muscles—even ones I was previously unaware of—feeling as if they had been run over by the Royal Mail coach.
Time marched on despite the condition of my person. I needed to find out when Arthur Ainsley was expected to return to London, how the Frenchwoman at Miss Lavender’s shelter fared, and I wanted to visit Petersham and try to have a rational conversation with him. One which would bring the lazy viscount to the realization that he might be in a spot of trouble.
Later, I planned to visit the home of one John Lavender, regarding last night’s incident.
Gritting my teeth against pain as Robinson eased me into a Saunders-blue coat, I heard the knocker sound downstairs.
“See who that is, Robinson,” I said, sitting down in a chair by the fire to relax a moment. Dressing had drained me of strength.
Immediately, Chakkri jumped up into my lap and looked at me with concern. I stroked his soft fur. “Now see what you have done. Robinson might miss cat hairs on my light-coloured breeches, but he is sure to notice them on this coat.”
The cat purred.
Robinson opened the bedchamber door.
Chakkri turned his head and let out a guttural “reow.”
The valet rushed to the dressing table and picked up the special cloth he employs on my coats before I leave his presence to rid the garment of cat hairs, anxious to have it ready to use.
“Who is at the door?” I inquired, continuing to stroke the cat’s fur.
“Mr. Lavender is belowstairs requesting to see you. I expect he must wish to see the result of his handiwork,” the valet said at his most imperious. “Shall I send him away, sir?”
I heaved myself out of the chair, placing Chakkri on the floor. “No, indeed. I cannot think of anyone I wish to speak with more than Mr. Lavender just now.”
Robinson held the cloth up, and I stood impatiently while he briskly brushed the material clean. There followed an awkward dance when I opened the door to go downstairs and Chakkri tried to follow. “No, old boy, I shall see the Bow Street man on my own.”
Chakkri grumbled a complaint and tried to dart out the door.
“Robinson, hold him while I make my escape.”
The valet looked at me, plainly outraged at the suggestion he touch the cat. “Sir, Viscount Petersham has often expressed the wish—”
“Pray, do not start that routine about going to work for Petersham now! Go out the door, then, and leave me to deal with Chakkri.” The command was hastily obeyed. I picked up the cat and told him firmly that he must remain in the room, all the while questioning the sanity of speaking with him. Alas, it is a habit I cannot seem to break since Chakkri seems to understand every word I say.
“I appreciate your desire to play nurse-cat to me, Chakkri, but I have other things to do.” Placing him on the bed, I executed a mad, painful, dash out of the room, slamming the door in the feline’s face.
“Reeeooow!” he protested.
Ignoring repeated cries from my bedchamber, I descended the stairs. Robinson met me in the hall. “Mr. Lavender awaits you in your bookroom.”
I crossed into that room to find the Bow Street man, clad in his usual attire, standing by the fire. I assumed my most frigid demeanor. “Come to add a personal warning to the one given me last night?”
The Scotsman swung around to face me. “Personal warning? What does that mean? And what is that screaming coming from upstairs? Are you housing a baby?”
Closing the door to keep out the sound, I advanced into the room. I put my hand on the back of a high-backed chair next near the fireplace. “Never mind the noise. Do you not think it rather bad form to have two thugs beat me senseless and tell me to stay out of Bow Street work?”
Mr. Lavender’s face registered honest surprise. “Let’s back up a minute, laddie. I came here out of courtesy after I read a report from one of the watchmen saying he’d found George Brummell in an alley last night, the apparent victim of footpads.”
I studied him thoughtfully. When the attackers had told me to stay out of Bow Street work, my muddled brain had assumed John Lavender had stooped to this deplorable act to keep me out of his way. Now, faced with the man himself, I realised I had done him an injustice.
“Sit down,” I said wearily, motioning to a chair near the desk. “Would you care for a brandy?”
Mr. Lavender checked the time on my tall-case clock and then seated himself. “Seeing as it’s after noon, I’ll accept that offer. Mind, just a nip of the stuff. Tell me what happened.”
