The Tainted Snuff Box (20 page)

Here is something I know will interest you.  I have had a letter from a friend who lives in the same county as a certain Mr. A known to both of us.  Mr. A arrived at his father’s estate, and has been known to be in a high temper ever since.  The purpose of his visit seems unclear, and my friend says she cannot say if Mr. A accomplished it, for he departed after only three days.

At Oatlands, we are kept constantly busy by the antics of Minney’s pups.  They are at the chewing stage.  I fear Ulga left the door open to one of my wardrobes, resulting in the destruction of several pairs of my dancing slippers.  It cannot signify, however, as when shall I be dancing?

This weekend is the last of the month.  Dare I hope to see you at Oatlands?

Yours, ever, and truly,

Freddie

I made a mental note that as soon as I was freed from my royal prison, I would make a trip to Bond Street and buy Freddie a half-dozen pairs of dancing slippers.  Perhaps if she continued to shy away from Town entertainments, I might be forced to dance with her myself at Oatlands.  One could hope.

As for travelling there this weekend, at that moment I felt fortunate whenever I travelled to the door to Carlton House for a breath of fresh air.

At last, the day of the St. Clairs’ party dawned, and claiming a prior commitment, I was finally released from Prinny’s grip.  Mrs. Fitzherbert’s arrival from Brighton helped speed me home.

Standing on the threshold of the St. Clairs’ ballroom that evening, clad in my impeccable Alexandria-blue coat, over white waistcoat and formal black knee breeches, I noted this was no small gathering.  A select list of those who had neither retired to their country estates for a bit of foxhunting, nor retreated to take the waters in Bath, were present.

More than one hundred finely dressed members of Society drank, danced, flirted, and exchanged gossip.  In a separate room set up for cards, the ladies played as feverishly as the men.  The party was sure to be deemed a “crush” and therefore could only be to Lady St. Clair’s social credit.

Her husband perceived my arrival and came up to greet me.  “Brummell, good of you to join us.”

“A delightful entertainment, my lord,” I said with a bow.

“Anything might appeal to you at this point, though, I expect.  I hear you have been much at Carlton House.”

“Indeed,” I replied, unwilling to discuss my visit.

Lord St. Clair did not seem to mind my reluctance.  “I find these sorts of festivities tedious in the extreme, but they do have benefits, I suppose.”  He waved a hand in the direction where his daughter, the beauteous Lady Chastity, held court amongst a crowd of admiring swains.  She appeared to favor one of them, Victor Tallarico, bringing a frown to her father’s face.

“No doubt Lady Chastity will have an even larger choice of suitors during the Season next spring,” I ventured.

“If she is not carried away with an unsuitable match before then.  I tell you, Brummell, I cannot like Lord Perry’s Italian cousin.  My wife invited him tonight out of politeness to the Perrys.  My suspicions that he might be a spy for Napoleon grow stronger.”

I raised my right eyebrow.  “Oh?” I said, thinking his lordship had new information.

“The man is a subject of the French Emperor’s now.  England cannot be too careful of foreigners.”

Was the country of Tallarico’s origin the sole basis for Lord St. Clair’s misgivings about the Signor?  This narrow view seemed out of character for his lordship.  Perhaps his disapproving ideas stemmed from a more personal source.

As we watched, Signor Tallarico—in yet another pink waistcoat—successfully extracted Lady Chastity from her group of admirers and began a slow but inexorable walk to the tall windows that led to the balcony—a balcony where a few stolen kisses could be exchanged.

“Excuse me, Brummell,” Lord St. Clair said, taking in the situation.  A look of determination filled his eye.  “I must speak to my daughter.”

Accepting a glass of wine from a circulating footman, I thought of Lord St. Clair’s other daughter and her ofttime companion, Arthur Ainsley.  Scanning the crowd for him, I saw Sylvester Fairingdale and Lady Bessborough with their heads together.  Attired in a violent violet, the fop was probably trying to glean every bit of damning information about me that he could.  He would press Lady Bessborough into naming the exact length of time I held the tainted snuff box before we all sat down to dinner, concoct a motive for my perfidy, then present his case to the Prince.

I took a large swallow of wine, then chided myself for being silly.  Fairingdale would not go so far as to blacken my name with the Prince.

