The Tainted Snuff Box Read online

  “Egad, I’ll wager not even you, who invariably has someone trying to gain your stamp of approval, have seen anyone toady to the extent Sir Simon does with the Prince. And his

  clothes . . .” Petersham pulled a face.

  “The perfection of studied simplicity of dress is not a doctrine Sir Simon embraces. By the way, are those two brutish-looking footmen his?”

  “Yes. I think they’re ex-pugilists. The baronet probably thinks being accompanied by them adds to his consequence.”

  Ah, then it was Sir Simon’s custom to have his footmen about and not a tactic employed since Perry’s challenge at the Johnstones’. Good. That scene was best kept private. One had to wonder, though, where the two had been while their master was threatened.

  I kept these thoughts to myself, however, and replied, “Bathing and leaving off his powder and paint might be more to Sir Simon’s credit than going about with two rough fellows. Did you attend the boxing match tonight? You were not at the dinner party.”

  “No, I woke late. Anyway, I cannot like the energy required in fights. So much effort is expended even just watching the contestants,” Petersham drawled. “It’s all too fatiguing.”

  You might call Viscount Petersham a trifle lazy. When in London, he never leaves his house before six in the evening. Billiards is a game whose exertions are above his level of comfort.

  From across the room, the Prince’s voice sounded. “I feel a draft coming from somewhere. Is there, mayhaps, a window open?”

  Silence reigned as the guests looked around for the culprit.

  Sir Simon raised his voice importantly. “Shall I have my men examine all doors and windows, your Royal Highness?”

  Petersham quickly closed and locked the window beside us and spoke up. “I beg your pardon, your Royal Highness. I was enjoying the sea air.”

  “Petersham?” the Prince inquired. “It’s not like you to expose yourself to a chill. What of your asthma? Surely you must always want a warm room.”

  All eyes turned to us.

  Petersham bowed low. Not about to insult the Prince’s choice in keeping the room over-warm, Petersham said, “Your Royal Highness is kind to be concerned. I am well. It is just that, as you are aware, I like to mix snuff, sir, and have found the sea air inspiring.”

  “Oh? Tell us about your new mixture,” the Prince commanded. “I’m sure we are all eager to hear what you’ve come up with.”

  “Sir, I cannot,” Petersham said in a solemn tone. “I brought several jars of snuff with me from London and am mixing a secret, unique new blend. You shall be the first to try it though, you have my word.”

  The Prince nodded his acceptance of this plan, and conversation in the room resumed. Petersham’s lapse with the window was apparently forgiven with the promise of a new blend of snuff.

  Sir Simon motioned to his footmen to build up the fire to increase the warmth in the room. I wondered briefly if the bacon-faced Sir Simon in all his awful grandeur did not offer to oversee the emptying of the royal chamber pot.

  “You won’t be vexed with me, will you, Brummell, for letting the Prince try my new snuff first?” Petersham asked me. “My motives are selfish, I admit. There is talk the government may reinstate the tax on tea. And you know I love to mix teas as well as snuff. I’m trying to get on Prinny’s good side so he’ll use his influence to persuade Pitt not to levy that horrid excise on tea again.”

  “Where did you hear that about the tax? I cannot imagine Prime Minister Pitt reinstating it. He is the one who cut it back in 1784.”

  Petersham’s brows came together. “You don’t expect me to remember, do you? Remembering things makes my brain hurt.”

  “Well, if you wish to remain in Prinny’s favor, you have done the right thing by not attending the pugilistic fight.”

  “Munro wanted to go,” Petersham confided. “He enjoys the sight of men stripped to the waist. But I persuaded him we would be better for a quiet evening at home. He’s rented a house across the Steine.”

  “Do not forget you promised to show me the new snuff box Munro gave you,” I reminded him, having a collection of snuff boxes myself.

  Petersham’s face brightened. He is a lad with a different snuff box for every day of the year. “You’ll be overcome, I daresay, so great is the artistry. I have another with me tonight,” he said, pulling a pale blue box from his coat pocket and extending it to me.

  “Lovely,” I pronounced, examining the fine workmanship carefully before handing it back to him.

