A tense silence enveloped the room.
Mr. Townsend likes center stage. He had it now. “You are very defensive of your friend, Lord Petersham. You would not want him to suffer the consequences of something he did not do, would you?”
“Of course not,” I said, very much on my dignity.
“You are also anxious to turn Bow Street’s attention elsewhere, to, in fact, cast blame on Arthur Ainsley.”
“I did not say that,” I protested. “I have yet to prove—”
“Failing that,” Mr. Townsend went on relentlessly, “you expect us to believe that the Prince of Wales was not the intended victim at all. No, you would have us believe that the baronet who served as his Royal Highness’s food taster was meant to take the poison.”
“I think it is an idea worthy of consideration,” I said.
Mr. Townsend stepped toward me once again. “Going along with this ridiculous theory for a moment, what, if you will be so kind as to tell me, Mr. Brummell, would the killer have done if Sir Simon had not intercepted the box? Would he have let the Prince of Wales inhale the poisoned snuff? Would he consider the death of the Prince a mere inconvenience in his quest to eliminate Sir Simon?”
My heart began to pound. Not only would Townsend not consider my hypothesis, he was making a fool out of me in front of the Prince. “I have not had time to investigate my theory to find out the answers to those questions. I have been here at Carlton House this week past.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Townsend said. He came closer to me. “And you were at the table that night at the Pavilion, Mr. Brummell.”
“Yes,” I said impatiently, wondering where he was going with this line of questioning.
Mr. Townsend drew a slip of paper from his pocket. To my annoyance, I saw it was the diagram of the table I had made for Mr. Lavender. I darted a look at him, but the Scotsman refused to meet my eye.
Mr. Townsend, however, stared directly at me. “If I am interpreting this drawing correctly, you were seated next to the Prince, were you not, Mr. Brummell?”
I clenched my fists at my side. “What are you saying, Mr. Townsend?”
“Furthermore, if I have this right, you held the snuff box in your hand before Sir Simon took it back from you. You are adept at opening and closing snuff boxes, as everyone knows. Why, I’ve seen you do it myself. Quite clever you are, Mr. Brummell.”
I assumed my most haughty mien. “I fail to see—”
“Furthermore, I have it from a reputable gentleman that Lady Bessborough saw you and Lord Petersham talking at the entrance to the Eating Room and that you, Mr. Brummell, were holding the snuff box in your hand for several minutes. Long enough to have added something to the contents of the box.”
The Prince of Wales gasped. He looked at me, appalled.
Devil take Sylvester Fairingdale!
I returned Mr. Townsend’s probing look without blinking. Ice dripped from my tongue. “Are you accusing me of trying to poison the Prince of Wales?”
“No,” Mr. Townsend said mildly. “Not yet.”
Anger welled in me. I had to struggle not to let it overwhelm me. “May I ask what my motive would be for such a despicable action?”
Mr. Townsend cocked his head. “You are a man of great determination and resource, Mr. Brummell. I think of your rise to the height of Polite Society and can only admire your tenacity. The gentleman I spoke with says you covet the title of First Gentleman of Europe. A silly nickname, perhaps, but he says you like to think yourself the supreme ruler over everything fashionable. He thinks you resent sharing any of your position as Arbiter of Fashion.”
“How dare you, Mr. Townsend?” I said frostily.
The Prince looked at me aghast. “It’s not true, is it, Brummell? Tell me you don’t wish to be known as the First Gentleman of Europe,” he said, his voice shaking.
Before my astounded brain could form a reply and force it past my lips, the Prince clutched his wrist. “Oh, my pulse! How it gallops! My physician! Someone send for Pitcairn!”
My own heart felt like it would burst from my chest.
Attendants rushed to fuss over the Prince.
Feeling I could control my anger no longer, I strode from the room without another word.
Chapter Nineteen
In nothing less than a towering rage, I exited Carlton House. I shouted the order for home to Ned and Ted, startling them with my tone, and settled into my sedan-chair. Once my heart resumed a beat somewhat approaching normalcy, I realised my uppermost feeling was that of betrayal.
