The Tainted Snuff Box (2 page)

“What?  Until you gain control of the government via a regency, sir, I do not see how you can name anyone a peer—”

“Yes, yes,” he interrupted peevishly.  “You know what it’s like, though.  Champagne flowed, Ainsley was being very agreeable.  I might have made a remark or two about making him a peer . . .” The Prince scowled, then brightened a bit.  “Ainsley is enthusiastic about my renovations to the Pavilion, did I tell you?  He has a great interest in architecture himself.  Why, he even contributed money for the purchase of some fine Chinese antiques for the place.  The English government is miserly when it comes to me, Brummell.  It’s nothing short of cruel.  A man of my sensibilities needs to be surrounded with beauty.”

I could understand that, I decided, thinking of my Sevres porcelain pieces, my own art collection, and the elegant furnishings of my residence in London.  “So Mr. Ainsley contributed money, er, in exchange for your supporting his bid for a seat in Parliament?”

The Prince shot me a withering look, one only a member of Royalty could achieve.  It is calculated to make one feel lower than a hedgehog’s dinner.  “Don’t be ridiculous.  Haven’t you been listening?  Ainsley gave me the gift of money because he appreciates what I am trying to achieve at the Pavilion. 
Coincidentally
, he misunderstood a discussion we had about his desire for a place in the government.”

“Did you tell him he misunderstood?”

“I had one of my aides inform him he had been mistaken in his assumptions.”  The Prince’s expression grew morose.  “Evidently, Ainsley became irate.”

“Is Mr. Ainsley that eager for a seat in Parliament?”

“I suppose.  Ainsley is the younger son of an earl and is jealous of his older brother, the heir, who will take his father’s seat in the House of Lords when the earl dies.  Something about how his older brother is only interested in farming and estate management.  Ainsley feels he deserves, and is better suited for, a voice in government.  A permanent voice rather than one he would have to be elected to.”

“Even so, your Royal Highness, would this be motive enough for Mr. Ainsley to try to
kill
you?” I asked doubtfully.

The Prince swallowed the rest of his brandy and turned a tortured face on me.  “How should I know?  All that is clear is that someone wants me dead!  Think of it.  My father is mad as a March hare.  A regency will be established at some point in time, mark my words.  If I die, my daughter, Princess Charlotte, will be next in line to rule.  She’s only nine years old, Brummell.  And speaking of youth, I’m too young to shuffle off to the grave!”

“Calm yourself, sir,” I said soothingly.  “Nothing of the sort will happen, I assure you.  I shall look into this Ainsley fellow.  Have you thought of sending him away?”

“No,” the Prince said in some surprise.  “I told you he’s helping me with plans for the renovation of the Pavilion.”

Now, pray, do not think from this last statement that the Prince is dull-witted.  Remember I told you he is passionate, and I expect I must also say single-minded when it comes to the Pavilion.  He is dramatic and self-indulgent, but not a stupid man.  Granted, I draw back at some of his wilder amusements, but overall he is a good fellow and my friend.  Indeed, where would I be now without his friendship?

Those nasty letters had wounded his pride and made him irritable in addition to frightening him.  “Are there many other guests, sir?  I only arrived this afternoon and have not had a chance to look about.”  My thoughts strayed to one person, a certain Royal Duchess I particularly hoped might have arrived.

“I don’t know,” the Prince said miserably.  “The usual crowd of my court, I suppose.  We are to go to the Johnstones’ house for dinner tonight.  You’ll have a chance to meet Ainsley there.  Not that I am saying he is the scoundrel, Brummell.”

“I understand, sir.”

“A masked villain could jump out at me at any moment,” the Prince said, rising.

Immediately a hellish shriek rent the air. 

I vaulted to my feet, only to encounter two large footmen as they burst through the chamber door, brandishing their guns directly at my person.

Confusion reigned.  The Prince looked wildly about for the source of the cry.  He fumbled for the gun in his pocket.  More armed guards crowded into the room, looking fierce and aiming their weapons at random. 

Only I knew what masked villain had jumped out at the Prince.

“Sir,” I said, “I forgot to tell you I brought my cat with me.  He has been sleeping under your chair, and you must have inadvertently stepped on his tail when you rose.”

All eyes turned downward to where I gestured.  Chakkri stood regally by the Prince’s chair, disapproval at this interruption of his slumber bristling in every whisker.