  Petersham shrugged. “It’s a good box for summer, but a trifle light for winter use.”

  At that moment, Lord Munro himself sauntered up to us. He is of average height and wears his pale hair in a wispy style. Oftentimes I have felt he is jealous of the friendship I have with Petersham. “Charles, it’s late. Shouldn’t we be going home? You cannot be much amused here.” He looked at me pointedly.

  Having had enough of unpleasant encounters for one evening, I exchanged a polite remark or two before wandering away with Petersham’s promise to bring the new snuff box to dinner the following evening so I could view it.

  I had not taken two steps when I observed Arthur Ainsley across the room with Lord and Lady St. Clair and two young ladies. I quickly decided that my slight acquaintance with Lord St. Clair would serve me well enough to gain an introduction to Mr. Ainsley.

  Accordingly, I crossed the room and bowed in front of him. “Good evening, my lord.”

  Lord St. Clair is a tall, angular man with features that manage to look stern and kind at the same time. His hair is a dark blond with a slight wave, cut short over a wide forehead. Tonight, his clothes were unexceptional, and he wore a single ring on his right hand. A spark of recognition lit his brown eyes. “Brummell, I thought the Prince said you had arrived. Good to see you again. Allow me to introduce my wife,” he said in his precise way of speaking.

  “I am pleased to meet you, my lady.” As the introductions were performed, I bowed low over Lady St. Clair’s hand. A woman of middle years, she wore a quietly expensive gown of

  nutmeg-brown silk. Her jewellry, consisting of a golden topaz set, was also reserved in taste, but of the best quality, and her dark hair had been arranged in a classic style. All in all, the impression I received was of a woman beyond reproach in her manner and appearance.

  “Thank you, Mr. Brummell,” she responded in a formal tone. “May I present my daughters, Lady Prudence and Lady Chastity?”

  Lady Chastity favored me with a blinding smile. Here was the girl Signor Tallarico had been flirting with earlier at the Johnstones’. Indeed, she is a striking female, with golden curls and merry green eyes. She had been one of the Toasts of the last Season in London, I suddenly recalled, and had turned down numerous offers of marriage, earning her the title of Flirt. I imagined she and her mother engaged in frequent arguments over the low cut of Lady Chastity’s gowns.

  In sharp contrast, her sister, Lady Prudence, is very prim. Her face is the sort that rarely reveals a smile. A watercolor to Lady Chastity’s oil, her nondescript, sandy-coloured hair was pulled back into a severe knot on the top of her head. Her gown was a high-necked greyish muslin.

  I said everything polite, noting that it was Lady Prudence with whom Arthur Ainsley had been so deep in conversation earlier. Now I looked at him expectantly. “George Brummell,” I said by way of introduction.

  “Arthur Ainsley,” he replied. He has a deep, serious voice and manner. Not a man to sit around White’s Club exchanging bon mots. His manner was somber.

  Defying the normal behaviour of mothers with daughters to marry off, Lady St. Clair did not linger to secure my approval. She quietly moved away after a murmured excuse, her husband and Lady Chastity behind her. Lady Prudence remained at Mr. Ainsley’s side, gazing at him with a reverent expression.

  Unwilling to give up this opportunity to speak to Ainsley, I detained him by saying, “Is this your first visit to the Pavilion, Mr. Ainsley?”

  The ma
n hesitated a moment. I thought he wanted to follow the St. Clairs. “No, I have been here a few times before.”

  “Ah, then you are familiar with the renovations the Prince has undertaken. Some say he has been overly ambitious in the architectural designs of his palace by the sea,” I said casually, letting the words drop and waiting patiently.

  The transformation my words caused was notable. Without any dramatic change in his expression, his pale face began to take on a glow of intensity. His black eyes met my gaze, and I found I could not look away.

  “His detractors are fools. The Prince’s ambition where the Pavilion is concerned should be honoured. He will create a lasting monument to the artistry of this age.”

  “Indeed,” I murmured, temporarily at a loss as to how to respond to this passionate statement. “I had been admiring—”

  But Mr. Ainsley did not hear me. He turned his head and fixed his gaze across the room where the Prince held court. His expression hardened. In an acid voice he said, “One could only wish his Royal Highness’s aspirations for his own projects extended to compassion for the ambitions of others.”

