The Tainted Snuff Box (28 page)

I trust I kept my expression perfectly bland. 

Even when Sylvester Fairingdale was waved inside, crowing loudly with mirth.

I was ruined.

Fairingdale would go straight to White’s after meeting with the Prince.  He would recount the tale of my humiliation at the gentlemen’s club.  From there, I estimated it would take no more than half a day for word to spread throughout fashionable London that the Prince of Wales had refused to receive Beau Brummell.

No tailor, no less a duke, would open his door to me.  In fact, tailors and other assorted tradespeople would be banging on
my
door, rescinding credit and demanding I pay my debts immediately.  With the sum of cash I currently had, I could sooner envision sheep speaking—in French—than I could foresee meeting my obligations.

With great dignity, I returned to my sedan-chair where Ned and Ted stood open-mouthed.  “Let us go home.  I am weary.  And there is no need to speak to Robinson of what just happened.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Brummell,” Ted agreed.

“Reckon the Prince ain’t ‘ere, Ted?” Ned asked, confused.  “Are all these men standin’ around waitin’ for ‘im?”

I entered my sedan-chair without hearing Ted’s reply.

It is hard for me to tell you exactly how I felt at that moment.  Riding home, my emotions ran the gamut of anger at the fickle Prince, who is known to cast aside friends as quickly as out-of-fashion coats, to determination that I must clear my name.  Rapidly.

Though not tonight.

Tonight I wanted to make plans, then seek my bed.  I had spoken nothing less than the truth when I had told the twins I was fatigued.  Unlike strapping young Corinthians who can ride hell for leather, box at Gentleman Jackson’s, fence with Angelo, carouse all night with opera dancers, and submit to a mere four hours’ sleep daily, I am a creature who requires rest.  Intellectual endeavours can be equally as strenuous as physical, you know.

Thus, arriving home I told a dubious Robinson I was not hungry.  “I shall retire for the evening.  See that I am not disturbed.”

“Very well, sir,” the valet replied, eyeing me curiously.  “Do you not wish me to help you undress?”

I waved a hand.  “No, I am going to select a book and then hibernate in my bedchamber.”

I walked into the bookroom, never once looking back.  Closing the door, I strode to my desk and pulled out the items I had found in Sir Simon’s study.  Scanning the list of dates on the paper, I was satisfied to see I had remembered correctly.  Tomorrow’s date was listed. 

Stuffing the paper and the seal back into a drawer, I pocketed the tawny jackal’s head mask and exited the room.

Upstairs in my bedchamber, the fire had been built up.  Chakkri stood next to its warmth.

“Good evening, old boy.  We are in the suds now,” I told him.

He watched solemnly as I undressed and donned fresh nightclothes.

“Never fear for your lobster patties, though:  I have a plan.”  I threw back the bedcovers and climbed atop the firm mattress.  The cat hopped onto the bed.  Soon, I lay on my back, a position Chakkri took as an invitation to lie on top of my chest and stare at me.

I stroked his soft fur.  “In the morning, I shall behave as if nothing has happened.  Robinson might fuss over my rising early, but it will be nothing compared to his reaction if he finds out I have fallen from grace.”

Chakkri placed a sympathetic paw on my chin. 

“Please.  There is no need to grow maudlin.  My reverses are only temporary.  For I shall hire a coach and travel once more to Sir Simon’s house.  I shall wear that mask and attend the meeting of the baronet’s secret club.  Then I will find out what the devil they are doing.”

“Reow!”

“And just who is directing Anubis now that Sir Simon is dead.”

I rolled onto my stomach, dislodging the cat.  What would the feline’s fate be without me to care for him?  Would anyone else put up with him lying down in the center of the bed and falling asleep as he did now?

And what of Petersham?  Would he be capable of defending himself against Bow Street?

What about Lady Perry?  What would happen to her if her husband or his cousin were accused?

My eyes closed, but in the darkness I could envision the expression on Freddie’s sweet face should she learn of my downfall.  That would be my nightmare come to life.  How could I bear it if I were no longer welcome at Oatlands?

  Oatlands?  Dash it, I would be lucky to stay out of debtors’ prison once word got around that I was no longer in royal favour.  No, unless I could uncover Sir Simon’s murderer at the Anubis meeting tomorrow night, the only course left open to me would be to flee the country, never to see those I cared for again.

