The Tainted Snuff Box

by Rosemary Stevens

  Enraged, the Bow Street man stared at me. “I never thought to have the leader of the Beau Monde for a son-in-law, but have you I will, Mr. Brummell.”

  I gripped my dog’s head stick, Freddie’s dear face flashing through my mind. “Miss Lavender and I did ride in a closed carriage together from Brighton, but—”

  “From Brighton!” Mr. Lavender bellowed. He took a step toward me. “You’ll be at the church at nine. That should give me enough time to rouse the vicar. By God, I’ve always wanted grandchildren, and now I’ll have them. Ones who spend their days endlessly wrapping linen around their necks until the folds fall just right, rather than tramping the fields getting muddy and learning how to hunt grouse!”

  “Hunting, after all, is a beastly sport,” I ventured.

  Mr. Lavender’s hands balled into fists.

  Miss Lavender put a hand on her father’s arm. “There will be no wedding.”

  “Oh, yes, there will be, Lydia,” Mr. Lavender contradicted. “You are compromised. What man will have you now?”

  Miss Lavender spoke in the voice of reason. “Mr. Brummell and I merely rode in the same coach, Father. You are enacting a tragedy where there is none. Nothing happened. Come, I’ll make you a cup of hot rum against the weather.”

  My own voice sounded calm to my ears. “Your daughter is correct, Mr. Lavender. My behaviour tonight was that of a gentleman. But since I am a gentleman, I am prepared to do the honourable thing and marry Miss Lavender if that is what she wishes.”

  What else, I ask you, could I do? Mr. Lavender was correct. If word got around that Miss Lavender and I had, for all intents and purposes, spent the night together, no man would marry her. Not even her grocer.

  “Aye, you’ll be wed as soon as I can arrange it,” he agreed.

  “Father!”

  “Which church do you prefer? I shall see that we have flowers. Miss Lavender deserves that at least.”

  “What I deserve is—”

  “I’ll send word to you, Mr. Brummell. Be waiting for it, and mind you don’t leave your house until you have it. By the Lord, it won’t be the wedding her mother—God rest her

  soul—always dreamed of for her daughter. But we might get dear Mrs. Lavender’s wedding dress out and air it in time.”

  “Miss Lavender, I hope Mr. Lavell will not suffer from a fatal depression at losing you,” I said sympathetically.

  Finally able to express her feelings about the plans being made for her, Miss Lavender appeared distracted by my last statement. “Mr. Lavell? The grocer? He’s past his sixtieth year! What would he have to say in anything?” She asked incredulously.

  For some reason, a sense of relief filled me that she was not romantically involved with the kind grocer after all.

  “No one will have anything to say other than me,” the Bow Street man, used to being in charge, pronounced.

  But Miss Lavender had had enough. “Father, you are wrong! I shall be the only one deciding my future. There is no reason why I should wed Mr. Brummell, and I tell you I shall not wed Mr. Brummell! You cannot force me. What’s more, the very idea that a woman should marry for the sake of satisfying some ridiculous rule set forth by who knows who is outrageous. I’ll not bow down before such nonsensical thinking.”

  “But, Lydia—”

  “No, Father,” she said firmly. “Good night, Mr. Brummell. Send word to me when you have learned more about Sir Simon. I shall be at my shelter later in the morning.”

  So saying, the independent Miss Lavender took her father by the arm and bear-led him up the stairs. The sound of the two arguing carried over the night air.

  Wearily, I was about to walk around to where the coach waited for me, when the sound of Mr. Lavender’s voice reached my ears.

  “ . . . Cannot matter about Sir Simon. Bow Street is about to charge Lord Petersham . . .”

  The door shut before I could hear the rest of what he said. But, then, I had heard enough. Just as I felt the weight of impending nuptials lift from my shoulders, another sort of apprehension filled me. For now I was the only thing standing between my friend Petersham and his complete disgrace.

  * * * *

  Back in Bruton street, I fell into an uneasy sleep. My brain felt as if it continued churning along despite my slumber. Visions of Petersham being led off to Newgate where no one would help him with his asthma attacks tormented me. Then, the image of Perry standing before a judge being accused of carrying out his threat to kill Sir Simon sprang into focus. Lady Perry, heavy with child, was there, weeping.