Mr. Lavender had run to his superiour with the diagram I had given him. He had also remained silent as the head of Bow Street treated me like a chunk of bread he could toast over the fire. I thought the Scotsman and I had formed a friendship of sorts—an uneasy one, perhaps—but nonetheless a rapport.
Jack Townsend was either under too much pressure himself, or did not give a shilling for my opinions. Worse, he dared insinuate I would try to poison the Prince. What a nonsensical notion! Why would I kill the Prince? I am not so conceited as to think my reign over London Society would continue without Prinny’s friendship.
That brought me to his Royal Highness. He had to be suffering a bout of mental disorder like the ones his father, the King, experiences to think me involved in a plot against his life. I would call on him when we could be private and discuss Mr. Townsend’s offensive suggestions. Suggestions made more offensive since there was a tiny grain of truth in them. As you know, I do long for the title of First Gentleman of Europe. But devil take it, that does not make me a killer!
Thank God Freddie had not witnessed the ugly scene.
Although I had agreed to meet Scrope at White’s for an evening of gaming, there was no question of my keeping the engagement now. I doubt he would even notice my absence, the way that lad had been drinking and gaming lately. Instead, I would accept Lady Hester Stanhope’s invitation to dinner so that I might finally be able to corner Arthur Ainsley.
With this goal in mind, I entered my house. “Robinson!”
The valet came hurrying from his rooms. “Sir, I did not expect you home. Is everything all right?”
“No, it is not. Bow Street’s suspicion of Petersham grows by the minute,” I said striding into the bookroom. No sense telling him the investigators also had me under their magnifying glass.
Chakkri sat tall in the exact center of my desk. I seated myself behind the desk and nudged him out of the way. He did not want to move, though. The minute I took my attention from him to draw a sheet of paper from the drawer, he resumed his original position.
He gazed at me with his keen blue eyes. “Reow.”
“Get down from here, you rogue, and let me write this letter.” I picked him up and deposited him on the floor. The cat stalked from the room, hopping over the threshold as is his odd custom. I heard a rumble of paws on the stairs and assumed he had retired to my bedchamber.
“I need you to get this message to Scrope Davies at White’s, Robinson.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I have to change clothes for the evening. I shall be attending a dinner party at Lady Hester Stanhope’s, and she does not tolerate her guests being late. Have Ned and Ted ready outside the door with my sedan-chair.”
“What time does Lady Hester expect you?”
“Eight o’clock,” I said, scrawling a line of apology to Scrope and telling him I might be at the club later in the evening.
I looked up to hand the folded vellum to Robinson. The fussy valet was staring at the tall-case clock in horror.
I took a steadying breath. “I know we have but a mere hour for The Dressing Hour, but it will have to do. Ready some hot water for my shave.”
“Yes, sir,” Robinson replied in heavy tones.
Upstairs, I selected a Spanish-blue coat from the wardrobe. The minutes flew as Robinson shaved me, arranged my hair, and helped me into my clothes. I knew the valet burned with curiosity as to what had happened at Carlton House to put me in su
ch a temper. His next words confirmed it.
“Sir, might I be of any assistance to you in your investigation?”
“Not unless you know anything about the smuggling business in Brighton.”
“The smug—”
A loud crash from the direction of the dining room interrupted us. Grabbing my dog’s head stick, I crossed the hall and hurried into the dining room, Robinson behind me.
My rosewood teapoy lay on its side on the carpet, the lid open and the contents emptied across the floor. Chakkri stood beside it, lashing his tail from side to side, not the slightest bit of remorse about his catly demeanor.
“Dear me,” Robinson chirped in a voice that clearly said, “I told you so.” No doubt he was enjoying this confirmation that Chakkri should not remain in our household.
“What are you doing?” I asked the cat. “What is this fixation you have developed for tea? Get away from there.”
The cat retained his air of supremacy. He walked past me, tail in the air, back into my bedchamber. When I followed him to fetch my greatcoat, I could hear a furious scratching coming from behind the lacquered screen that concealed Chakkri’s sand-tray.
