were alone once more, he succumbed to a fit of trembling.
I had not realized until that moment just how frightened he really was. “Sir, please sit down. Shall I ring for your valet?”
“No, no,” Prinny said, his pale face as white as his cravat. “Perhaps another glass of brandy, then I’ll make my way to my chamber to rest.”
I hurried to get the drink for him, alarmed at his genuine distress. He seemed to recover presently, though, and gazed again at Chakkri, who had strolled to a place by the fire, a position outside the range of the Prince’s polished boots. The cat began licking his aggrieved tail.
“Brummell, when did you obtain a cat? And such an unusual one. I’ve never seen the like.”
I felt a different anxiety grow within me. A nagging worry that the Prince, who collected beautiful objects, would take a liking to Chakkri caused my cravat to suddenly feel constricted. “I have had him some weeks now, sir. He was, er, left in London by a Siamese man who returned to his country.”
Actually, the cat was a gift from one Mr. Kiang, who thought he had outwitted me in regard to a painting featuring a cat, but that is another story. Mr. Kiang claimed that Chakkri, named after one of Siam’s great generals, exhibited a character similar to yours truly. My dear friend Frederica, the Duchess of York, agrees, but I feel the notion is ridiculous. I shall leave you to form your own opinions on the matter if you feel so inclined.
“Odd-looking creature, what?” the Prince said. “Rather like drawings I’ve seen of the raccoons that live in America.”
Chakkri abruptly paused in the act of washing his long tail to look at the Prince. However, when he did so, he failed to retract all of his pink tongue into his mouth, leaving about half an inch sticking out. At the Prince.
I turned a chuckle into a cough.
“You are coughing, Brummell. Are you quite sure you have recovered from your recent indisposition?” the Prince asked warily.
“Yes, your Royal Highness.”
He rose, saying, “I think I shall retire to my bed for a bit before dinner. My guests are aware of those loathsome threats against me, but I don’t want to appear anxious in front of them tonight at the Johnstones’.”
“Wise of you, I am sure.” Relieved that the topic of Chakkri had been forgotten, I bowed low while the Prince exited the room.
Then I poured myself a glass of burgundy, regained my seat and addressed the cat. “Are you proud of yourself, you rogue? Sticking your tongue out at a member of royalty, and, I might add, the gentleman whose kitchens are generously providing you with buttered crab and soufflés of partridge.”
Chakkri licked a brown paw and used it to wash around his left eye. His demeanor was one of complete indifference.
“You have made it clear since we arrived here this morning that you do not care for being away from home—pacing, sniffing every piece of furniture, and muttering under your breath while shaking your paw in repugnance—but strive for a little decorum. You are at a royal residence. Have some consideration for your host, whose very life may be in danger.”
“Reeooow!” Chakkri cried out suddenly, raising his wedge-shaped head so that his deep blue gaze met my grey one. I felt a tremor of unease. Call me a Bedlamite, but his tone was like an omen of impending evil.
Devil if he did not have the right of it.
* * * *
Whenever he visited Brighton, Prinny could always depend on a loyal and hearty welcome. All the town bells pealed at the moment his carriage arrived. You see, his love of Brighton had brought the town from a quiet, sleepy hamlet into a fashionable resort. Hostesses vied for the privilege of having the Prince as a guest at their tables.
Mrs. Johnstone was no exception to this rule. Expense had not been a consideration in the lavish evening prepared for his Royal Highness and a few dozen exalted guests. A quartet of musicians soothed aristocratic senses, and every available variety of flowers perfumed the air. Wax candles illuminated the rich scene in the Johnstones’ ornately furnished drawing room where the ladies glowed in gowns of silk, satin, and velvet, and sparkled with emeralds, sapphires, and diamonds. The gentlemen present had, for the most part, adopted the fashion I have brought into style of dark coat, crisply starched linen neckcloth, and evening breeches.
“Brummell! You have arrived in Brighton at last.”
Turning at the sound of my name, I saw my friend Lord Perry, accompanied by his charming wife. Lady Perry had recently discovered she was expecting their first child.
Perry clapped me on the back. A wealthy earl, he is a dark-haired, well-favored man, known among the ladies before his marriage as “The Greek God.” He emulates my simple style of dressing to a nicety. As he is a gentleman of sense in every respect, I often seek his opinions.
Lady Perry, a petite brunette, wore a malachite-green gauze gown with a front panel of matching velvet. The waist was high, and the sleeves long and tight. She also wore a brave smile, but I detected an absence of the colour that normally graced her pretty cheekbones. Devoted to his wife, Perry had brought her to Brighton from London, hoping the relative calm of the seaside town would ease what was proving to be a discomfiting, though welcome, pregnancy.
“Just toddled in today, Perry.” I smiled and bowed over his wife’s hand. “Lady Perry, your beauty overwhelms my senses. If you were not in a delicate condition, I would beg you to abandon this brute and flee with me to foreign shores. I would have a boat ready at the Brighton docks in the morning.”