  Another dream brought the image of Victor Tallarico and his gleaming knife being led away by Bow Street. In a pink waistcoat, dirty and stained, the Italian paced the confines of his cell at Newgate, reliving past feminine conquests for no one’s benefit but his own.

  In what would be the final nightmare, I stood in front of the Prince of Wales at Carlton House. Many of my friends were present. The Duke of York sat next to his brother, with his wife, my dear Freddie, at his side. In ringing tones, Prinny told me my presence was no longer desired at Carlton House. Our friendship was at an end. So was my place in Society.

  Worst of all, I saw Freddie slip her hand into her husband’s. She did not look at me.

  Abruptly I sat up in bed, my head pounding and my jaw tense. I glanced at the clock, noting I had been asleep only a few hours.

  Nevertheless, I rang for Robinson, instructing him to bring me some tea and breakfast before my bath.

  From the top of the fireplace mantel, Chakkri watched my every move. His tail lashed perilously close to one of my Sevres pieces. The cat’s mood reflected my own agitation as he jumped from one spot to another like a monkey in a cage, occasionally emitting a clipped “reow.”

  Clad in my Florentine dressing-gown, I breakfasted and drank my tea. The twins brought up my bath, and I ordered them to ready the sedan-chair for travel.

  My thoughts centered on Sir Simon. More specifically, who had wanted to kill him. I thought I would call on Lady Hester and find out if she knew what the quarrel had been that caused the end of the baronet’s relationship with Prime Minister Pitt. Lady Hester had said the friendship had cooled when Pitt found out Sir Simon was still smuggling. But I wondered if there was more to it than that, a clue that might lead me to a motivation for the murder.

  Before I left the house, I wanted to write a letter to Freddie. My dream about her had disturbed me.

  Once dressed and downstairs, I had Robinson bring me another cup of tea in my bookroom. He handed me the post, which included several personal letters, one from Freddie herself. I scanned the lines rapidly, reading with amusement Freddie’s description of an encounter between one of her ostriches and the short-legged Humphrey. The ostrich had been the loser. Also, one of Minney’s pups had found her way into the pouch of one of the kangaroos kept at Oatlands. The kangaroo had quite adopted the ball of puppy fur as her own.

  Freddie could always bring a smile to my face.

  Her letter ended with a plea for news, so I began to write. I told her of my visit to Marie and the resulting trip to Brighton and Sir Simon’s house. I debated the wisdom of telling her about my coach ride home with Miss Lavender. Was there a chance she might hear of it? Deciding there was not, I omitted it from my account.

  Stretching out my hand for my cup of tea, I was startled when Chakkri suddenly leapt onto the desk and knocked the teacup over.

  “Confound it! Will you leave the tea things alone? What is wrong with you this morning? Robinson!”

  Leaving the valet to clean up the mess, I grabbed my letters and returned to my bedchamber. My temper was short from lack of sleep, and I was in no mood to subject myself to Robinson’s Martyr Act nor Chakkri’s antics.

  Finishing my letter to Freddie, I broke the seal on a missive from Lord Perry.

  Brummell,

  The Prince held a musical evening last night and I expected to see you there. I wanted to ask you what you know about the investigation. John Lavender came to m
y house yesterday. He questioned Victor and me about our opinions in regards to Sir Simon. What the devil is going on?

  Perry

  I frowned. No invitation to the Prince’s musical evening had reached yours truly. Just as well, I supposed, as I was otherwise occupied and would have had to make my excuses to Prinny.

  Did Mr. Lavender’s questioning at Perry’s house mean that Bow Street was taking my theory of Sir Simon being the intended victim seriously? I wished I might speak with Mr. Lavender on the topic, but did not think he would be willing to sit down and converse with me after last evening’s . . . er, controversy.

  Breaking the seal on the next letter, I saw it was from Petersham.