Handing him a glass and retaining one for my own, I eased myself into the comfortable leather chair behind my desk. “Around midnight I left White’s Club and hailed a passing
sedan-chair to carry me home. I specifically wanted to avoid walking the foggy streets at that hour, lest I be set upon by footpads.”
Mr. Lavender took a sip of brandy, put the glass on the edge of the desk, and pulled out his notebook. “Description of the chair?”
“Oh, I do not know. Cheap. Unfashionable interior.”
Mr. Lavender looked at me from under shaggy eyebrows, pencil poised over the notebook.
I shrugged and immediately regretted doing so when pain shot through my left shoulder. “What do you want? It was dark. At any rate, I noticed we had travelled farther than necessary, and was about to question the chairmen, when the chair was dropped to the ground. I was taken by force from the conveyance, and beaten.”
“You don’t have a scratch on you.”
My lips formed a tight smile. “Efficient men. I assure you they did a thorough job despite the lack of evidence on my face.”
“Paid bullies?”
“How should I know? They had a purpose, I assure you, and it was not to rob me. I still have my money, my watch, and a rather expensive walking stick. But when they were almost finished with me, one of them warned me that if I did not want more of the same, I should stay out of Bow Street’s work.”
“Bow Street’s work? And you thought I had ordered this?” Mr. Lavender said curtly, shock yielding quickly to anger.
I took a swallow of brandy. “I apologize. I had not given the matter careful thought.”
Mr. Lavender relaxed in his chair. Balancing the notebook on one knee, he pulled the ivory toothpick box from his coat. He spit on the lid, then wiped the box clean on his sleeve.
I would have cringed, but the action would pain my sore muscles.
The investigator extracted one of the wooden sticks. He popped it into his mouth and spoke around it. “Think carefully now, and tell me who you think might be responsible.”
I rubbed my forehead. “All I know is that it was impossible to make out faces. After the last blow to the head, I remember nothing, except I have a vague memory of Ned and Ted carrying me up the stairs. Ned was rattling on about a certain time when he was fifteen years old and a particularly heavy fog descended on the pig farm. He went out to make sure the gate was locked and wandered too far. Ned said he was walking along with his hands out in front of him, feeling his way, and suddenly touched a length of silky hair. Apparently there was a girl down the lane he had taken a liking to. Thinking it was she, as lost as he was, he pushed aside her hair to give her a friendly kiss on the cheek. His lips met an entirely different sort of cheek, followed by a sharp shove from a hoof. Mercifully I slipped back into a state of unconsciousness before hearing more.”
“When are you going to let those strong boys of yours do a little work for Bow Street?”
“When are you going to recognize that my help in this investigation can be valuable to Bow Street?”
Mr. Lavender scowled and consulted his notebook. “The watchman said it took him quite a while and a splash of cold water to get you to tell him your name and direction.”
“Water? On one of my good coats?” I asked, temporarily diverted. “Good God, the garment must be ruined.”
“Put thoughts of your fancy coat aside for the moment,” Mr. Lavender advised.
“There is nothing ‘fancy’
about my coat. The cut is elegantly simple. The idea is for clothing to be so perfect that it is not noticed.”
“Very well, if you say so,” Mr. Lavender said, burring his “r.” “Who do you think did this to you?”
I leaned forward in my chair. “I do not know. But I can tell you who did not do this to me, and that is Lord Petersham. Even you must agree the viscount would never dream of harming me.”
“People resort to desperate measures when they feel the law might take them from the comfort of their homes and place them in a cell.”
I made as if to rise. “I shall not discuss the matter with you further if you cannot accept that Petersham is blameless regarding last night.”
“Sit back down, laddie,” Mr. Lavender said, waving the toothpick at me. I complied, but fixed a stony look on my face. He said, “Give me an alternative to Lord Petersham, then.”
“Arthur Ainsley.”
“He’s out of Town, in the country with his family.”
“He could have arranged for my ‘warning’ before leaving London.”