She chuckled, sneaking a look under her lashes to see the effect this banter had on her husband. Not quite satisfied with the depth of his frown, she said, “I daresay he would not notice my absence for hours, so engrossed is he in examining the particular method the cellist has in plying his bow.”
Perry, whose affinity for all things musical was the only rival for his wife’s attention, took these taunts in good humour. “My love, although the wisdom of leaving me for Brummell could be a topic for debate, a more pressing question might be how comfortable you would be on a sailing craft of any kind. No less in the morning.”
She heaved a poignant sigh. “I suspect you are right, Anthony. Mr. Brummell, we must postpone our plans once more,” Lady Perry said, continuing the jest.
“Alas, ‘tis a bitter disappointment,” I teased theatrically.
“You are the second gentleman disappointed in his attempt to abscond with my wife, Brummell,” Perry said, a look of annoyance crossing his face. “My cousin, Victor Tallarico, arrived in Brighton yesterday and has not ceased his attentions.”
“Your cousin?” I queried, vaguely recalling Perry mentioning the fellow a few times during our friendship. “I thought he lived in Italy.”<
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“He does. My aunt married an Italian count in the diplomatic corps. Over the years, the family has divided their time between England and Italy. Why Victor has chosen to visit England at this particular moment, I cannot say. He arrived at my Town house in London and was told we were here in Brighton.” Perry nodded in the direction of a lively gentleman, dressed fashionably, but sporting a—Good God, a pink waistcoat—and whispering in the ear of a giggling blond-haired female. “He is staying with us until some angry husband, father, or brother challenges him to a duel.”
“Oh, Anthony, Victor means no harm in his attentions to the ladies,” Lady Perry protested. “He merely enjoys flirting, and the objects of his attention seem to like it just as much as he does.”
“Victor has been my friend since childhood, but that does not prevent my speaking the truth. The man is a debaucher of women,” Perry said, gazing with disapproval at his cousin’s conduct. “No female is safe in his presence.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Strong words.”
Lady Perry waved her fan to cool her cheeks. “Mr. Brummell, have you ever noticed that a reformed ladies’ man is the first to accuse and condemn others of his very own past behaviour?”
Smiling, I looked to see Perry’s reaction to his wife’s words, but he had been distracted by the musicians. “Er, excuse us, will you, Brummell?” Perry said, taking his wife’s hand. “I want to speak to that cellist before they begin the next set. His talent is quite remarkable.” The two walked away in the direction of the musicians. Lady Perry glanced back at me over her shoulder with an amused expression at her husband’s fervour for music.
I stood alone. I turned my attention from Signor Tallarico and scanned the crowd looking for one particularly dear face. Alas, the Duchess of York was not amongst the company. I had hoped Freddie would decide to leave the comfort of her country estate, Oatlands, for a lungful of sea air. I supposed she had found she could not leave her loyal companions: upwards of one hundred dogs. I seized a crystal glass full of wine from a footman to drown my disappointment. My motto is “When your spirits are low, get another bottle.”
There was one more familiar face missing from the company. Maria Fitzherbert, Prinny’s “wife,” was ill and had taken to her bed. The Prince, longing for feminine companionship, had encountered Lady Bessborough at the Castle Inn earlier and brought her along to the Johnstones’.
I did my best to circulate among the guests, greeting Lady Bessborough, exchanging a social word or two with the Creeveys, talking about the theater with Sheridan, and speaking to a number of other guests known to me. All the while, I consumed a healthy quantity of Mr. Johnstone’s undoubtedly smuggled French wine, and managed to determine which gentleman was Arthur Ainsley, the one to whom Prinny may or may not have promised a Parliament seat.
Mr. Ainsley, an intense-looking man with the blackest hair and palest complexion I had ever seen, unconsciously thwarted my attempts to speak to him. He spent the time before dinner in earnest conversation with a mousy young lady in a severely plain gown. Overseeing the conversation was a gentleman I thought I recognized as Lord St. Clair. Charles James Fox had introduced us some time ago, Lord St. Clair being greatly respected in Parliament and a renowned orator. St. Clair was known to have two daughters, and I thought the young lady Mr. Ainsley was speaking to must be one of them.
Seeing no way to graciously intrude on them, I had to content myself with studying the man from afar. I had plenty of time to do so, as dinner had been put back while we awaited the arrival of the Prince’s brother, the Duke of Clarence, who was unpardonably late.
Prinny, cranky when kept from his food, finally suggested to Mrs. Johnstone that she should serve without the Royal Duke, a recommendation swiftly taken because of the advanced hour.
The Royal Duke arrived in due course, actually during the second course, and everyone, with the possible exception of Lady Perry, poor thing, enjoyed the delicacies provided.
However, this did not prevent the two royal brothers from bickering when we gathered in the drawing room again around one in the morning when the meal finally ended. I was chatting with Lord and Lady Perry when the quarrel began.
“A delicious repast, everything quite in order despite the unnecessary delay,” the Prince said in a loud voice, firing the first volley. Everyone quieted.