For the next part of the evening, I conversed with various friends, frustrated that Mr. Ainsley continued to play least in sight.  I learned the Perrys had had to cancel their acceptance to the party because Lady Perry was once more suffering from her condition.  I danced with the playful Lady Chastity, who was all flirtatious glances, then two other young ladies, each well enough in her way, but neither had the sweet nature of Freddie.  Or the flash of fire in Miss Lavender’s eyes.  Hmmm, where had that last thought come from?

On one side of the room, a long table had been set up with various treats to tempt aristocratic palates.  Tiny iced cakes in different shapes, a selection of fruits, nuts, miniature rolls of wrapped beef, squares of small sandwiches and—joyously—a plate of lobster patties were spread out along the white cloth.  Had Chakkri been present, he would have devoured the latter.  He shares my fondness for lobster. 

About to select a plate and further jeopardize the perfect fit of my clothing, I heard Mr. Ainsley’s voice coming from an ante-room nearby.  I could not quite make out what he was saying over the music, so I stepped closer, intent on conversing with him.  He would not get away from me this time, deuce take it, and my questioning would be more strenuous than ever before.

Then my plans were thwarted in the most unexpected way.  The door was partially ajar, affording me an excellent view of Arthur Ainsley holding Lady Prudence in a passionate embrace.  I wondered her spine did not snap, so tightly was he holding her.

Quickly, I retraced my steps without being detected by either of the lovers.  My mind raced.  Had things between Lady Prudence and Arthur Ainsley really gone so far?  My own eyes told me they had.  Although Mr. Ainsley was an intense man, I found it hard to believe the mousy Lady Prudence could raise him to such heights of lust at her parents’ own house.  And why would he leave her in the middle of a simmering courtship to go to his family estate?

“What in heaven’s name did you see in there to make you jump back like you were bitten by an adder, George?”

I turned around swiftly and beheld the sight of Lady Hester Stanhope looking like a goddess from mythology in a white silk gown with gold trim.  A true friend, and an Original, as Society is apt to name anyone out of the ordinary, I hold Lady Hester in high regard.  Her wit is sharp, the turn of her cheek exquisite, and her neck elegant and graceful.  One night at Almack’s Assembly Rooms, I had been so bold as to remove a pair of ear-bobs she was wearing.  I told her she had no need to wear such things.

“Lady Hester!” I said, bowing over her hand.  “I am your humble servant.”

Her ladyship gazed at me right in the eye.  She is a tall lady, near six feet in height.  “Don’t gammon me, George.  Either tell me what you saw, else I shall see for myself.”

I shrugged a shoulder, happy the gesture no longer pained me.

Lady Hester swept over to the ante-room, grinned and returned to my side.  “I am not the least bit surprised.”

“Really?  Are you positive you are not going to faint from the sight of such a passionate display?”

She laughed heartily, then spoke for my ears alone.  “Ah, but what is the true source of Mr. Ainsley’s passion?”

I stared at her.  “Lady Hester, come and sit with me by the window, will you not?”

She smiled, and we crossed the room to sit on a silver and green striped backless sofa.     

“About Mr. Ainsley,” I began, only to be interrupted by her ladyship.

“That tiresome man can think of only one thing,” she said, then chuckled.  “Well, two things, I suppose I must say after what I just saw.”

I looked at her sternly.  “There is something Mr. Ainsley wants even more than Lady Prudence’s prim lips.  And you know about it, you impossible girl,” I accused.

“I am hardly a girl at nine and twenty, George,” Lady Hester protested.

“Cut line and give over, Lady Hester.  What do you know about Arthur Ainsley?”  Lady Hester’s uncle is Prime Minister Pitt.  She runs his household and is privy to all kinds of government gossip.

“A seat in the House of Lords,” she whispered.  “And he’ll do anything to get one.  Rumour has it he is more bent on it now than ever.  He just had a flaming row with his brother, the heir, this past week while on a visit home, regarding his views of the government.  Ainsley is livid that all his brother can think about is crop rotation.”

“Let me ask you this, Lady Hester, and please know we are speaking confidentially.  What do you think about the attempt on Prinny’s life?”

She looked at me in dawning surprise.  “You surely don’t think Ainsley had anything to do with that?”