“True. Someone was following you, waiting for an opportunity. Or someone who was in White’s with you sent word to an accomplice. Was Lord Petersham present?”
I chose not to answer. “Arthur Ainsley is the only one of the men present at that dinner in the Pavilion who would have had a motive for harming the Prince. Here, I shall make you a diagram of the persons at the table.” I pulled a piece of paper towards me and hastily sketched a drawing.
“Ainsley’s motive is weak at best. No, there’s more going on here than we’ve uncovered thus far. Mr. Townsend and I have only begun looking into the lives of the people present that night at the Pavilion. Meantime, we’ve got to hope no one makes another attempt to assassinate the Prince of Wales.”
He accepted the drawing I passed to him, merely glancing at it before folding it and shoving it into a pocket. His manner told me he was unwilling to share what they had learned so far. Very well, from now on I would not reveal anything I found out either. Not that I had discovered much.
“Prinny is even better guarded now than he was before the attempt. I feel him safe enough,” I said. Then, “By the way, how is your daughter? Has Miss Lavender made any progress with the Frenchwoman?”
The Bow Street man pushed the small revolving bookcase that stood near his chair until it began to go around. Clearly, he was not happy with the change in topic. “My daughter and I have not crossed paths since yesterday. She spent the night at her shelter, and if she came home today, she would not have found me there.” He turned and looked me in the eye. “She’s taken too much on herself. The lass needs a husband, someone of her own station in life, to take care of her.”
Like the grocer who brought a fond smile to her lips?
Though Mr. Lavender had not been responsible for the warning I had received the night before, he was most certainly giving me a warning now. There had been a slight emphasis on the words “of her own station.” Yours truly does not fall into that category. Not that I entertain any amorous thoughts of Miss Lavender. Oh, all right, I have admired her porcelain-like skin, auburn hair, and green eyes. And she does have an impudent way about her I cannot help admiring. More important, she has a kind heart and is eager to help others . . .
I looked up to find Mr. Lavender staring at me, eyes narrowed.
A knock at the door saved me from further fatherly rebuke. “Enter!”
Robinson came forward holding a folded letter on a silver salver. “A footman in the Prince of Wales’s livery delivered this, sir. I thought you would want to read it straightaway.”
“Thank you, Robinson,” I said, accepting the folded vellum. “You may go.”
The valet turned on his heel, closing the door behind him with a sharp click.
I opened the paper and scanned the lines quickly, then addressed the Bow Street man. “Prinny is asking for me. It seems he is lonely and bored confined to Carlton House.”
Mr. Lavender stood and began walking toward the door. “You’ll want to go then. While you’re at Carlton House with your noble friends, keep an eye on the Prince of Wales. See that he is not somehow bored to death.”
Can it be that some of my sense of humour is wearing off on the grouchy Bow Street man?
Chapter Seventeen
A bored, cranky Prince is not easy to entertain. I know because, for the following week, I danced attendance on Prinny every day at Carlton House.
There had been no further threats to his life, but I was tempted to rectify that by the fourth day of his whining, complaining, and constant airings of various theories he concocted regarding the assassination attempt.
Also frequently present was Jack Townsend. The head of Bow Street was jovial in his assurances that he had the matter well in hand. I suspected Mr. Lavender was the one doing all the work, while Mr. Townsend took advantage of the Prince’s hospitality.
His Royal Crabbiness did not seem to realise an important consequence of his demands on my time. He prevented me from further investigation of the very matter he claimed had brought him to the depths of despair. Frustrated, I did what anyone else would do: I ate and drank myself to the point where it grew difficult for me to fasten the buttons at the waist of my breeches.
Chakkri had no one to converse with in my absence, so he was no happier than I with the situation. Or so I liked to think.
Robinson, however, was in good spirits. The gossip at the royal residence increased by day. The valet’s sense of self-importance increased along with it as, at every opportunity, he raced to his favourite pub, The Butler’s Tankard, with the latest tidbits.
