The Tainted Snuff Box (18 page)

If he rode down Hyde Park’s Rotten Row in that costume, the trees would shrink in revulsion.  That is, if he could find a horse to ride that would not roll its eyes and gallop away, frightened by the sight of him.

Petersham lifted his glass and caught everyone’s attention.  His reddened eyes, disheveled hair, and giddy grin told me he had already raised quite a few glasses.  “What shall we drink to, gentlemen?”

“ ‘Tis obvious!” Scrope cried.  “The hero of the hour, the day, the week, perhaps the century:  Sir Simon.”  He raised his glass.  “To Sir Simon, for saving our Prince!”

“Sir Simon!” Skiffy cried.

“Here! Here!” added Yarmouth.

Petersham beamed, then raised his voice to recite:  “To Sir Simon, Though he didn’t know how to dress, We won’t wish him bad cess, As he saved Prinny from sore distress.”

Everyone found Petersham’s attempt at poetry very funny, which is a testimony to the state of inebriation around the table. 

Amid the drinking and joviality, Lord St. Clair said, “Oho!  Now you toast the departed baronet, Petersham, but at dinner that night you protested strongly against Sir Simon being the first to try your snuff.”

Fairingdale’s ears perked up at this tidbit of information.  His ears were difficult to see behind his shirt points, true, but I am certain they stood out like an alert deer’s.

Lord St. Clair’s offhand remark may have put Fairingdale on alert, but the rest of the company viewed it as merely more fodder with which to tease Petersham.

“Sir Simon foiled your plan to assassinate the Prince, did he, Petersham?”  Sheridan laughed.

Skiffy snickered.  “Confess, Petersham, it was jealousy over the Prince’s snuff box collection.  Wasn’t his collection of mistresses, I know that.”

A loud burst of laughter greeted this remark, while glasses clinked together. 

I kept an amused expression on my face, but silently worried that my friends were not helping matters by making light of the situation.  Bow Street, after all, was not laughing.

Neither was Lord Munro.  When the noise died down, he could be seen with a severe look on his face.  “I don’t think this is humourous.  May I remind everyone here that Charles comes from a long, honourable line of men of military distinction?”

“Harold, they are only joking,” the viscount said, waving his glass at his friend’s concern.  “No one believes me responsible for the poisoned snuff.”

“That’s right, Munro,” Sheridan said.  “We know that if Petersham wanted Prinny dead, he would have simply executed him in a military fashion with a single shot to the chest, rather than going to all the bother of poisoning him.”

This witticism set off another round of mirth.

“Did the snuff box ever come into your hands, Brummell?” Sylvester Fairingdale asked with elaborate casualness.  “Mayhaps with the Prince out of the way, you would be known as The First Gentleman of Europe.”

Shock held my tongue still.  What made this accusation, disguised as a question, more damning was the fact that, as you know, I
do
want to be known as The First Gentleman of Europe.  Call me arrogant if you will, but it is a well-known fact that Society looks to
me
rather than the Prince for standards of elegance.  Why should he be the one with the debonair title?  Does not Prinny have titles aplenty? 

Before I could form a reply, Lord Munro tittered.  “Brummell did have the snuff box, now that you mention it, Fairingdale.  Why, when Charles showed Brummell the box before we all sat down to dinner, the Beau took so long a time examining it that Lady Bessborough chided him on it.”

Fairingdale sat back in his chair and adopted the air of one who has clearly gained the advantage over an opponent.  “Lady Bessborough, you say?”

I gazed at him with a cool expression.  “Indeed, I held the box so long that, had I thought of it, I could have pulled my own snuff box from my pocket and juggled the two for the company’s entertainment.”

A few sniggers erupted at my sarcasm, but a tense atmosphere had settled over the table.

“You had ample opportunity to get to that snuff box, Brummell.”  A silken thread of menace entered the farouche fop’s voice. 

“I hardly think Brummell would try to kill one of his best friends over some vague accolade,” Lord St. Clair opined, in the manner of one who had been amused, but now found himself impatient.

Fairingdale barely acknowledged his lordship’s words.  “Before he left for his family’s country estate, I heard Arthur Ainsley describe the entire incident.  He says you had the box once more, Brummell, as it was being passed up the table, before it was to reach the Prince.”