Robinson handed me my hat, and I made for the stairs, noting Ned and Ted had only fifteen minutes to convey me to Lady Hester’s.
“Do not wait up for me, Robinson. I may not return this evening.”
“Where will you be after Lady Hester’s?”
“White’s.”
“And after that?”
“Somewhere.”
The valet looked mutinous. “Sir, you never tell me where you are going on these evenings you stay out all night. I know you say they are private, but what if I needed to reach
you . . .”
“Then you would not be able to. Open the door,” I said.
Robinson obeyed, his lips pursed. Then his mouth gaped in surprise.
For outside the door, one gloved hand raised ready to knock, stood Lydia Lavender. With her other hand, the Bow Street man’s daughter held the hood of her cloak tightly under her chin. Cold air rushed in through the doorway.
“May I come in?” she asked me when I did not immediately invite her.
“Er, please do. Robinson, you may go,” I said, seeing the disapproving expression settle over the valet’s face. It is not proper for an unmarried female to call upon a gentleman at his residence. Miss Lavender, though, is not one to care for the conventions as Robinson does.
She crossed into the black-and-white tiled hallway, allowing the hood of her cloak to fall about her shoulders. Her auburn hair gleamed in the candlelight. “I wanted to speak with you about the Frenchwoman you left in my care.”
“How is she?” I inquired, closing the door.
Miss Lavender looked past me toward the bookroom. “Might we discuss it in your bookroom?”
“I am sorry, but I am late for an important dinner party. May I call on you tomorrow when we can talk at length?”
“No, I need to speak with you now. And isn’t it fashionable to be late to dinner parties?” Miss Lavender inquired, all innocence.
“Not at Lady Hester Stanhope’s house.”
“I’ve heard of her. She’s known to be different from the useless Society women one normally hears about. Lady Hester won’t mind your tardiness if you explain that you were looking after a female in difficulty.”
“But—”
Miss Lavender paced the floor. “What do you know of the woman you gave over to me? Do you understand the extent of her frenzy? I can hardly get her to eat anything. I’ve been afraid to leave the shelter lest she do herself an injury. She doesn’t cry. I sometimes wonder if it wouldn’t do her good to cry, but she only continues in a dazed state that alternates with fear at the sight of men. I have been forced to draw the curtains at all times to keep her from seeing any man passing in the street.”
“Hmmm. I do not know what to say. I told you all I know that day at the Perrys’. Have you not been able to learn even the Frenchwoman’s name? Where she comes from? Who her family is?”
“No. Call me incompetent if you must,” Miss Lavender retorted. She ceased her pacing to stand in front of me, her green eyes stormy.
“You are anything but incapable.”
“My happiness at hearing you say so knows no bounds,” she said sweetly, if sarcastically.
I pulled out my pocketwatch and glanced at it. Ten minutes to eight. “Look here, I shall call on you first thing in the morning—”
Miss Lavender’s hands formed fists which she rested on her hips. “Meaning two in the afternoon!”
“How about one?”
She drew a deep breath. An action whose charm was not entirely lost on me. “The Frenchwoman has started talking. Just bits and pieces, but it’s something about a fine house near the sea. Perhaps Hove. I think she was held captive there by a man.”
“Held captive?” I asked in disbelief. “Miss Lavender, have you by chance been reading Minerva Press novels?”
Outrage spread across her face. “You think I am dramatizing events? Oh, you insufferable man! Go to your party, then!” she said, marching toward the door. “I’ll take care of this on my own,” she fumed. Before I could say another word, she was out of the house, the door swinging back on its hinges.
Dash it! What had put her in such a temper? I walked out the door and down the front steps. Miss Lavender was nowhere in sight.
“Uh-oh, Mr. Brummell. You’re in trouble with that there female,” Ted said. The twins were waiting on the pavement with my sedan-chair.