I wrote to Freddie often and wondered if she would soon grow as tired of me as I was of the Prince. But her letters were full of encouragement and confidence that I would overcome my current “obstacles” to victory.
. . . For you know, George, though I cannot think how you do it, you have a way of discerning how other people’s minds work. Then you put that information together with people’s behaviour to come to a concise conclusion. This ability is only one of your many fine qualities and one of the reasons I admire you as I do.
Here is something I know will interest you. I have had a letter from a friend who lives in the same county as a certain Mr. A known to both of us. Mr. A arrived at his father’s estate, and has been known to be in a high temper ever since. The purpose of his visit seems unclear, and my friend says she cannot say if Mr. A accomplished it, for he departed after only three days.
At Oatlands, we are kept constantly busy by the antics of Minney’s pups. They are at the chewing stage. I fear Ulga left the door open to one of my wardrobes, resulting in the destruction of several pairs of my dancing slippers. It cannot signify, however, as when shall I be dancing?
This weekend is the last of the month. Dare I hope to see you at Oatlands?
Yours, ever, and truly,
Freddie
I made a mental note that as soon as I was freed from my royal prison, I would make a trip to Bond Street and buy Freddie a half-dozen pairs of dancing slippers. Perhaps if she continued to shy away from Town entertainments, I might be forced to dance with her myself at Oatlands. One could hope.
As for travelling there this weekend, at that moment I felt fortunate whenever I travelled to the door to Carlton House for a breath of fresh air.
At last, the day of the St. Clairs’ party dawned, and claiming a prior commitment, I was finally released from Prinny’s grip. Mrs. Fitzherbert’s arrival from Brighton helped speed me home.
Standing on the threshold of the St. Clairs’ ballroom that evening, clad in my impeccable Alexandria-blue coat, over white waistcoat and formal black knee breeches, I noted this was no small gathering. A select list of those who had neither retired to their country estates for a bit of foxhunting, nor retreated to take the waters in Bath, were present.
More than one hundred finely dressed members of Society drank, danced, flirted, and exchanged gossip. In a separate room
set up for cards, the ladies played as feverishly as the men. The party was sure to be deemed a “crush” and therefore could only be to Lady St. Clair’s social credit.
Her husband perceived my arrival and came up to greet me. “Brummell, good of you to join us.”
“A delightful entertainment, my lord,” I said with a bow.
“Anything might appeal to you at this point, though, I expect. I hear you have been much at Carlton House.”
“Indeed,” I replied, unwilling to discuss my visit.
Lord St. Clair did not seem to mind my reluctance. “I find these sorts of festivities tedious in the extreme, but they do have benefits, I suppose.” He waved a hand in the direction where his daughter, the beauteous Lady Chastity, held court amongst a crowd of admiring swains. She appeared to favor one of them, Victor Tallarico, bringing a frown to her father’s face.
“No doubt Lady Chastity will have an even larger choice of suitors during the Season next spring,” I ventured.
“If she is not carried away with an unsuitable match before then. I tell you, Brummell, I cannot like Lord Perry’s Italian cousin. My wife invited him tonight out of politeness to the Perrys. My suspicions that he might be a spy for Napoleon grow stronger.”
I raised my right eyebrow. “Oh?” I said, thinking his lordship had new information.
“The man is a subject of the French Emperor’s now. England cannot be too careful of foreigners.”
Was the country of Tallarico’s origin the sole basis for Lord St. Clair’s misgivings about the Signor? This narrow view seemed out of character for his lordship. Perhaps his disapproving ideas stemmed from a more personal source.
As we watched, Signor Tallarico—in yet another pink waistcoat—successfully extracted Lady Chastity from her group of admirers and began a slow but inexorable walk to the tall windows that led to the balcony—a balcony where a few stolen kisses could be exchanged.
“Excuse me, Brummell,” Lord St. Clair said, taking in the situation. A look of determination filled his eye. “I must speak to my daughter.”
The Tainted Snuff Box Page 15