  Brummell,

  Where were you last night? I have no friends any longer since Munro’s traitorous behaviour toward me. Yet I do have a stranger shadowing my every move. Unfortunately, he looks like one of Bow Street’s runners. Let me state now for the record that when they take me away, you may have my collection of snuff boxes. Last I checked, none contained any poisoned snuff.

  Petersham

  I tossed the note aside, more anxious than ever to visit Lady Hester Stanhope.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “Why, George, what brings you calling? Have you developed a fatal passion for me?” Lady Hester said as she swept into the drawing room.

  Her jaunty tone belied her unusually care-worn appearance. Rather than insult her by asking what was wrong, I decided to wait for an appropriate opening in the conversation and then inquire.

  I rose from where I had been waiting for her on a brocade sofa and bowed. “Developed a passion? Why Lady Hester, I have been a good deal smitten with you these three years past.”

  She laughed. “Only three years? You awful man. Now tell me why you have sought me out when you are obviously done up. You look exhausted.”

  Have you ever noticed the disparity in what a lady can say to a gentleman versus what a gentleman can say to a lady?

  We sat next to one another on the sofa. “A late night and too little sleep,” I told her.

  “Oh, anyone I know?”

  “Hardly.” Miss Lavender did not run in the same circles as Lady Hester. I spared a moment to consider how well the two would understand one another, both of them being of independent spirit. Alas, Lady Hester Stanhope has little patience for the members of her own sex.

  “Shall I ring for tea? Or is this an occasion for wine?”

  “Neither, thank you, I shall not take up much of your time. I would like to ask you a question about Sir Simon.”

  She turned her head to one side and shot me a sly look. “Has this to do with the investigation into the attempt on the life of that worthless individual, the Prince of Wales?”

  I smiled at her opinion of Prinny. “Yes.”

  “How fascinating! The tainted snuff box is the talk of the Town. Victor and I were speaking of it at dinner the other evening.”

  “Victor Tallarico?”

  “Yes. A simply divine man.” A faraway look came into Lady Hester’s eyes.

  “Good God, not you, too,” I groaned.

  “Whatever can you mean?” she asked in all innocence.

  “Only that every female that comes within sight of the Italian falls at his feet.”

  An impish expression appeared on Lady Hester’s face. “At his feet you say?”

  “My lady, you shock me,” I replied with prodigious gravity.

  She laughed. “I doubt that, George. But I hope Victor has not earned your disapproval. Not that I could say he’d care. He’s grown quite popular since his arrival in England. Even my uncle approves of him.”

  “Signor Tallarico gets along well with Mr. Pitt?”

  “To be sure. You left my dinner party the other night too early to know this, but Uncle finally did come downstairs for a while. He and Victor struck up a conversation. The two talked at length about Napoleon’s rule over Italy and how England might dislodge the Corsican monster.”

  “Hmmm,” I said, as visions of Tallarico playing the spy flashed through my mind.

  I sat in thought for a few minutes, prompting Lady Hester to finally say, “What was the question you wanted to ask me, George?”

  “Oh, yes. I remember you telling me that Prime Minister Pitt cut his connection with Sir Simon when he found out about the baronet’s smuggling enterprise. But I wondered if it were as simple as that. I do not wish to imply that Mr. Pitt would condone smuggling, but I thought perhaps something else caused the rift between the two men. Something in particular that triggered the rupture in their relationship.”

  “Indeed, there was, George. You see, Sir Simon had been pestering Uncle about reinstating the tax on tea. Ever since the tea tax had been slashed oh, back in ‘84, I believe, Sir Simon had lost a great deal of income. Tea was no longer a commodity ripe for smuggling.”

  My right eyebrow rose. “Petersham mentioned to me recently that there is a possibility that the tax might be implemented again now. I admit to being surprised since Mr. Pitt was the one who cut it, was he not?”

  “He was. And it will not be reinstated while Uncle has anything to say about it.”

  Then she suddenly looked pained by her own words.

  I leaned closer. “What is it, my friend? I can tell you are distressed.”

  She let out a tired sigh. “I know I can trust you not to speak of this matter.”

  “You have my word as a gentleman.”

