The Tainted Snuff Box

by Rosemary Stevens

  “You intrigue me,” Lord St. Clair said in a flat voice.

  “Sir Simon, greedy fellow that he was, wanted the high tax reinstated on tea. That way, his already profitable smuggling enterprise would become even more lucrative. But how could he persuade Prime Minister Pitt to reinstate the tax? He had no credibility with Mr. Pitt. They had quarrelled over the matter in the past. Then Sir Simon was presented with an irresistible opportunity to get his way. Through you. Everyone knows Mr. Pitt respects your opinion, my lord.”

  Lord St. Clair had perfect control over himself. I admired his aplomb, if nothing else. “Yes, he does. And I told that bastard baronet that I would not persuade Pitt to reinstate the tax.”

  “So Sir Simon resorted to blackmail, and you, having an understandable aversion to blackmail, decided to kill him.”

  “Naturally. A blackmailer is never satisfied. I did initially go to Pitt and speak with him about the tax. There was talk of it in Parliament. But I would not jeopardise my position with the Prime Minister by pressing the matter. That is when I decided Sir Simon had to be eliminated once and for all.”

  “How did you come upon the idea of the poisoned snuff?” I asked in the manner of one discussing an idea no more lethal than where to hold a picnic that afternoon.

  Lord St. Clair had that smug look of someone who thinks himself clever. “I had been lingering in Brighton, waiting for an opportunity. You see, it had to be the consummate murder. I cannot have my family name tarnished.”

  “You sent the letters to the Prince.”

  “Ingenious, was it not?” Lord St. Clair said, warming even more to his topic. He was bragging a bit now. “What better way is there than to kill someone, then make it look like another was meant to die? I hoped the Prince would come running to his Pavilion to hide like the cowardly baby he is, and I got my wish. Then, Sir Simon fell right into my hands by toadying to the Prince. My first thought was to conceal myself and shoot Sir Simon while he was at the Pavilion. Everyone would think the shot was meant for the Prince.”

  “But the house was heavily patrolled.”

  “The grounds were not,” he pointed out. “And the Prince is so prone to hysterics, he would immediately assume the shot was meant for him.”

  I could not argue with this. “Then you were at the Pavilion that night after we all returned from the Johnstones’ dinner. You heard Petersham talk about how he was mixing a new blend of snuff. You heard him promise to let the Prince be the first to try it.”

  Lord St. Clair spread his hands. “A chance like that does not come along every day.”

  “What if the Prince had inhaled the poisoned snuff?”

  “Do not be ridiculous. Sir Simon was playing his role of food taster for all it was worth.”

  “Even so—”

  “I expect I would have intervened had not Sir Simon taken the box from your hands. In a manner that would reflect well on me, of course. As it turned out, there was no need. All I had to do was slip the poison into the box while everyone was moving about after dinner. A sound plan, if I say so myself.”

  A plan that chilled me even now. “What about the blackmail, Lord St. Clair. How did the girl die?”

  For the first time, his lordship appeared to grow angry. “You found out about that, too? Really Mr. Brummell, the world will be better off without you.”

  “I know of those who would agree. Still, if you would be so indulgent as to tell me what happened with the young lady . . ..”

  Lord St. Clair made an impatient sound. “That silly girl. Josette was her name. If she had not put up a struggle, she would still be alive.”

  “French, was she not?” I encouraged, though reeling in horror inside.

  “Damn all those cursed Frenchies. Yes, she was an orphan raised in a convent. During the course of pirating a ship in the Channel, one of Sir Simon’s men came across a vessel sailing to Calais. Josette’s governess had decided the roads between Rouen and Calais were too dangerous for the young heiress to travel and had chosen the sea instead. Ironic, eh?”

  “Indeed,” I uttered through gritted teeth.

  “Josette had been on her way to marry a widower her trustees had selected for her. Through our club, Anubis, Sir Simon was aware that I have a taste for untouched young women. He had Josette brought here and saved for me.”

  “Lady St. Clair—”

  “Smells of the shop,” Lord St. Clair sneered, referring to his wife’s background in the merchant class. He shook his head with regret. “If only Josette had not struggled. The stupid chit protested so much, I had her drugged. Even that did not quell the fight in her. She fell and struck her head. What a waste.”