Remember I told you there was a certain withering look only royalty could achieve?  Evidently, Chakkri’s ancestral origins in the palaces of Siam enabled him to accomplish the expression quite well.  He directed his displeasure at the Prince, who put his gun away and stared back at the animal in surprise.

“What a fellow he is!  That cry sounded human,” the Prince exclaimed.  He raised his quizzing glass to better examine the feline.

Chakkri holds the distinction of being the only Siamese cat in England.  His face, ears, paws, and long slim tail are of the deepest velvety brown.  His lean, muscular, fawn-coloured body is more compact and limber than any other cat I have seen.  But the feature that intrigues me the most is Chakkri’s expressive deep blue eyes that hold the secrets to the mysteries of the East.  Or perhaps just the clues to what he wants for dinner. 

I suppose it would be remiss of me not to mention he possesses the palate of a gourmet and a rather loud, demanding voice.  But he has a sensitivity to beauty and a fastidiousness in regards to the grooming of his person I can only approve. 

A snicker at the source of the commotion, quickly stifled, escaped one of the men.  I noticed with some relief that the guards had lowered their weapons.

One of them, whom I presumed to be the leader, shot a stern glare toward his troops lest one of the others dare find amusement at the Prince’s panic.  He then turned to stand at attention in front of his Royal Highness.  “How may I serve you, sir?”

“Return to your stations,” the Prince ordered gruffly, allowing his quizzing glass to fall to his chest.  When the command was obeyed, and we were alone once more, he succumbed to a fit of trembling.

I had not realized until that moment just how frightened he really was.  “Sir, please sit down.  Shall I ring for your valet?”

“No, no,” Prinny said, his pale face as white as his cravat.  “Perhaps another glass of brandy, then I’ll make my way to my chamber to rest.”

I hurried to get the drink for him, alarmed at his genuine distress.  He seemed to recover presently, though, and gazed again at Chakkri, who had strolled to a place by the fire, a position outside the range of the Prince’s polished boots.  The cat began licking his aggrieved tail.

“Brummell, when did you obtain a cat?  And such an unusual one.  I’ve never seen the like.”

I felt a different anxiety grow within me.  A nagging worry that the Prince, who collected beautiful objects, would take a liking to Chakkri caused my cravat to suddenly feel constricted.  “I have had him some weeks now, sir.  He was, er, left in London by a Siamese man who returned to his country.”

  Actually, the cat was a gift from one Mr. Kiang, who thought he had outwitted me in regard to a painting featuring a cat, but that is another story.  Mr. Kiang claimed that Chakkri, named after one of Siam’s great generals, exhibited a character similar to yours truly.  My dear friend Frederica, the Duchess of York, agrees, but I feel the notion is ridiculous.  I shall leave you to form your own opinions on the matter if you feel so inclined.

“Odd-looking creature, what?” the Prince said.  “Rather like drawings I’ve seen of the raccoons that live in America.”

Chakkri abruptly paused in the act of washing his long tail to look at the Prince.  However, when he did so, he failed to retract all of his pink tongue into his mouth, leaving about half an inch sticking out.  At the Prince.

I turned a chuckle into a cough.

“You are coughing, Brummell.  Are you quite sure you have recovered from your recent indisposition?” the Prince asked warily.

“Yes, your Royal Highness.”

He rose, saying, “I think I shall retire to my bed for a bit before dinner.  My guests are aware of those loathsome threats against me, but I don’t want to appear anxious in front of them tonight at the Johnstones’.”

“Wise of you, I am sure.”  Relieved that the topic of Chakkri had been forgotten, I bowed low while the Prince exited the room.

Then I poured myself a glass of burgundy, regained my seat and addressed the cat.  “Are you proud of yourself, you rogue?  Sticking your tongue out at a member of royalty, and, I might add, the gentleman whose kitchens are generously providing you with buttered crab and soufflés of partridge.”

Chakkri licked a brown paw and used it to wash around his left eye.  His demeanor was one of complete indifference.

“You have made it clear since we arrived here this morning that you do not care for being away from home—pacing, sniffing every piece of furniture, and muttering under your breath while shaking your paw in repugnance—but strive for a little decorum.  You are at a royal residence.  Have some consideration for your host, whose very life may be in danger.”

