But there was worse. Atop the man’s head, which was just about level with my shoulder, a towering white wig, complete with curls at the temples, sat over a highly painted and powdered face. Next to bright red lips, a black patch in the shape of an animal’s head—I could not tell what kind—had been affixed.
My valet, Robinson, would have fainted straightaway at the sight.
I struggled to remain expressionless. The man’s overuse of a jasmine scent, a practice invariably intended to compensate for infrequent bathing, assaulted my nostrils.
He grabbed a glass of wine from a tray carried by a passing footman. Guzzling the drink down greedily, he noticed my attention and addressed me in a condescending tone. “You’re new to Brighton, aren’t you? I’m Sir Simon, close personal friend and intimate confidant to the Prince of Wales. I make it my business to know who associates with his Royal Highness. You’ll do me the honour of introducing yourself.”
Ah, Prinny’s food taster! My right eyebrow shot to my hairline at the man’s presumption. Lord Perry threw me a warning look. “I am George Brummell,” I said in a quiet voice. There was not a trace of smugness in my voice, I assure you. But before you go admiring my self-control, permit me to tell you it was impossible to be smug in the face of all that powder, that paint, and those red lips.
Sir Simon’s expression grew cold. “Faugh!” he cried, as if he were the one smelling something gone bad. “You’re the upstart trying to make gentlemen believe there’s something wrong with the way we’ve been dressing for a good many years. You want us to dress like dullards!”
“Dullards?” I replied, one hand across my heart. “Never say you think me dull. My life would be shattered.” A few titters came from nearby guests. Mrs. Creevey looked our way.
Sir Simon knitted his brows, but my mockery went over his wigged head. “Well, I do say it, and damn the consequences! A man’s clothing bespeaks his station in life. Your costume tells me you are common. Indeed, who was your father?” Sir Simon demanded. “I’ve never heard of a Lord Brummell.”
Perry chose this moment to interrupt, devil take him. I had been about to initiate a discussion of Sir Simon’s parentage. He looked like the offspring of an overbred poodle and the dustman’s dog.
“Brummell, did you see where my wife went? Did she leave the room?” Perry worried. “I hope the sickness has not overtaken her again.”
“Lady Perry is by the musicians, helping the Prince select a song,” I said, indicating her whereabouts with a wave of my hand. I did not misunderstand Perry’s goal in distracting me from the odious Sir Simon. “She seems fine, my friend. Cease your fretting. Ever since you found out she is with child you have behaved like a domineering governess.”
“Your wife is with child?” Sir Simon asked Perry in a voice filled with disgust. “Why is she out in company if she’s increasing? We should not have to view a misshapen female.”
What an ill-bred man! Dear Lady Perry’s figure was still slim, not that it would make the slightest difference if her condition had shown. Those people who think a lady with child should not be seen in public show a lack of sensitivity to natural beauty.
Lord Perry turned a look of frozen hauteur on the baronet. “I beg your pardon? I could not have understood you correctly.”
“You may be an earl, Lord Perry, but you must be a want-wit if you’d bring a wife who’s breeding along with you to Brighton’s entertainments. She can only prove a burden and keep you from a man’s amusements,” Sir Simon pronounced.
Dash it! Now Perry and my roles would be reversed. It would be my job to turn his attention away from Sir Simon. “Speaking of amusements, have you seen the Green Man of Brighton? He is known to only eat green food, dress only in green—”
But I got no further. Perry’s face had become a marble mask of contempt. “Explain yourself at once,” he commanded Sir Simon.
“There’s nothing to explain, my young buck,” Sir Simon replied, waving a hand dripping in lace. “Every man knows that a woman is good for only two things: pleasuring him in bed and bearing his sons. Since your wife is busy with one, she’s useless for the other. She should be shut away in the country somewhere until the babe is born and she can be ready to lie on her back for you again,” Sir Simon answered, his red lips spread in a lewd grin. “Apparently, she’s done well at that in the past.”
“Why, you blackguard,” Lord Perry said a low voice, barely containing his fury. “I shall meet you at dawn for speaking of my wife in such vulgar terms.”