  “And you had her body thrown into the sea.”

  He chuckled mirthlessly. “Imagine my surprise when she came back to shore. Seemed she wanted what I had to offer, after all.”

  My chest burned with unleashed anger at Lord St. Clair’s callous view of the young girl.

  Lord St. Clair, done with relating how astute he had been, looked at me. “You will admit, Mr. Brummell, that I have delayed the time of your death long enough.”

  I thought quickly. I needed to catch the pugilist off guard. “Why not kill me right here in the study like you did Jemmy Wheeler?”

  The strategy worked. I felt the pressure of the gun pressed to my back ease a bit. “You was the one who shot Jem? He was my friend,” Devlin said in a hurt voice.

  Confusion reigned in the next seconds. With all my might I drove my right elbow backward into Devlin’s stomach. He grunted, then sank to the floor. I swung around and watched him, puzzled that my thrust had been that powerful.

  Then my startled gaze rose to where Miss Lavender stood on the other side of him, the butt end of a pistol in her hand. I could hardly believe my eyes. “You saw today’s date on the list, despite my precautions, you mad girl. Give me that gun.”

  But Miss Lavender had apparently been listening to Lord St. Clair’s cold-hearted recital of the events leading to Josette’s death. Her green eyes gleamed with fury as she stepped over the unconscious body of Devlin and came forward into the room. Her gaze never wavered from Lord St. Clair.

  “Miss Lavender, give me that gun,” I commanded, fearing that the intrepid female’s dedication and passion for the rights of women would overcome her good sense.

  Lord St. Clair rose from behind the desk and grabbed the whip from the chair. He advanced menacingly toward Miss Lavender. “Cursed females! I am surrounded by them at my home, now this!”

  He raised the whip into the air, about to strike Miss Lavender.

  I lunged for the gun.

  Too late.

  Gripped by a white-hot rage over what she had heard, Miss Lavender took aim and fired her pistol at Lord St. Clair.

  He howled, clutching the inner portion of his thigh.

  Rapid footsteps echoing from the hall heralded the arrival of John Lavender. “Lydia! I followed you from London to see what you and Mr. Brummell were doing. What the devil happened here? Is that Lord St. Clair on the floor?”

  Miss Lavender stood breathing as if she had run a mile.

  Quickly I took the gun from her shaking hand and stood at her side. “Your daughter shot Lord St. Clair while defending herself, Mr. Lavender. St. Clair is the one who put the poison in the snuff. The poison was meant for Sir Simon as I, ahem, had thought. The baronet was blackmailing his lordship.”

  Lord St. Clair writhed on the floor in pain, blood running down his buff-coloured breeches.

  Mr. Lavender, a man apparently immune to shock after years of Bow Street work, eyed Lord St. Clair. “Is that so? Well, I’ll have a doctor summoned before I arrest his lordship. Lydia, since you’re safe, I’ll speak with you later. And you, Mr. Brummell.” He shot me a disapproving look and then went back out into the hall, shouting for a footman.

  I put my arm around Miss Lavender’s trembling shoulders. “I am so angry you came here, I could shake you if you were not shaking already. It is a very good th
ing you missed anything vital when you shot Lord St. Clair.”

  From the circle of my arm, Miss Lavender looked up at me. “Perhaps I do need spectacles after all. My aim was off by a good three inches.”

  Outrageous girl!

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  “His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, and Mr. George Brummell,” the butler at Lord and Lady Perry’s Town house intoned.

  The company present in the drawing room bowed low.

  For the Prince, of course.

  Lady Perry had insisted upon giving a small party before she and her lord retired to the country for the winter. I greeted her and Perry now. “Lady Perry, how kind you are to be giving a dinner. May I hope you are feeling more the thing these days?”

  She nodded. “Thank you, yes although I shall be happy to settle into Perry Grove until spring.”

  Her husband stood at her elbow. “I insisted that Cook be aided by Gunter’s excellent catering so that Bernadette need not fret over the menu tonight. If I had my way, we would already be enjoying the country air.”

