The Tainted Snuff Box (8 page)

I stared at him in surprise.  “What would you have had me do?  The young lady appeared to be Quality.  For all I knew, she might even have been a guest in this house.”

He let out a conceding sigh at this.  “I expect you’ve the right of it.  It’s just that I am provoked beyond all reason.  My feelings are much too lacerated by those damned threats to sustain the further strain of dealing with this unknown young lady’s death.”

“I understand.  I am persuaded you would feel better for some of that brandy.  If you wish, I should be glad to swallow some first to be certain of its purity,” I told him, picking up the glass the footman had brought in earlier. 

“No need for that,” a voice boomed from the doorway.  Sir Simon bowed, then advanced into the room and snatched the glass from my hand.  He promptly inhaled a large gulp and grinned at the Prince.  “I’m at your service, your Royal Highness.”

Much to my disapproval, the arrival of the odious Sir Simon brought an expression of relief to the Prince’s face.  “ ‘Tis an honourable thing you’re doing, Sir Simon, putting my life above yours.”

Sir Simon swelled with pride.  Or more likely, conceit.  “My duty to England, sir.  Only doing my duty.  Well, Mr. Brummell, I hear you picked up something more than a shell on the Brighton beach this morning.  Too bad the female was dead, eh?  Not much good in that, is there?” 

A fit of ribald laughter overtook the baronet.  I was shocked to see an indulgent smile cross Prinny’s face.  He accepted the glass of brandy from Sir Simon, deeming it safe to drink now.

“Was she a pretty girl, Brummell?  Damned waste if she was,” Sir Simon went on.  Then, not waiting for me to answer, he addressed the Prince again, lowering his voice.  “That puts me in mind of something I almost forgot, your Royal Highness.  I have one of those special foreign prints of nude ladies that I am occasionally able to obtain.  Would you care to view it now?  You won’t be disappointed,” he said and winked at Prinny.

I stood without speaking.  As I told you, I draw back at some of the Prince’s diversions.  This sounded like one of them.  Sir Simon’s endless toadying to the Prince’s every desire evidently knew no bounds.

Prinny must have perceived my disapproval.  “Brummell, I’ll see you later today.  I want a report from you before we dine this evening regarding that matter I told you to keep an eye on.”

I bowed as he and Sir Simon exited the room, Sir Simon’s voice coming back to reach my ears.  “. . . Have a fine appetite myself.  Would your Royal Highness care for a cold collation before you view . . ..”

I hoped the chef was not serving frog’s legs.  If he was, the toadying Sir Simon’s limbs were in jeopardy.   

And the day was not over yet.

By The Dressing Hour that evening, I felt the level of my frustration demanded a quiet evening in my room, a well-prepared dinner, a couple of bottles of Chambertin wine, and Chakkri my only company.  Unless I could persuade Freddie to take her meal with me and the feline.

But it was not to be.

By dinner the Prince wanted a report on Mr. Ainsley, yet had maddeningly spent the afternoon closeted in his library with the very gentleman himself.

Upon my seemingly indifferent questioning, a chatty footman outside the door proved useful.  He imparted the information that his Royal Highness did not wish to be interrupted as he was deep in discussions of architectural designs with Mr. Ainsley.  I was assured that half-a-dozen armed footmen were with them.

  Though I lingered in the general vicinity of the library as long as I could, wanting to catch Mr. Ainsley, I finally had to give up and go abovestairs to my bedchamber to dress for the evening.

Along the way, I sought out Freddie, hoping for a few minutes of her company.  I was anxious to be sure that her nerves had not been completely overset by the afternoon’s events,

and—very well I admit it—that she had not been too charmed by Signor Tallarico.

I sent word to her room, only to have Ulga inform me that the Royal Duchess was lying on her bed with a cool cloth to her forehead and could not be disturbed.  There would be no opportunity before dinner for a private chat.  Devil take it.

I did run into Perry and inquired about the deceased young lady on the beach.  Neither he nor Lord St. Clair nor Mr. Kearley had recognized her.  Mr. Kearley would do what he could as magistrate for the district, then the girl would be buried in an unmarked grave.  A twinge of pain squeezed my heart when a mental image of her sprawled on the beach came into my mind.  I shook my head over a life cut much too short.  Opening the door to my chamber, I mused that someone, somewhere, must be frantic over the girl’s disappearance. 