“You said he would do anything to get a seat in the House of Lords.  What if he was promised a peerage, then the promise withdrawn?”

Lady Hester drew in her breath.  “Oh, my.”

“Indeed.  And had not Sir Simon taken the snuff—”

Lady Hester rolled her eyes.  “I beg you will not join the hordes of others praising that odious man to the skies.”

“I thought he was a friend of the Prime Minister’s,” I said, hoping this would encourage her to tell me what she knew about Sir Simon.

“
Was
a friend.  George, that was years ago.  My uncle loathed Sir Simon for all that he made him a baronet.  That was before Uncle found out that Sir Simon was heavily involved in smuggling.  Did you know that aspect of the baronet’s character?”

“I had heard something of the sort.”

Lady Hester fanned her heated cheeks.  “The man was a despicable criminal.  Uncle told me that he’d been taken in by Sir Simon’s story of a low birth, of a childhood of poverty.”

“Mr. Pitt is too good.”

“Too trusting, in this instance, George.  The tale goes that as a boy, Sir Simon saw a fine gentleman alight from a carriage at an inn where the future baronet was begging for coins.  The gentleman did not even notice the beggar boy, but Sir Simon never forgot him and vowed to be like him one day.  He fell in with smugglers on a night raid, worked hard, and eventually got his own ship.  Over the course of time, he built quite an impressive organization that he managed to keep secret from the government.”

“Including Prime Minister Pitt.”

Lady Hester nodded.  “Exactly.  Sir Simon was generosity itself when it came to contributing to the government, and to the King’s projects.”

“He must have wanted a title desperately.  And you know, Lady Hester, he must have wanted to become that gentleman in the inn yard that day.  Did you ever observe how he clung to bygone fashions?”

She reached over and squeezed my hand.  “You noticed that, George?” she asked in mock astonishment.

“Amongst other things.  Would you care to dance, Lady Hester?  Your attention has wandered to the dance floor.”

“I see Colonel Smith is here.  I wish to dance with him.”

“Colonel Smith?” I asked, raising my right eyebrow.  “Who was his father?”

“Piffle!  Who was George Brummell’s father?”

I smiled at her.  “Who, indeed?  And who would ever have heard of me if I were not friends with the Prince of Wales and knew to a nicety the gentle art of dressing oneself?”

Lady Hester hooted with laughter.  “Come to our house tomorrow night for dinner, George.  Do not say you have other plans!  Break them if you must.”  Lady Hester rose to her feet.  Before she walked away, she bent and whispered in my ear.  “Your friend Ainsley will be there.”

With that lure, she glided away, leaving me deep in thought.  An arresting idea presented itself in my brain and would not be dislodged.

All along I had felt no one at the table that fateful night at the Pavilion had reason enough to kill his Royal Highness.  Petersham certainly had no motive, and Prussic acid was not something that one inadvertently mixed with snuff.  No, the poison was put into the box deliberately.  Bow Street might think the viscount responsible, but the viscount never would.  Neither would I.

I also did not believe Victor Tallarico was a spy.  The only time that man would employ a spyglass was if he trained it on the female bathers at Brighton Beach. 

The single suspect worth considering could be Arthur Ainsley.  He was the sole person with any sort of motive to do away with the Prince, revenge for a reneged promise.  I would attend Lady Hester’s dinner party and continue my investigation of that man.

The simple conclusion was that, amongst the company present, Prinny had no other enemy than Arthur Ainsley.  If Mr. Ainsley proved innocent, then the idea niggling in my brain would not be refused closer examination any longer.

What was my idea?  Why, that the poisoned snuff was meant for Sir Simon all along.  If I was right, the killer had been clever, very clever, for he had succeeded in diverting all attention from the question of who would wish to kill
Sir Simon
.

However, little did I know then that Bow Street would shortly have another name to add to its list of suspects, one they believed might well have wished to see the Prince put permanently out of his way.

My reprieve from Carlton House did not last long.  The following afternoon directly after I had finished a sumptuous breakfast, which included bacon, eggs, Andre’s special

French-style toast, and slices of fresh pineapple, the knocker sounded.

Leaving Chakkri devouring a plate of eggs and bits of bacon—he does not care for pineapple—I descended the stairs from the dining room to encounter Robinson admitting a footman in the Prince of Wales’s grey livery.