William, the Duke of Clarence, or Silly Billy as the Navy man is called behind his back, is not someone I especially admire. Uncivilized and fond of cursing as if he were still walking the decks of a ship, he rounded on his brother. “Damn me, it’s not my fault the blasted magistrates interfered and the fight had to be held a goodly distance from Brighton.”
Prinny’s lip curled. “You insulted our hostess by delaying dinner over a pugilistic contest?”
Everyone stood riveted at the sound of raised royal voices. “I completely understand, your Royal Highness,” Mrs. Johnstone said, hoping to divert the two. Her hands fluttered nervously about her diamond-clad bosom. “Would anyone care for tea?”
The Duke of Clarence was not to be distracted. “Pearce beat Gulley. It was a contest not to be missed,” he said with a look that plainly said his brother should be aware of the importance of such an event.
Scrope Davies, a young fellow of my acquaintance who is mad for horseracing when he is not languishing in the arms of one of his many lady friends, piped up, “That’s so, isn’t it, Yarmouth? No one thought Gulley could be bested.”
Lord Yarmouth, who fancied himself an amateur pugilist, nodded. “Earlier, Tom Cribb, the Black Diamond, beat William Richmond, the American Black, but it wasn’t much to see. Neither one of them barely touched the other.”
“I find prizefights deplorable,” the Prince said with heat. “What kind of sport is it when men go into the ring, putting their lives at stake? Their very lives, do you hear?”
Everyone did, and to a man knew the reason why Prinny felt as strongly as he did. No one dared voice the words. No one except his brother, undeterred by the fact the company had formed an audience to the siblings’ exhibition of animosity.
“What bloody nonsense!” the Royal Duke expostulated. “Someone should have kept you in the nursery where you belonged that day back in ‘88 when Tyne gave Earl that fatal blow. Might not have even been the damn punch that killed him, eh? The blighter struck his head on the rails of the stage when he went down.”
Mrs. Johnstone flapped her hands in her anxiety.
The Prince, his face flushed, looked about to cry. “Don’t remind me of it,” he moaned in an anguished voice. “I haven’t attended a pugilistic contest since that day, and I never shall! Barbaric competitions every one of them.”
The Duke of Clarence looked at his brother in disgust. “You’re all sensibilities, aren’t you? Paying Earl’s widow and her brats an annuity, and look at you now. Hiding like an overgrown baby here in Brighton over some blasted letters from someone too cowardly to sign his name. Bloody hell! Who the devil would go to the trouble of killing you, anyway?”
Chapter Three
No one dared breathe.
The Duke of Clarence had gone too far. The brothers must be distracted before a royal scandal ensued. I put down my glass and made as if to move toward the Prince, hoping a witty remark would spring to my lips and break the tension. But little Lady Perry placed a restraining hand on my arm and stepped ahead of me toward the combatants.
“Your Royal Highness,” she addressed the Prince in a strong, dignified voice, “Mrs. Johnstone has told me she will not allow her dinner party to end before you favor us with a song. Please say you will. Your voice is most pleasing, and we do not get to hear you sing often enough. I know we would all enjoy hearing you now.”
She turned toward the company in general for approval to this scheme. A smattering of reluctant applause compelled the Prince to remove himself from his brother’s company without a backward glance. I suspect some of the present guests were disappointed at the abrupt end of the royal squabble, but I was not.
Bravo, Lady Perry!
Presently, Yarmouth and Scrope engaged the Duke of Clarence in conversation. No doubt they were going over every nuance and detail of the fight they had observed.
Near where I stood with Lord Perry, the Creeveys breathed a sigh of relief. Mrs. Creevey, a friend of Mrs. Fitzherbert, and a woman who loved a good piece of gossip, resumed her scrutiny of the Prince and Lady Bessborough in order to report back any flirtation.
On my other side stood a short gentleman unknown to me. He was shovelling a piece of cake into his mouth. I had observed him earlier at dinner, but averted my eyes lest I be put off my food. Now he came to my notice once again.
Perry saw the direction of my gaze. “Brummell, pray look away lest your stomach become as delicate as my wife’s.”
However, it was useless. Like someone enthralled by a public hanging, I had to get a better look at the stranger’s manner of dress. Without my permission, my right hand raised my quizzing glass.
The round magnifier that I wear suspended from my neck by a thin black velvet ribbon told me what I had already deduced. Here was a man of late middle years, clinging to the fashions of his youth.
His satin coat was of the old-fashioned cut that flared at the knees, and sported heavy silver braid trim and silver buttons. A garishly bright sea-green in color, guaranteed to make one sea-sick, it hung open, revealing a long waistcoat in a lighter shade. Froths of lace poured from his neckcloth. His wrists were also covered with lace extending from under his cuffs. Matching breeches ended in clocked stockings, and his feet were squeezed into red-heeled pumps. Hideous!
This sartorial orgy surpassed even the numerous fashion tragedies of my nemesis, Sylvester Fairingdale, whom you may recall me telling you about in a previous adventure.
The Tainted Snuff Box Page 2