A shiver of alarm raced through me at these deadly words. I turned to look at Perry, but he would not meet my eye. His gaze was riveted on Sir Simon. The late-night party had suddenly taken on a very dark atmosphere. “Perry, no. You ought not have said that. Come away now,” I said in a voice for his ears alone. I kept my tone light and casual. “This man is beneath your notice after all. Let us cross the room to where the air is not so foul.”
But my words fell unattended. “You young fool,” Sir Simon growled at Lord Perry, the smile fading rapidly from his painted face. He signalled a footman to take away his empty glass. “You’re challenging me? What the hell for?”
“You have insulted my wife, Sir Simon. Will it be pistols or swords?” Perry’s hands clenched at his sides.
I feared the argument would quickly result in fisticuffs. Perry is protective when it comes to Lady Perry. He was serious about his challenge. “Good God, Perry, dueling is against the law—” I tried, but he ignored me.
“Insulted your wife? I merely spoke the truth,” Sir Simon responded. I thought him genuinely puzzled as to why Lord Perry was angry.
“Perry, this popinjay is hardly worth your blade,” I said, growing desperate. I scanned the room and saw that Lady Perry was still safely at the Prince’s side. She had no notion of her husband’s confrontation. But the angry tones had drawn the interest of several other guests, including the gossipy Lady Creevey who stared at us curiously.
Perry finally looked at me. “Will you not stand as my second, Brummell?” Second is the term used for the duelist’s supporters. Sometimes the support involves carrying one’s bloodied friend off the field to the surgeon’s care.
Before I could answer, Lord Perry’s cousin, Signor Tallarico, strolled our way. Could a man in a pink waistcoat play the rescuer? I hoped so.
“Did I hear someone mention swords?” Tallarico queried, his deep, husky voice with its Italian accent making his words flow in a way I am certain makes female hearts flutter. “I’m a master at swordplay, but am always looking to increase my skills. Is there anyone here in Brighton I could test my technique against? Or must I venture to London to find an expert?” He looked from Sir Simon to his cousin expectantly.
“Angelo, the fencing master, is the man you want. You are Victor Tallarico, are you not?” I said quickly, seizing the opportunity to gain an ally. “By the way, I am George Brummell, Perry’s friend for the remainder of time he is in England. He may have to flee to the continent in the next few days unless we can talk sense into him. If we cannot, perhaps your home in Italy will be open to him.”
Tallarico seemed to become aware of his cousin’s anger. “Flee the continent? Dio mio, what for? And look at you, Anthony.” The Italian gestured with his hand toward his cousin. “The expression on your face is the very same one you had the time I pushed you in the lake when you wouldn’t leave me and that young girl alone—oh, what was her name? Jenny! Jenny from the neighboring estate. What’s happened to anger you?”
Before Lord Perry could answer, Sir Simon addressed Signor Tallarico. “Hope you got what you wanted from Jenny,” he said with lascivious interest.
Tallarico smiled. “You doubt it?” His gaze narrowed at his cousin, and he seemed to perceive there was trouble brewing. “Her governess had the odious habit of making Jenny wear her hair in a tight braid, remember, Anthony? I requested that she uncoil it so that I could see the dark locks gleam in the sunshine. Jenny had refused the request for weeks, the
little vixen, but I found her weak spot. I traded her a box of confections for the honour of seeing her hair undone. How old were we, Anthony? Thirteen, fourteen?”
“Thirteen. You were a flirt even then,” Perry said, relaxing the slightest bit. “And I have done nothing but defend my wife’s honour and challenge Sir Simon to a duel.”
Tallarico looked at Sir Simon. My hopes that the Italian would defuse the situation vanished when I saw the glint in his brown eyes. His tone rapidly changed to one of menace. “You insulted la bella Lady Perry?”
Sir Simon was all annoyance. “Not intentionally, but Lord Perry here has taken it wrong—”
“Diavolo! You will apologize at once,” demanded Signor Tallarico with heat. Then, to my acute astonishment, he reached into the pocket of his coat and withdrew a slim dagger. The tip gleamed in the candlelight.
Sir Simon’s eyes popped in his head.