My thoughts were redirected when Robinson handed me a welcome glass of wine.  We selected proper evening attire:  Fine white linen shirt, black breeches, and figured white waistcoat topped by a long-tailed, slate-blue coat.  I always carry my father’s Venetian gold watch but, other that, wear no jewellry.  My quizzing glass does not count as jewellry.  It is a social necessity.

While I dressed, Chakkri slept like one dosed with laudanum in the center of the bed.  As punishment for my petting Humphrey, the cat would no doubt ignore me entirely until he determined I had suffered enough. 

“If I may ask, sir, when will we be returning to London?” Robinson inquired while laying out thin black shoes for my inspection.

“We only arrived yesterday,” I said, giving a nod of approval to the shine on the shoes.

“Yes, sir,” the valet replied with a wistful sigh.

“You and Chakkri share the same sentiments on being in Brighton.  He does not care for it either.  Have you noticed that he has been sleeping almost continuously since we got here?”

We both glanced at the cat, though I think the action was involuntary on Robinson’s part.  The valet gave a pleased smile. “Indeed, I have.  Stray cat hairs have been confined to your bed.  Fifteen of them this afternoon.  That makes my job of seeing that you appear in public without the ornamentation of cat hair on your clothing much easier.”

Chakkri opened one blue eye, stared at me, then snapped it shut without a murmur.

Perhaps I had been sentenced to thirty hours of feline indifference for petting Humphrey, unless Chakkri extended my term for the offense of bringing him to Brighton.  In that case, it could be days before he spoke to me again.   

“Sir,” Robinson said, moving to the dressing table to retrieve a bottle of Eau de Melisse des Carmes lotion.  “I inquired discreetly as to Mr. Arthur Ainsley’s character.  In particular, I tried to ascertain his sentiments regarding the Prince of Wales.”

“And what did you find?” I asked, holding out my hands.

Robinson poured a bit of the lightly scented lotion onto my left hand and began vigorously massaging it in.  Have I mentioned that my hands are beautifully pampered?  One would not wish for them to appear anything less than their best while raising my quizzing glass or delicately taking a pinch of snuff. 

Robinson examined my nails which are neatly squared in shape.  “Mr. Ainsley has frequently made cutting remarks about the Prince in the presence of his valet.  He called the Prince ‘double-tongued’ and said he was capable of playing false with a man’s dreams.”

The Prince was double-wived and double-chinned, too, but that was beside the point.  I thought of him and Ainsley in the library, poring over sketches of the Pavilion.  “And to look at him with the Prince, one would think them boon companions.” 

“That may be, sir, but Mr. Ainsley does speak in an uncomplimentary way behind the royal back.”

“Interesting.”  My mind went back to the previous evening.  I recalled the way Ainsley had looked, and the bitter way he had bemoaned the Prince’s lack of compassion for the “ambitions of others,” I believe was how he put it.

“The younger son of an earl, Mr. Ainsley resents his brother, the heir to the title,” Robinson continued.  He reached for a small scissors and snipped a wayward cuticle.  “Above anything, Mr. Ainsley wishes to be powerful.  He fancies himself an intellectual and wants to display his knowledge in Parliament.” 

“Has he money?” I asked, dropping my left hand and extending my right.

Robinson briskly repeated his ministrations.  “As to that, although he did recently receive an inheritance from his maternal grandmother, I fear it is not enough for one with Mr. Ainsley’s  goals.”

“Yes, he would need a tidy sum to rise to power in the government,” I reflected, wondering how Ainsley planned to increase his wealth. 

Content with my grooming, and satisfied my clothes were quiet perfection, I left Robinson to tidy the chamber.  I descended the stairs to find people assembled in the Long Gallery, drinking wine and exchanging gossip. 

The Long Gallery is precisely that being over one hundred fifty feet in length.  Thanks to the abundance of enormous mirrors framed in beechwood carved to resemble bamboo on the walls, the area looks much wider than it is.  Real and imitation bamboo furniture, including twelve black-and-gold lacquered hall chairs, reflect the Prince’s preoccupation with Chinese design.

The walls are covered in a deep pink color—darker than Victor Tallarico’s pink waistcoats—with painted rocks, trees, shrubs, and birds in a subdued tone of blue, everything in the Chinese style.

From where I was standing next to an eight-tiered pagoda, his Royal Highness stood only a short distance from me, Sir Simon stuck to his side like a leech.  What made Sir Simon’s clinging especially disturbing was that the Prince had obviously been making his way down the Long Gallery, greeting his guests.  For him to allow Sir Simon to tag along like a favorite spaniel while he played the gracious host, showed me the depths to which the Prince had fallen victim to Sir Simon’s toadying.