  And with that, the young man abruptly strode away, Lady Prudence trailing behind.

  Though the room was now almost suffocatingly hot, I experienced a chill at the bitterness Arthur Ainsley held toward the Prince of Wales.

  Where would he allow his resentment to lead?

  Chapter Five

  The next day I awoke around ten. I like to have the morning well aired before I open my eyes.

  My first thought was of the Prince and his safety. Was he all right? Surely an alarm would have been raised during the night had any attempts been made to harm him. He was probably still abed, or consuming vast quantities of food. Or both.

  “Reow,” Chakkri said enthusiastically, as if he knew I was thinking of food. He stared at me with deep blue eyes from his position in the exact center of the bed. That is where the feline insists on sleeping.

  Before you let out a hearty guffaw, and perhaps even think me mad for allowing him to take up this prime spot, let me hasten to assure you it was not my decision. Far from it. Shortly after coming to live in my household, the cat waged a war with me when I tried to put him out of my bedchamber at night. Yes, I said a war. The prize to the victor: the center of the bed. His weapons? A will of iron and a voice like a screaming baby.

  There is absolutely nothing wrong with sleeping diagonally.

  Robinson entered the room balancing a tray with a pot of coffee. Three liveried footmen followed him, carrying a large tub filled with hot water for my daily bath.

  Robinson is almost my height. I often give him coats I have grown bored with, which he then has altered to his smaller frame. I cannot say whether it is the wearing of my fine cast-offs or just a natural ability, but Robinson has a general air of loftiness. “Good morning, sir. Would you care for coffee before you bathe? A roll?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I responded, sitting up and arranging the silk coverlet around me.

  “Reow,” Chakkri stood, stretched, then raised his dark nose toward the tray Robinson held. He sniffed the air. “Reeoow!”

  “The cat wants his breakfast, Robinson. I daresay a roll will not do,” I chided. “You know he likes Andre’s scrambled eggs with cheese sauce.”

  The valet heaved a long-suffering sigh.

  Oh, God. I prayed I would not be treated to Robinson’s Martyr Act this early in the day. Robinson and Chakkri are hardly the best of friends. In fact, the meticulous valet had threatened to leave my employ when the cat first came to live with us. A valet’s reputation is made by the appearance of the gentleman he serves. The thought of cat hair on my clothes put Robinson in high dudgeon. A devilish bad business.

  A large increase in pay brought us over the first hurdle. Later, my permission for the valet to use a special cloth to remove any cat hair that dared to attach itself to my coat resulted in an uneasy truce. Still, Robinson has never quite resigned himself to living with the animal. He counts cat hairs on the furniture, and continually tries to find ways to persuade me to crate the cat up and send him back to Siam from whence he came.

  I raised a brow pointedly at the valet’s lack of attention to the matter of the cat’s breakfast.

  Robinson’s lips pursed. He poured my coffee, dismissed the footmen, and with a muttered, “Andre has spoiled him at home with his cooking,” left the room to get some eggs.

  A short time later Chakkri’s stomach was full, and so was mine. Using a well-licked paw, he washed around his whisker pad. Then, he leaped back onto the bed from the floor where he had been dining off the royal dishes, turned around once, lay down, and fell asleep.

  I frowned.

  Usually after breakfast the cat was ready for an official room inspection, the purpose of which was to determine that everything was in its place and had not been moved during the night. He normally followed this with a monitoring of outside activities from the window, and an inventory of my Sevres collection, muttering about his findings along the way. He is a very vocal animal.

  Since we had arrived at the Pavilion, however, Chakkri had chosen to sleep most of the time. Sea-gulls flying past the window caused him to raise his head briefly, but that was the extent of his activities. He was becoming the Viscount Petersham of cats. A lazy specimen of Siamese fur.