“Reeooow!” Chakkri cried out suddenly, raising his wedge-shaped head so that his deep blue gaze met my grey one.  I felt a tremor of unease.  Call me a Bedlamite, but his tone was like an omen of impending evil.

Devil if he did not have the right of it.

* * * *

Whenever he visited Brighton, Prinny could always depend on a loyal and hearty welcome.  All the town bells pealed at the moment his carriage arrived.  You see, his love of Brighton had brought the town from a quiet, sleepy hamlet into a fashionable resort.  Hostesses vied for the privilege of having the Prince as a guest at their tables.

Mrs. Johnstone was no exception to this rule.  Expense had not been a consideration in the lavish evening prepared for his Royal Highness and a few dozen exalted guests.  A quartet of musicians soothed aristocratic senses, and every available variety of flowers perfumed the air.  Wax candles illuminated the rich scene in the Johnstones’ ornately furnished drawing room where the ladies glowed in gowns of silk, satin, and velvet, and sparkled with emeralds, sapphires, and diamonds.  The gentlemen present had, for the most part, adopted the fashion I have brought into style of dark coat, crisply starched linen neckcloth, and evening breeches.

“Brummell!  You have arrived in Brighton at last.”

Turning at the sound of my name, I saw my friend Lord Perry, accompanied by his charming wife.  Lady Perry had recently discovered she was expecting their first child.

Perry clapped me on the back.  A wealthy earl, he is a dark-haired, well-favored man, known among the ladies before his marriage as “The Greek God.”  He emulates my simple style of dressing to a nicety.  As he is a gentleman of sense in every respect, I often seek his opinions.

Lady Perry, a petite brunette, wore a malachite-green gauze gown with a front panel of matching velvet.  The waist was high, and the sleeves long and tight.  She also wore a brave smile, but I detected an absence of the colour that normally graced her pretty cheekbones.  Devoted to his wife, Perry had brought her to Brighton from London, hoping the relative calm of the seaside town would ease what was proving to be a discomfiting, though welcome, pregnancy.

“Just toddled in today, Perry.”  I smiled and bowed over his wife’s hand.  “Lady Perry, your beauty overwhelms my senses.  If you were not in a delicate condition, I would beg you to abandon this brute and flee with me to foreign shores.  I would have a boat ready at the Brighton docks in the morning.”

She chuckled, sneaking a look under her lashes to see the effect this banter had on her husband.  Not quite satisfied with the depth of his frown, she said, “I daresay he would not notice my absence for hours, so engrossed is he in examining the particular method the cellist has in plying his bow.”

Perry, whose affinity for all things musical was the only rival for his wife’s attention, took these taunts in good humour.  “My love, although the wisdom of leaving me for Brummell could be a topic for debate, a more pressing question might be how comfortable you would be on a sailing craft of any kind.  No less in the morning.”

She heaved a poignant sigh.  “I suspect you are right, Anthony.  Mr. Brummell, we must postpone our plans once more,” Lady Perry said, continuing the jest.

“Alas, ‘tis a bitter disappointment,” I teased theatrically.

“You are the second gentleman disappointed in his attempt to abscond with my wife, Brummell,” Perry said, a look of annoyance crossing his face.  “My cousin, Victor Tallarico, arrived in Brighton yesterday and has not ceased his attentions.”

“Your cousin?”  I queried, vaguely recalling Perry mentioning the fellow a few times during our friendship.  “I thought he lived in Italy.”

“He does.  My aunt married an Italian count in the diplomatic corps.  Over the years, the family has divided their time between England and Italy.  Why Victor has chosen to visit England at this particular moment, I cannot say.  He arrived at my Town house in London and was told we were here in Brighton.”  Perry nodded in the direction of a lively gentleman, dressed fashionably, but sporting a—Good God, a
pink
waistcoat—and whispering in the ear of a giggling blond-haired female.  “He is staying with us until some angry husband, father, or brother challenges him to a duel.”

“Oh, Anthony, Victor means no harm in his attentions to the ladies,” Lady Perry protested.  “He merely enjoys flirting, and the objects of his attention seem to like it just as much as he does.”

“Victor has been my friend since childhood, but that does not prevent my speaking the truth.  The man is a debaucher of women,” Perry said, gazing with disapproval at his cousin’s conduct.  “No female is safe in his presence.”