“Brummell,” Prinny said, approaching me.  “Have you that report I asked for?”

He wanted it now, in front of Sir Simon?  Not that I had anything new to say about Ainsley, but the Prince could not know that.

Unfortunately for my fashion sensibilities, my gaze shifted to the baronet, tonight rigged out in his high, powdered white wig and a deep maroon satin coat.  The skirts of that garment were boned to assure that they stood out around the wearer, the buttons ruby-encrusted.  The display of wealth did not end there.  A long, gold-coloured waistcoat sported row upon row of gold thread embroidery.  As was his custom, Sir Simon wore enough lace to beggar a dozen ladies’ lace boxes.

Tearing my gaze away from this fashion disaster, I bowed to the Prince.  “Sir, I regret to say I cannot provide any new information.  The subject of your inquiry proved otherwise engaged today.  Indeed, he participated in activities that your Royal Highness might be better able to describe than myself.”

“What?  Oh, right, just so.  Ainsley brought me a copy of
Views of Oriental Scenery
, a most inspiring narrative of Indian architecture.  We spent the afternoon discussing how I could apply some of the designs to the Pavilion.”

“How congenial,” I said.  “You can understand, then, why I was not able to perform the service you desired.”

“Yes, yes, but I want you to keep an eye on Ainsley nevertheless, Brummell,” Prinny said, glancing around to see if the man in question was within earshot.  Several yards away, Ainsley stood in his perpetual state of brooding next to a niche filled with a large Chinese figure.  The Prince stared at him  and said, “Ainsley could be the one behind the threats against me.”

Sir Simon’s painted face wrinkled in surprise.  “Do you think so, your Royal Highness?  You should have asked me to find out what I can about the man.”

I felt myself tense with indignation.  Did this painted pudding-bag think to supplant my friendship with the Prince of Wales?

Sir Simon winked lewdly.  “I wager that within a day I’d be able to tell you what he eats for breakfast and which female’s slipper he drinks his wine out of.”

Down the Long Gallery, I saw prim Lady Prudence gazing dutifully at Arthur Ainsley while he pontificated about some, I was sure, boring, topic.  I could not picture Lord St. Clair’s daughter offering, nor Arthur Ainsley accepting, her shoe as a substitute for fine crystal.  Even so, Sir Simon’s boastful declaration irked me.

“Mr. Ainsley is only one possibility.  I trust you to keep this information to yourself, Sir Simon.”  Prinny commanded.  “There are many possible corners, both at home and afar, from which the threats could have come,”

“Foreigners!” Sir Simon said in a disdainful tone.  “You can’t trust any of ‘em.”  Taking a step closer, Sir Simon murmured, “Your Royal Highness, have you noticed that the foreigner I told you about last night at the Johnstones is in our midst now?  He’s over there, flirting expertly, so he can get a leg over Lady Chastity.  Daresay she looks like the type that will let him.”

The Prince joined Sir Simon in a lascivious snicker.  “Which one is he?  God’s truth, Sir Simon, you find a way to make me laugh in spite of my anxiety.”

Sir Simon obligingly pointed at Victor Tallarico.

Down the Corridor, Tallarico, clad again in a dark coat over a pink waistcoat, bent close to whisper something in Lord St. Clair’s other daughter’s shell-like ear.  Lady Chastity was all giggles in the Italian’s presence.  His brown hair mixed with her golden curls, so close were the two. 

Still, I saw no harm in Lord Perry’s cousin.  I did feel disappointed in the Prince and worried for our friendship.  Sir Simon brought out the wilder side in him.  I felt the Heir Apparent had strayed from his usual discrimination in his choice of friends when he chose to associate with the baronet.  Sir Simon did not reflect well on Prinny’s character.

Besides, I wanted no one to supplant my place as the Prince’s favorite.  Can you blame me?  It was through my friendship with him that I first came to Society’s notice.  I have no aristocratic background nor any great fortune to recommend me.  I have only my sense of style and the friendships I have formed to keep me on my invisible throne at the head of Society.

Suddenly I wished to be away from them.  I could not bear to hear how the conversation might degenerate.  I said, “I shall avail myself of this opportunity to speak to Mr. Ainsley, your Royal Highness.  As for Victor Tallarico, he is Lord Perry’s cousin.  I believe that to be recommendation enough for his integrity.”