* * * *

“I have business in Brighton and will not be returning home today.”

“Yes, sir.  Shall I have one of the twins hire a coach?”

“A comfortable coach with an amiable driver, Robinson.  I have no wish to be at the mercy of an ill-sprung vehicle and an inebriated coachman.”

The valet helped me into a Turkish-blue coat.  “Er, does your journey relate to the unpleasantness at Brighton?”

“Yes,” I said, picking up the walking stick Freddie had given me.  I might need its deadly blade.  Guns have no place in my household as I cannot abide shooting birds and have yet to be challenged to a duel.

“Sir, once you were asleep last night, I went around to The Butler’s Tankard.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling myself tense.  Had Robinson heard what happened at Carlton House?

“I did not stay long, in case you needed me for anything.  While I was there, Rumbelow, who serves as underbutler at Vayne House and cannot keep his tongue in his head—”

“I know who he is,” I said in some amusement.  It was hard to say whose tongue ran faster:  Robinson’s or Rumbelow’s.

“Rumbelow says Lord Petersham’s father, Lord Harrington, is about to instigate a slander case against Bow Street for maligning the viscount’s name.”

“I cannot say that I blame him.  Robinson, have a care will you?  One of my York tan gloves has a spot on it.”  I handed him the glove, much to his consternation.

A second later he said, “I do not see anything.”

I raised an eyebrow.

Robinson went down to the kitchen to clean the glove, which I admit was not dirty.  I merely wanted a ruse to take him from the room.  Once he was gone, I took the jackal’s head mask from my bedside table drawer.  Unhappy at the way it marred the lines of my coat, I nevertheless folded it into my pocket.  Then I slipped downstairs into my bookroom.  There, I opened a locked drawer of my desk and extracted a substantial amount of money.

I was waiting in the hall when Robinson came back with my glove.  “Here you are, sir.”

“Excellent.  Now wipe that glum look from your face, man.  All is in order.  I shall return very late tonight, if not tomorrow morning, so do not wait up for me.”

“Are you sure you do not wish me to pack a bag and accompany you?  It is a long journey to make and return in one day.”

“True, but it can be done.  Where is Chakkri?”

“In the kitchen watching Andre de-bone a chicken.”

“Good,” I said, fighting a feeling that I would not be coming back.  “I bid you good day, Robinson.  Thank you for . . . for cleaning the glove.”

The valet gave me a puzzled look.  Swiftly, I put on my hat and walked down the front steps to the waiting coach.

After giving the driver detailed instructions, I was on my way.  I noted the time was just eleven o’clock.  I drew the blinds over the coach windows, wishing to be private.

As we reached the edge of London, the coachman halted the vehicle and performed the errand I had commissioned.  From that time on, we only stopped to change horses.  Once London was far behind us, I raised the blinds and watched as we rolled by the autumn English countryside.

All the while, the idea that had first come to me outside the merchant’s yesterday grew in my mind.  My blood boiled with indignation.  If I was correct, and the murderer was whom I thought he was, the revelation would turn the aristocracy on its ear.  

When at last we reached Brighton, I paid the coachman and once again hired a horse to take me to Sir Simon’s house by the sea.  I wound my way to the same copse of trees where Miss Lavender and I had conversed the other night.

Miss Lavender!  Devil take it, I had forgotten to send word to her.  Dismounting, I shrugged and sat on a fallen log, trying not to think of the effect such an action must have on my previously pristine breeches.  Instead I kept watch over the house.

After a while, when darkness had fallen, I unwrapped a chunk of Stilton cheese and a piece of bread I had purchased in Town.  There had been no sign of life at Sir Simon’s, so I had nothing to do but wait.

Around ten o’clock my efforts were rewarded.  One by one coaches began to arrive and deposit mask-clad gentlemen.  A footman came running from the front door to greet each one and take them inside.

I counted fourteen arrivals before all became quiet again. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out two items, one of which was the purchase I had had the coachman make for me.  The contents of the packet would make Robinson faint.  For it was a pair of
lace
cuffs.  Most unfashionable.  Gentleman like myself, concerned with a neat, masculine appearance, wear pleated cuffs.  But the lace cuffs would serve as my only disguise other than the second item, the jackal head mask.  I fixed the lace around my wrists.