  “I’m worried about Uncle. His health is failing, and I blame his condition on his working so hard and his worries over the war. He has a continental network of spies that have been keeping him informed as to Napoleon’s manoeuvering. A report arrived this week.”

  “Not good news?”

  “Apparently not. He hasn’t told me the details, but he received an urgent dispatch last night and has been ill all of today. My concern for him is growing.”

  I reached over and placed my hand over hers. “The Prime Minister is fortunate in having you for a niece. You will care well for him.”

  “I do whatever I can.” She straightened and said, “Now, tell me your suspicions, George. What has the smuggling of tea to do with the attempt on the Prince’s life?”

  “I think the poisoned snuff was meant for Sir Simon all along. In looking for the murderer’s motive, I view the baronet’s smuggling activities as a possible source.”

  Lady Hester’s eyes widened, then she smiled. “What a delicious idea! You know I could not abide the baronet. In fact, I’d wager he had plenty of enemies. How will you find out which one was responsible?”

  “I have reason to believe he was a blackmailer. If I find whom he was blackmailing, I’ve found the murderer.”

  “George, what a discovery! Blackmail is a marvelous reason for killing someone.”

  “Yes, well, I thought that if I found out what Sir Simon did that turned Mr. Pitt against him, it might help narrow the field. But I see that it was simply a matter of personal ethics; the baronet’s greediness being repugnant to the honourable Prime Minister.” I thought for a moment, then said, “Lady Hester, Mr. Pitt is still strongly opposed to reinstating the heavy tax on tea, is he not? There is no chance it will happen?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Uncle has been quite put out by the rumours circulating around Parliament that the tax might be raised. Even Lord St. Clair had taken up the torch, but Uncle persuaded him that the idea won’t wash.”

  “Good. Petersham would not be pleased. He mixes teas as well as snuff, you know.”

  “You’d better not tell Bow Street about that, George. God knows, Charles doesn’t need further ammunition against him.”

  “Exactly.”

  A short time later, I took my leave of Lady Hester, feeling quite sorry that Mr. Pitt was ill and that his niece was spending her days nursing him.

  I ordered Ned and Ted to stop at a flower stall. I ordered a bouquet of flowers sent to the lady with my thanks for her company. After signing the card in my best han
dwriting, I exited the shop.

  I spent the next half hour in Bond Street, procuring five pairs of dancing slippers for Freddie. I hoped I would be able to deliver them personally to her this weekend.

  As I walked back to my sedan-chair, my gaze was caught by a stunning length of Brussels lace displayed in the window of a dressmaker’s shop. Immediately, a vision of Freddie attired in a gown made up of the material burst into my brain. I could present the dress to her for Christmas.

  Frequently I spend Christmas at Oatlands. The Duchess has set the custom of exchanging little gifts, ones of moderate value. Although a gown made out of costly Brussels lace would hardly fit into the category of “moderate” value, why should Freddie not have the very best?

  I retraced my steps and spent over an hour giving the delighted merchant my instructions.

  All in all, what remained of the day was spent with various members of the merchant class as I purchased goods.

  It was when the last of the merchants expressed his gratitude for my custom that an idea regarding Sir Simon’s death presented itself in my brain and would not be dislodged. The notion was incredible, unbelievable almost. Yet, it refused to leave my mind.

  Feeling the need to lay before the Prince all I had learned, and wishing to mend any broken fences there might be since Jack Townsend’s ugly insinuations, I instructed Ned and Ted to take me to Carlton House.

  Dusk fell as the twins carried me through the streets of Mayfair. Down St. James’s Street, past White’s and Brooks’s and Boodle’s, past King Street where Almack’s Assembly Rooms were the scene of fashionable gatherings during the Season, to Pall Mall we went. By the time we dodged the carriage traffic on that last busy road, twilight had surrendered to darkness.

  Arriving at the royal residence, I alighted from my sedan-chair. A line of guardsmen in full military regalia stood at assigned posts protecting the imposing structure from any possible invasion. Torches burned, illuminating the area around the entrance.

  I extracted one of my calling cards from a thin silver case and handed it to a footman.