Swiftly, I stepped between the other guests and the sight of the knife, though I feared we might still be observed. “Gentlemen—”
“Damn you, Victor,” Perry said, “I shall defend my own wife. Put that thing away on the instant.”
Signor Tallarico’s gaze focused on Sir Simon’s throat, as if he were gauging the exact spot to employ his knife.
“How dare you!” Sir Simon hissed, drawing back his head.
I leaned slightly toward Tallarico and spoke in the tone of a well-meaning advisor. “I am unaware of proper drawing room behavior in Italy, but here in England, it is considered the very height of incivility to threaten someone with a knife while at a dinner party. Do you see those rather enormous men who are guarding the Prince?”
Signor Tallarico briefly shifted his gaze to the other side of the room. “Si.”
I nodded. “They might very well think you a threat to his Royal Highness and lock you away in some unpleasant sort of place full of rodents and minus pretty girls with gleaming hair.”
A minute passed, a rather long minute, but Tallarico finally looked at his cousin and gave an exaggerated shrug. He pocketed the knife. “England has outlawed duelling, more’s the pity. I was only thinking of Lady Perry and the baby should you be wounded, even killed, by this perfumed prancer, Anthony. I would be willing to deliver him to the devil myself.”
Lord Perry appeared to have calmed down. Hopefully he realized that Sir Simon’s opinions were beneath notice. Anyone who dressed as garishly as Sir Simon could have no more sense than a cabbage.
I raised a warning hand at Sir Simon, whom I could see was ready to heat things up again. “There must not be a duel. You, Sir Simon, will apologize to Lord Perry for your ill-considered words.”
Sir Simon looked at the three of us glaring at him. “This all grows tiresome. Besides, I have the Prince of Wales to protect. I cannot waste my time with trivial matters. Lord Perry, it was not my intention to insult your wife. I was speaking of women in general.”
Perry seemed to weigh the words, and from his expression, I feared he found them insufficient, since Sir Simon had not technically apologized. But at that moment, the opening strains of music could be heard. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lady Perry scanning the crowd for her husband.
“Here comes Lady Perry. Let it go, my friend. Think of her and how upset she would be if she learned of this challenge. And she is sure to learn of it, Perry,” I said in an urgent voice. I willed Signor Tallarico to help me convince him.
“It may not be worth soiling your blade with an old man’s blood,” the Italian said, smoothing his coat sleeve. I noticed he wore lace instead of the more fashionable pleated cuff. Mentally, I kicked myself. Had I seen the lace before, I might have foreseen that a romantic like Tallarico would be of little help.
“Very well, I shall withdraw my challenge,” Perry finally said, to my great relief. It was a relief destined to be short-lived, for I could not like his next statement.
“Mark me though, Sir Simon,” Lord Perry stated coldly. “Should my wife’s name so much as cross your lips again, I shall not even trouble to challenge you to a duel. I shall simply kill you.”
Chapter Four
I spent the next quarter of an hour willing every tense muscle in my body to relax. My friend Lord Perry is normally a man of such sense that his behaviour tonight had upset me. But, after a few more glasses of Mr. Johnstone’s wine, my equanimity was somewhat restored.
Later, at the Pavilion, Prinny seemed reluctant for the evening to end. Three comfortable rooms were lit with hundreds of candles. Whist, backgammon, and chess had been set out in two of the rooms. In the third, a young man played music on a beautiful rosewood pianoforte.
I gravitated toward the latter chamber, hoping the melodies of Haydn would further relax me, and praying I would find a glass of potent liquid refreshment. Do not judge my drinking habits too harshly, I beg you. Would you not view a quantity of wine a necessity had you just been subjected to a quarrel between two royal brothers, an outraged husband’s challenge to a duel, a knife-wielding, hot-tempered Italian, and a greedy cad? I thought so.
Every night at midnight, champagne, punch, lemonade, and sandwiches are served at the Pavilion. Though it was long past that hour, footmen carrying trays of food and drink circulated about the room. I accepted only a glass of champagne, fearing for the buttons of my waistcoat should I try to eat anything else after our extravagant dinner, and spied my friend Viscount Petersham standing by a window. I began making my way to speak to him. Abruptly, the last sound I wanted to hear at the moment assaulted my ears over the Haydn.