Ned said, “That reminds me of the time—”
“We must go at once,” I said, cutting off another one of Ned’s stories. I entered my chair and leaned my head back on the white satin lining, thinking I would have to rise and present myself at Miss Lavender’s shelter at an indecently early hour. Noon, even.
Tonight I would finally have my opportunity to get to know Arthur Ainsley. And just how badly he wanted that place in the peerage.
However, when I was shown into Lady Hester’s house, it was to find the company just sitting down to dinner. A lively bunch had gathered, including, to my surprise, Victor Tallarico. He and Lady Hester were engaged in a conversation about Italy, a country Lady Hester had visited on one of her many travels.
Even Mr. Ainsley seemed in high spirits, most unusual for him.
We did miss the company of one person. Mr. Pitt, Lady Hester announced, sent his apologies, but could not come down to partake of the meal, feeling too weary. No doubt with the weight of the war on his shoulders, the Prime Minister would sometimes prefer a solitary meal in his room than a table full of people eager to share their opinions.
After dinner, Lady Hester led everyone to the drawing room, forsaking the custom of separating the ladies and gentlemen for a space of time in which they might gossip with their own sex. I walked over to Mr. Ainsley, who lingered in the doorway.
Before I could speak to him, he addressed the room in general. “I should like to remain, but I must attend my fiancée.”
A murmuring of surprise went around the room.
The embrace I had witnessed last night at the St. Clairs’ flashed through my mind’s eye. Of course, a gentleman did not kiss an earl’s daughter that way unless he meant marriage.
Mr. Ainsley chuckled. “The announcement will be in all the papers tomorrow morning, so I can tell you. Lord St. Clair’s daughter, Lady Prudence, has made me the happiest of men. I would have been able to make the disclosure weeks ago, but Lady Prudence insisted she have a betrothal ring first. You know how women are.”
A smattering of laughter met this remark.
“The settlements were made by the first of the month, but there was a delay while we followed the Prince to Brighton, then I had to ride out to my family home and obtain a betrothal ring. Now that the ring is safely on her finger, I am free to speak.”
Amidst congratulations, Mr. Ainsley took his leave.
“Well,” Lady Hester said, app
earing at my side. “Ainsley will get his Parliament seat now, George. God knows Lord St. Clair has enough influence with my uncle, and if not, I’m sure Lady Prudence comes with a large dowry. Enough money that now Ainsley could campaign to be elected to the House of Commons.”
“Lady Hester, will you forgive me if I leave as well? I do not wish to be rude . . .”
Her ladyship patted my arm. “Go ahead, do. I know you are searching for clues in that ugly matter involving the Prince.”
I smiled at her ruefully. “Searching, but finding things I did not quite expect.”
Leaving the house, I gave orders to Ned and Ted to carry me to White’s. All the while, my brain raced. Ainsley and Lady Prudence had been engaged for weeks! Ainsley knew they were getting married before coming to the Pavilion. This slashed any possibility of his having a motive to kill the Prince. Whom did that leave as a suspect?
No one. That the poison was intended for Sir Simon was clearer than ever.
I alighted at White’s, saying to Ned and Ted, “You might step around to the nearest public house and have a drink, but then await my orders.”
Delbert greeted me at the door. The cheerful deportment he normally wears was absent. “Good evening, Mr. Brummell. ‘There’s nothing in this world can make me joy: Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.’“
I stared at him as he accepted my coat, hat, gloves, and walking stick. “King John. Now, Delbert, what has brought you low?”
The footman looked at me. “May I tell you, sir?”
“Of course you may.”
“Well, it’s like this. I don’t want to be a footman all my life. Not that I don’t enjoy waiting on fine gentlemen like yourself,” he added hastily.
“You have other ambitions?” I asked.
Delbert nodded. “I want to be an actor, and perform in the great Shakespearean plays. I want to speak aloud in front of an audience all the words I know by heart and love well.”
“Have you been around to the theatres?”
“Yes, but no one wants to hire me. I’ve no experience, you see.”
“And you cannot get any if they will not hire you.”
The Tainted Snuff Box Page 17