  I mulled the matter over while bathing, but had to put the problem from my mind when it was time to begin what Robinson and I have dubbed The Dressing Hour. This is that crucial part of the day when I don simple, yet perfectly fitting and elegant clothing, and tie my famous neckcloth. Once the process is complete—and yes, you are correct, it takes longer than an

  hour—I never so much as glance in a mirror to check my appearance during the day. Until it is time to change clothes for the evening.

  Roughly two hours later, while fashioning the final adjustments to my cravat, my mind drifted to the previous day. “Robinson, have you perchance taken note of a guest by the name of Arthur Ainsley?”

  Making certain not a single wrinkle marred the way my mazarine blue long-tailed coat set across my shoulders, the valet’s expression brightened. Nothing was better than good gossip in Robinson’s opinion. “Yes, sir, I have. A quiet young gentleman, but one whose emotions run deep.”

  “Hmmm, yes, I agree. I wonder what his feelings are toward the Prince,” I said, turning to face the mirror.

  Robinson paused in the act of gathering my nightlinen for the laundress. “The Prince, sir?”

  “Precisely,” I replied, unwilling to tell Robinson about the peerage Mr. Ainsley felt the Prince had promised him and then reneged on. I had said enough to whet Robinson’s appetite and wanted to see what he could find out on his own. A seed planted and all that. You understand.

  “Hand me my black velvet greatcoat, will you, Robinson? I have a mind to take a walk on the beach.”

  “On the beach, sir?” Robinson said, his voice rising in alarm. “Are you quite certain? The pebbles will ruin your perfectly polished Hessian boots!”

  “It will not signify. I trust you to take care of the boots,” I told him while putting on the greatcoat and reaching for my hat. “While I am out, perhaps you might see to obtaining some sand. For Chakkri, you know,” I said, indicating the corner of the room where Chakkri’s private container stood.

  The valet’s gaze met mine.

  In a fit of pique over the cat taking up residence with us, Robinson had selected a particular container for Chakkri to use for his personal needs. The porcelain tray had been a gift specially made for me and presented by a merchant hoping to advance his daughter’s chances in Society. The place where Chakkri often covered a damp spot was directly over the artist’s rendition of yours truly, complete with perfectly tied cravat, tall hat, and raised quizzing glass.

  Robinson’s lips tightened.

  “Yes,” I said, snatching up the last roll from the breakfast tray and making my way to the door, “we have to fill the tray with . . .
something, eh?”

  I left Robinson with a moue of distaste on his face.

  In the hallway, I allowed myself a smile.

  * * * *

  Outside the Pavilion, a breeze carried the sea air to my nostrils, and I inhaled deeply, enjoying the scent. Although the autumn air chilled my face, I was warm enough in my greatcoat, despite the grey day.

  Striding along the building with my gaze trained on the upper floor windows, I counted aloud. “. . . Two, three, four—aha! That should be my window right there,” I said to no one. Moving several yards away from the structure, I removed the breakfast roll from my pocket and crumbled it into bits with my gloved fingers. Busy tossing the crumbs about on the ground, I did not hear anyone approach.

  “George,” a sweet, light voice called from behind me.

  I swung around, dropping the rest of the roll. “Freddie!”

  Her Royal Highness, Frederica, the Duchess of York stood a short distance away smiling at me. The daughter of a Prussian king and married to King George III’s second son, the Duke of York, Freddie is a small, dignified lady with brown curly hair. Today she wore a rich forest-brown pelisse over a cinnamon-coloured walking gown and matching bonnet. Her charming countenance is the dearest female face known to me. Especially when it holds such an expression of delight as it did now.

  “Dear, whatever are you doing, breaking that roll and throwing it about the ground like that?” she asked.

  “I thought to attract birds for Chakkri to watch from our window,” I explained. I covered the few steps between us, swept off my hat, and bowed low to her. Then I brushed a last crumb from my hand, reached out and clasped her gloved hand in mine.

  One of her hands. The other hand held a leash, which was attached to a dog. Freddie has what you might call a fondness for the creatures and lives with upwards of one hundred of them. This one I had not seen before. He is a sad-looking hound with big, people-like eyes, his colouring running to black and brown with a white chest flecked with black. His snout is white, and he has enormous brown eyebrows which—I give you my word—he wiggled at me.