“Your Royal Highness, allow me to try a piece of that sandwich before you eat it,” Sir Simon’s voice rang out across the room. “One cannot be too careful, especially when foreigners are in our midst.”
“Foreigners? Here at the Pavilion?” The Prince’s voice showed his distress, and Sir Simon leaned close to speak confidentially. No doubt the loathsome baronet was relating his meeting with Perry’s cousin, Victor Tallarico. I did not see Lord and Lady Perry nor his cousin about. Perry must have insisted his wife retire. As to Signor Tallarico, he could only have sought feminine companionship.
About to continue on my way, I paused, noting the presence of two footmen standing close to Sir Simon. I surely would have remarked on them had I seen them before. They were tall, thickly built men, with muscles practically popping out of their coat sleeves, and scars marring their faces. You know the type of rough fellow of whom I speak.
What was curious was the impression I received that the burly pair appeared to be in Sir Simon’s employ rather than that of the royal household. Why would two of Sir Simon’s footmen be present in this chamber instead of waiting in the entrance hall for their master? Had Sir Simon volunteered their services to the Heir Apparent? Or had he commanded them to stay near after Lord Perry’s threat and the appearance of Signor Tallarico’s shiny knife?
When I reached the window, I saw too late that Viscount Petersham was in conversation with the Duke of Clarence. Fortunately, the Royal Duke chose that moment to end the exchange. I escaped with merely a bow. Had he remained, I might have been tempted to ask him if his sister-in-law, the Duchess of York, was in town.
“Brummell, I didn’t know you’d arrived in Brighton,” Petersham said, favoring me with his winning smile. Petersham had departed London for Brighton a few days earlier with his constant companion, Lord Munro, in attendance. Although we frequently debate his decision to sport side-whiskers, we have been friends since we both served the Prince of Wales in the Tenth Light Dragoons back in the 1790s.
“I arrived earlier today. I must say that never before have I felt such tension in Brighton,” I replied, finishing my champagne and placing the empty glass on a nearby table.
“Robinson throwing a fit over the pebbles on the beach scratching your boots?”
I chuckled. “Matters have not sunk so low. Yet. But he does not want to be in Brighton. Robinson says London is the only place for civilized people. Actually, I think he misses his league of gossiping but
lers, underbutlers, footmen, maids, and other valets. So, Petersham, I see you were speaking to Prinny’s favourite brother.”
“Favourite, you say? That’s a good one. Prinny likes him as well as he likes a good draft of cold air. Which reminds me of why I’m standing by the window. I’ll soon have a fit of my asthma if I don’t get a breath of fresh air.” Looking around to be certain no one was watching, he unlatched the window and eased it open a bit, letting a welcome breeze into the stuffy room. “Ah, that’s the ticket.”
“You were not at the Johnstones’ and missed an altercation between the two royal brothers.” I briefly described how they had argued over the pugilistic fight the Duke had attended.
Petersham listened, then said, “So that’s what got the Duke all wound up. He was just ranting to me about how he couldn’t understand why Mrs. Fitzherbert put up with the Prince, what with him being married to Princess Caroline and rumoured to be having a go with Mrs. Davies.”
I raised my right eyebrow halfway up my forehead.
“Mrs. Davies?” I queried, “Surely not a relation of Scrope Davies?”
Petersham shook his head. “I don’t think she is. But the Duke says the lady in question is—” the viscount broke off and looked around furtively before finishing, “—with child.”
“Good God,” I muttered. I remembered the Prince telling me that Princess Caroline was with child and he was not the father. It seemed both partners in that marriage were intent on having children. Just not with one another. “I wonder if Prinny is providing for her and the babe.”
“I couldn’t say with any certainty, but I would expect so.”
“Probably. And, as you say, it is all but a rumour anyway. Did the Duke speak of his own mistress, Mrs. Jordan? He certainly prefers to keep her in the family way.”
“No,” Petersham replied vaguely. His attention had been caught elsewhere. “I say, Brummell, have you met Prinny’s food-taster, Sir Simon?”
“I have had the honour,” I said wryly.
The Tainted Snuff Box Page 3