  His wife rolled her eyes heavenward at Perry’s anxiety.

  Victor Tallarico approached, and we exchanged greetings. “You have already been to the country at Oatlands, I hear, Mr. Brummell.”

  “Yes, I have. Autumn in the country is a balm to one’s senses,” I said, wondering how he knew of my visit to Freddie’s estate.

  The Italian gave a pained smile. “Sad to say, the Duchess hasn’t invited me to Oatlands yet. But I plan to correspond with her regularly and have hopes for an invitation before long. Her Royal Highness is a bello creature, too often alone.”

  I fixed the Lothario with a seemingly benign look. Certainly he showed no sign of awareness that I wished to throttle him, which I did. “You are all kindness, I am sure, but the Royal Duchess does not lack for anything. Pray do not trouble yourself with her happiness in the future.”

  Tallarico could not have misinterpreted my message, but he could choose to ignore it. “A lady can never be too happy, Mr. Brummell. And as to the happiness of ladies, I am particularly sad for Lady St. Clair and her daughters.”

  “Their circumstances cannot be comfortable,” Lady Perry said.

  “On the contrary, my love,” Perry said, “Recall that Lady St. Clair’s family is quite wealthy. They shall rise above the scandal, wait and see.”

  Yes, I thought, money could open many closed doors. Lady St. Clair and her daughters would retire from Society for a while. Eventually the scandal of her husband’s deeds would die down. Mr. Ainsley would marry Lady Prudence in a quiet wedding. No doubt the young man would use his bride’s money to pursue his ambitions. He might very well be elected to a seat in the House of Commons.

  Speaking of scandal, this very evening party was designed to put a halt to any gossip Sylvester Fairingdale had initiated regarding a break between the Prince and me. Throughout the

  drinks and mingling that preceded dinner, everyone present could clearly see that his Royal Highness and I were on the best of terms. If they could not, then they were shortly enlightened.

  After chatting with the assembled guests, the Prince turned and spoke to me for all to hear. “Brummell, I want to show my appreciation for your loyalty.” He pulled a heavily jeweled snuff box from his pocket.

  There was a general murmur of appreciation at the sight of such a costly item. Rubies encrusted the lid, broken only by a pattern of diamonds in the Prince of Wales’s feathers. The box sparkled in the candlelight.

  The Prince extended his hand, offering it to me. I hesitated, then took it. The expression on his Royal Highness’s face was anything but one of generosity. Instead, he looked miserable at having to part with what had—perhaps suddenly—become his favourite snuff box.

  Petersham stepped over to examine the box. “Impressive, truly impressive. Rundell and Bridge, your Royal Highness?”

  “Yes. Made for me over the summer.” Prinny’s face was positively glum.

  Lord Munro came over and raised his quizzing glass to inspect the box. “Very fine craftsmanship, but then that is to be expected from Rundell and Bridge.”

  Petersham deliberately ignored him, and Lord Munro quickly walked away. Their relationship had not been restored.

  The Perrys’ butler returned and announced that dinner was served.

  “A moment, your Royal Highness. As much as I am honoured by the generous spirit of your gift, I would be pleased if you retained the box for yourself. My allegiance to you needs no reward.”

  The Prince gladly accepted the trinket back from my hand. “Good of you, Brummell. I’ll have another made for you. Er, not right away, though. I’m spending the winter at my Pavilion.”

  I bowed, thinking I would sooner see females admitted as members of White’s than be gifted with another snuff box by Prinny.

  “Best be careful, your Royal Highness. You remember what happened the last time Mr. Brummell passed a snuff box to you,” Tallarico jested.

  Everyone waited nervously for the Prince’s reaction to this artless remark. But then Prinny laughed, and the company followed suit.

  Lord Perry shot me a look that plainly said, “I told you my cousin was trouble.”

  As we moved toward the dining room, I pondered whether between us Perry and I could contrive a way to ship the Italian back to his homeland.

  The atmosphere over dinner was jovial, though. The Perrys’ table abounded with delicious food. Conversation was lively.