I paid no heed to the taunt, not really hearing anything after the information that Mr. Ainsley had already left London for the country.  Had he
left
London or
fled
London?  How long would he be gone?  How could I question him if he were not in Town?

Lord St. Clair finished the contents of his glass.  “If you have been treated to a description of that evening’s events, Fairingdale, you would also know that Brummell would have to be adept at sleight of hand to have added anything to the snuff box in the short amount of time he held the box.”

I gazed at his lordship in mock chagrin.  “Alas, my reputation is such that I am known for the intricacies of my cravat.  What is more, I have a way of taking snuff that is emulated by even his Royal Highness.  One could easily say my hands are deft,” I said in an attempt to restore levity.

“He’s right, you know,” Sheridan proclaimed.  “Nobody is Brummell’s equal, even in my theatrical performances.”  

“Gentlemen,” I said in my best somber tone.  “Let us drink one last bottle before I am led to Newgate.”  Amidst much laughter, I gauged the reaction my words had on the company.  To a man, the consensus was that Fairingdale spoke nonsense.  Still, I could not be easy that my enemy now possessed damning information about me which might be misconstrued by less friendly persons.

“Depend upon it,” Lord St. Clair said.  “The snuff box sat on the sideboard all during dinner, from what I understand.  Anyone could have tampered with it.”

Angry at Lord St. Clair’s rationalization, Fairingdale was bold enough to say, “Including you, Lord St. Clair?”

Lord St. Clair spoke with quiet dignity.  “I am no exception, though I challenge you to find a reason why I would wish the Prince of Wales dead.”

Not one reason was voiced.  From what Freddie had told me, I knew that Lord St. Clair had married for money.  He did so to restore prosperity to the estates his father had let fall to wrack and ruin, and to return respect to the St. Clair name.  The renowned Parliamentary orator had feathered his fine nest and was now content to crow from it.  He had no motive to kill the Prince of Wales.

Finished with his drink, Lord St. Clair rose from his seat.  Before taking his leave, he paused to speak to me.  “You will soon be receiving a card of invitation for a party at my house, Brummell.”

“When is it to be held?  Is there a special occasion?”

“The twenty-first.  My wife planned the thing on the coach ride home from Brighton.  My daughter Chastity had all the young bucks at her feet last Season.  I think Lady St. Clair wishes to keep up the momentum until Spring.  You will come?  Lady St. Clair wishes you to be present, and you know what a dust-up women can cause if they are frustrated in their multitude of schemes.”

“Yes, I will be honoured,” I responded, thinking as his lordship walked away that Lady St. Clair did not seem the sort to resort to strong hysterics when thwarted.

Scrope and Yarmouth were about to leave as well.  I waited for an opportunity and pulled Lord Yarmouth aside.  “How is your family?”

“Well, thank you.  I plan to leave for Sudbourn Hall tomorrow.  I miss the children.”

“I have a question for you.  I know you are awake on every suit when it comes to pugilism.”

Yarmouth nodded.  “What do you want to know?”

“Sir Simon’s footmen, if one could call them that—”

“Say no more,” Yarmouth said with a smile.  “You noticed that, did you?  I recognized them at once, of course.  Been following the sport since I was in short coats and fancy I know all the participants.”

“So I am correct in thinking they are both ex-fighters?”

“Oh, yes.  And both were thrown out of the ranks of pugilists for the same reason, dirty fighting.  One calls himself Devlin the Devil and the other is Jemmy Wheeler.”

“I wonder why Sir Simon hired them?” I mused out loud.

“I questioned that myself and came to a conclusion.  You know, Brummell, quite a bit of smuggling still goes on around the Brighton coast.”

“So I have heard, though it does surprise me, given the respectable nature of the town.”

Lord Yarmouth leaned closer and lowered his voice.  “Make no mistake, Brighton is lively.  I’ve heard tales of a secret club located somewhere on the sea coast.  Their activities go beyond the pale.  Far beyond.  As for smuggling, it’s widespread.  And given Sir Simon’s background . . ..”

I tilted my head, remembering the talk that Sir Simon had amassed a great deal of money through unsavoury means.  “What exactly is—er, was the baronet’s background?”

Lord Yarmouth thought for a moment.  “My father told me Sir Simon made his fortune in smuggling.  The baronet was not born to the title.  He got it after he’d given vast sums of money to Pitt for a favourite project of the King.”

