The Tainted Snuff Box (27 page)

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 my 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.

“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 handwriting, 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.

Cooling my heels on the pavement, I saw, much to my chagrin, that Sylvester Fairingdale stood nearby, waiting for an audience with the Prince, as well.  I gave him a chilly nod.  He looked down his nose at me. 

Tonight he wore yellow breeches, and a red-and-white spotted waistcoat, topped by a white coat with large brass buttons.  The garments were laughable.  Perhaps he was here at Carlton House as the court jester.

However, laughing was the furthest thing from my mind when, a few minutes later, the footman returned to me, his expression wooden.  He stretched out his hand and handed me my card.  “His Royal Highness does not know a George Brummell.”

I felt the blood drain from my face.