  Later, I went home in a pleasant state of mind, other than having the niggling feeling that I wished Tallarico would leave Freddie alone. She had not spoken of him during our too-short weekend together, which I took as a sign that the Italian had not yet orchestrated his way into her life. And the devil would not succeed in doing so if I had anything to say in the matter!

  Dear, sweet Freddie. Her generosity and kind nature extended to Marie. The Royal Duchess had arranged passage for the troubled Frenchwoman to return to her homeland. Perhaps there Marie would eventually recover from the tragic events that had befallen her.

  Climbing the steps to my bedchamber, I thought back over Freddie and our long walks together, the card games we played, and the afternoons when we enjoyed watching the puppies’ antics.

  Freddie had indicated a desire to learn the finer points of archery. Manfully, I had volunteered to teach her in the spring, banishing mental images of holding her so I might show her just the way to pull back the bow. She already knew how to bend the Beau to her will.

  In my chamber, Robinson helped me undress for bed, still miffed over having to remove both Oatlands’ dog and Siamese cat hairs from my clothing.

  After leaving me alone with a tea tray, the valet strode from the room, head held high.

  “Well, Chakkri, my latest adventure is over. I daresay I am looking forward to spring and the Season. Everyone is always on their best behaviour then, eh?”

  The cat stood at his favourite place by the fire. He licked a spot over his left shoulder.

  I pulled my portable writing desk out, sat in the high-backed chair near the table with the tea things, and balanced the desk on my knees. The cat heard the rustling of paper and jumped to the arm of the chair to watch. I stroked his fawn-coloured body, then turned to the task at hand.

  “Here, I am going to make a sketch of some spectacles for Miss Lavender. Although her father will be furious at the thought of my giving his daughter a gift.”

  “Reow!” the cat said.

  “I daresay Miss Lavender might not feel obliged to tell him.” My pencil flew over the paper, drawing a feminine and fashionable pair of spectacles.

  “Mr. Lavender and the local magistrate closed down Sir Simon’s house, you know. Most likely the property will revert to the Crown since the baronet died without heirs. The revenue men will be glad that one segment of the smuggling trade will cease.” I reached for my teacup and took a sip of the hot brew.

  Chakkri shifted his weight on the arm of the chair.


  Studying the drawing in front of me, I decided it would not do. The design was too ornate for Miss Lavender. She would want something feminine, yet simple. I crumpled the paper and tossed it into the fire.

  Chakkri flew after the balled paper, skirting the tea things. He stood and glared mournfully as his would-be toy was consumed by the flames.

  “You want to play? I shall indulge you. I am so pleased you managed to get past my fine Sevres teacups without mishap. I do not know what had made you so clumsy around the tea things lately.”

  I made the offer gladly, but the capricious ways of felines are a mystery to me.

  Chakkri ignored my invitation to a game. Instead, he cast a look of catly disdain over his shoulder at me before he turned and walked from the room, favouring me with only a view of his tail end.

  I wish to thank Sally Osbon for opening her London home to me so that I enjoyed an extended visit to the capital. This book is dedicated with love to my son, Tom Stevens.

  Author’s Note

  I wish to thank the staff at the Royal Pavilion, Brighton, for their kindness during my visit. I am particularly grateful to Minna for her patience and help in deciphering what the 1805 architecture and furnishings of the Pavilion consisted of. Alexander and Fotis deserve a special thank you as well.

  Besides Beau Brummell, the following characters were real people:

  George, Prince of Wales, Caroline, Princess of Wales, Maria Fitzherbert, Frederica, the Duchess of York, the Duke of Clarence, Prime Minister Pitt, Lady Hester Stanhope, Lord Petersham, Lord Yarmouth, Scrope Davies, Richard Sheridan, Lumley Skeffington, Lady Bessborough, Mr. and Mrs. Johnstone, Mr. and Mrs. Creevey, David Pitcairn, Jack Townsend, John Lavender, and, of course, Robinson.

  Readers will note that even though this story takes place in October of 1805, there is no mention of naval hero Horatio Nelson’s victory at Trafalgar and his subsequent death. The reason for this is that people in London did not learn of these events until well after the fact.