 Then, I pulled the mask from my pocket, placed it over my face, and made my way to the front door.

The crushed shells under my feet made my approach audible to the footman on duty.  He came outside.  “Good evening, sir.”

A nod of my head seemed all that was required of me to gain entrance to the house.  I breathed a sigh of relief.

The footman conducted me toward the western part of the house, down a torch-lit stone stairway, to where another footman stood guard.  “Your ring,” he barked.

I held up my right hand, then looked surprised.  “I had it on a moment ago,” I said from behind the mask.  “The damned thing must have fallen off my finger.”

He eyed me skeptically for a moment, then apparently decided my language and dress suited him.  He opened the door.

Another stone staircase leading downward met my gaze.  I descended the stairs just as if I had done so many times before, for the benefit of the big man standing guard outside yet another door. 

As I drew closer and heard the sounds of male and female laughter coming from inside, I could also ascertain the identity of the footman I approached.  He was none other than Sir Simon’s other pugilistic footman, Devlin the Devil, the one who, along with the late Jemmy Wheeler, had attacked me.

He glared from beady eyes set in a full face.  “Password.”

“What?” I said.

“Give me the password.”

Blast!  I feigned drunkenness.  “Pashword.  Uh, lemme see.”

“Hey, Devlin, that fellow there wasn’t wearing his ring,” the first footman called down to us. 

“No ring.  No password.”  Devlin the Devil glared at me, then pulled out a gun with one hand and grabbed me by the arm with the other.  He pushed open the door and marched me through it.

The scene before my eyes was one of shameless decadence.

Long tables were set out, laden with meats, fruits, and numerous bottles of wine.  But another sort of feast was also being offered.

The females of the company were dressed—if one could call it that—in the sheerest of muslins.  This material concealed little.  I confess my gaze lingered on the ladies longer than what could be considered strictly necessary.  One woman’s gown had fallen from her shoulder.  She did not seem to mind being discovered in such an immodest state, or in the position she was in with her partner, a man stripped to the waist.

As to the acts being engaged in by some of the other couples, well, a gentleman does not speak of such things.  You will have to use your imagination.  Lord Yarmouth had not exaggerated when he told me the club’s activities were beyond the pale.

All of the men, who I assumed from their dress were those on the fringes of Society, wore jackal head masks, even the man playing the fiddle in one corner. 

When everyone perceived my arrival, the fiddler stopped playing and there was general whispering.   A tall man, evidently the leader, extracted himself from his place between two females and approached.

Devlin said, “This one says ‘e can’t remember the password.”

 “Knew it yeshterday,” I bluffed.

“Doesn’t have ‘is ring either.”

Abruptly, the tall man reached out and ripped the mask from my face.

Amidst gasps, a cultured voice said, “ ‘Tis the Beau!”  Men scrambled back into their shirts and gathered their possessions.  None of them wanted to stay to be identified under these circumstances.

“Hold the gun on him, Devlin.  We shall take him upstairs to the study,” the tall man said. 

I recognised his voice immediately.

“Do not be concerned, gentlemen,” he told the room at large.  “There is no doubt in my mind that Mr. Brummell can be persuaded to remain silent about what he has seen here.  Or perhaps we shall decide to admit him to our selective few.”

I felt a small measure of satisfaction.  He was exactly the one I suspected.  The one I now remembered seeing with the jackal head ring on his finger.  The feeling of triumph was followed by one of sadness, then apprehension, as I was let back up the cold stone stairs.

We entered the study where Miss Lavender and I had found Jemmy Wheeler’s body.  The killer walked around the desk and seated himself, still masked, while Devlin held the gun against the back of my head, rendering me immobile just inside the door.

My only choice was to use my cool composure and humour him as long as Devlin held the gun, lest I be shot dead.  I must not let on that I knew his identity.

“Well, sir,” I began, “you have caught me out.  I am not drunk.  I admit to an overabundance of curiosity about your club.”

“An admirable try, Mr. Brummell, but you and I both know better,” the tall man said.