“The Crown overlooking the fact the man was a criminal.”

“Oh, yes.  Money, you know, erases many sins,” Yarmouth said with a twisted grin.  He left me and caught up to Scrope, who was almost out the door.

I looked back at the table and knew the rest of the party would continue well into the small hours of the morning. 

I collected my things from Delbert and, after dropping a few coins in his hand, exited the club.  As often happens, a heavy fog had descended on London.  Scrope and Yarmouth had disappeared into the night.  I hoped they had hailed a hackney.  Nights like these are a pickpockets’ and foodpads’ heaven.

Standing on the curb, I barely formed the idea of hailing a hackney myself, when a shabby sedan-chair carried by two lackeys came around the corner from Jermyn Street.  The link-boy running ahead of the chair to lead the way held his torch high.

Congratulating myself on my luck, I tossed the boy a coin, and the vehicle came to a halt in front of me.  It was nothing like my own superiour sedan-chair, but it would get me home.  I gave my direction to the lead chairman, settled myself inside—brushing the dirt from the seat first—and was on my way.

Immediately, my mind went back over the evening’s events.  Three things stood out among them.  One:  Petersham, secure in his position as a peer of the realm, continued unaffected by the shadow of suspicion on him.  Two:  Fairingdale would try to use the information he had gleaned about the fateful dinner to cast doubt on me.  The jackanapes!  And three:  Sir Simon had been a smuggler.  What did it all mean?  My tired brain could not work it out tonight.

At length it occurred to me that we had been travelling for a longer period of time than necessary to reach my house. 

About to rap on the roof and ask if the chairmen knew where they were going, I was thrown to my knees when the vehicle was dropped unceremoniously to the ground.  Instantly, a beefy hand jerked open the door.  One of the chairmen grabbed a fistful of my coat and dragged me outside.

My stick!  The dog’s head cane with the concealed swordstick Freddie had given me!  If I could just reach it.  I pushed my assailant with all my might.

Freed, I lunged back inside the chair.  My hand closed tight around the stick, but there was no chance for me to turn the mechanism before I was dragged from the chair’s interior.

The two chairmen were on me now, pulling my protesting body down a dark alley.  The link-boy was gone, and the thick fog prevented me from determining anything about my location or my attackers.

I fought them with my feet, as they each had one of my arms, and made satisfying contact more than once.  Abruptly, one of the men held me in a tight grasp while the other punched me in the stomach.  I doubled over in pain, the stick clattering to the cobblestones beneath me.  Escape seemed impossible.

“Here, take my money,” I gasped when I could, judging any sum I carried not worth the battering of my person.  I hoped the thieves would not take my pocketwatch, as it had belonged to my father.

My offer was met with cruel laughter and a hard knock across my knees with some sort of club.  Crumpling to the ground, I was swiftly brought upright again.

In pain, and confused as to why the men did not take my valuables and go, my head spun.  I feared I would lose consciousness at any second.

One of the villains must have thought the same thing.  He grabbed my shoulders and brought my head to an even level with his.  His foul breath washed over my face.  “Iffen ye don’t want no more o’ what we be givin’ ye ternight, keep yer bleedin’ nose out o’ Bow Street work.”

The other man guffawed and poked his partner in the ribs. “Ye ain’t made ‘is nose bleed yet.”

The first man grunted, drew back his fist, and made sure the task was accomplished.

A final
thwack
on the side of my head and the sensation of falling are the last things I remember.

“Sir, now that you have bathed, should you not return to bed?” Robinson asked.

“No.  Stop coddling me.  Between you and Chakkri, one would think the Grim Reaper was at the door.”

“Reow!” the cat commented from where he was winding himself around my ankles.  Since I had arrived home in the early morning hours, Chakkri had not left my side.  He had curled up in the crook of my arm while I slept, offering a murmured comment of concern and a sympathetic paw stretched to my chin whenever I woke in pain, which was frequently. 

“I could put a drop or two of laudanum in your tea—”

“What you could do is stop fussing like a mother hen and help me dress,” I snapped.

“Yes, sir,” Robinson intoned with an injured air.

God, not his Martyr Act this afternoon!  Did I not have enough to bear with a head that felt it contained a quantity of Vauxhall’s fireworks ready to explode?  Not to mention