“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.”
“Dash my wig, Mr. Brummell!” Sir Simon expostulated, and at that moment I wished I could knock his wig and its wearer to the floor. “Many a man from a so-called fine family indulges in activities you’ve never even dreamed of. Just because a man is related to, or associates with, honourable people doesn’t mean he is honourable.”
“How very right you are, Sir Simon,” I said, fixing my gaze on Prinny, then casting a speaking look at the baronet.
I looked at the Prince again. “Will you excuse me, your Royal Highness?”
He nodded his permission, and I turned on my heel and strolled in Arthur Ainsley’s direction. I cooled my aggravation with a glass of wine procured from one of the many footmen in the room. Glancing at my pocketwatch, I noted only five minutes remained before six, the traditional time the Prince led his guests in to dinner.
Lady Perry smiled at me from where she stood with her husband and Lord and Lady St. Clair. I returned the gesture, though I did not stop to talk. My goal was Mr. Ainsley. I did notice that Lady St. Clair had a rather pinched expression on her face. Likely she did not approve of Lady Perry being in public in her condition, though there was nothing yet in Lady Perry’s appearance to indicate she was with child.
Still, Lady St. Clair struck me as the sort who probably removed herself to her country estate the very day she learned she was pregnant and remained there until after giving birth, deeming it unseemly to do otherwise.
“Good evening, Lady Prudence, Mr. Ainsley,” I said, wandering over to where the two stood by the fireplace. Neither one looked happy at the intrusion. “The Prince was just telling me of your discussion this afternoon regarding Indian architecture.”
“I brought him a book he liked,” Mr. Ainsley muttered shortly.
Not a friendly soul, is he?
“Mr. Ainsley is an expert planner, Mr. Brummell. The Prince is wise to accept his help in renovating the Pavilion,” Lady Prudence declared.
Let us hope he was not planning the Prince’s demise. “Lady Prudence, have you an interest in architecture, as well?” I asked.
“Yes, Mr. Brummell, I have. Mr. Ainsley has been kind enough to educate me, and I find myself grateful to him for doing so.” She favoured Mr. Ainsley with a serene smile.
I tilted my head and looked at the two. He needed an audience, so puffed up was he with his own real or imagined abilities. She was a dab of a girl, a reflection of her mother’s training in the conventions, no doubt. Where Lady Chastity clearly rebelled against her mother’s teachings, Lady Prudence embraced them and even expanded upon them. She needed someone as serious as she thought she should be.
I fixed a pleasant expression on my face and said, “There, Mr. Ainsley. Lady Prudence and I quite agree that the Prince is fortunate to have the benefit of your knowledge. He must have enjoyed the time you spent with him this afternoon making the ideas in his head become a reality, at least on paper.”
Mr. Ainsley regarded me with derision. “Reality? The Prince does not know the meaning of the word. The Pavilion is becoming naught but a pleasure dome, an unreal extravaganza of excess. Witness the number of mirrors in this room, for example. His Royal Highness is the very exemplar of narcissism.”
Lady Prudence drew in her breath sharply.
I struggled to keep a cool countenance at these heated words.
A tinkling of bells sounded, announcing dinner, and distracting me. I saw the Prince lead the way to the dining room, Freddie on his arm. I stared in surprise, for I had not seen her arrival. Naturally, as the highest-ranking lady present, she would go into dinner on the Prince’s arm. If I were lucky, I might be seated near her. First, though, I must finish my conversation with Ainsley.
But when I turned back to him, he and Lady Prudence had gone. I looked around and saw them joining Lord and Lady St. Clair, Mr. Ainsley smiling at something Lord St. Clair said.
The riddle of Mr. Ainsley would have to be dealt with later. Right now, I must content myself with studying him over dinner. There were more gentlemen than ladies present, so I did not have a lady to escort. As I was about to enter the Eating Room and find my place, Viscount Petersham and his friend Lord Munro caught up with me.
“I say, Brummell, well met,” Petersham greeted me with a mischievous grin. Lord Munro gave me a brief nod.
“Petersham, what has got you in high spirits?” I asked as we crossed into the Eating Room.
“I’ve my new snuff box, the one Munro gave me,” Petersham said, casting a fond glance at his friend. “It’s beautiful and it’s filled with my new special blend, the one I promised the Prince he’d be the first to try.”
“Splendid,” I said, peering over people’s heads trying to see if the Prince was going to follow the conventions when seating the guests. If so, Freddie would be on his right. There might be casual seating, tho
ugh, since there were only a few more than a dozen of us. Perhaps I could sit next to the Royal Duchess after all.
“Here it is,” Petersham said, pulling the snuff box from his pocket. “Remember I said I would show it to you? Take a quick look.”
Diverted, I picked the snuff box up from Petersham’s outstretched hand and examined it with pleasure. An antique, the box was dated 1633. Made in the shape of a book, the box was inlaid with mother-of-pearl and engraved with a head of Charles II.
“What’s going on back there?” the Prince called. “Brummell, come and sit down, will you? Gad, Petersham, does that box Brummell is holding contain your new blend? Remember, you said I should be the first to try it. I shall not stand for your breaking your word.”
“Yes, sir,” the viscount responded proudly. “And you shall be the first.”
“Lord Petersham and Mr. Brummell, you vexing men,” Lady Bessborough called from her place on the Prince’s left. She acted as hostess while Mrs. Fitzherbert remained ill. “Do put that snuff box aside until after dinner. I am persuaded the Prince would not like his food to grow cold.”
Petersham looked like a little boy told to put away his favourite toy.
Lord Munro grasped his arm. “Why don’t you put the snuff box on the sideboard for everyone to see, Charles? Then after dinner, the Prince can sample your new blend.”
“Good idea, Harold,” Petersham said. He walked to the great sideboard and looked for a place to display the box. Plucking a pineapple from the top of a silver epergne, he put the snuff box in its place.
The Duchess of York smiled at me from her seat beside the Prince. The angel had reserved the place next to her for me.
I made sure all the ladies were seated, then slipped into my chair. “Freddie,” I said in a low voice, “I tried to see you earlier. Are you quite recovered from this morning’s shock?”
She nodded. “I suppose so, dear. Thank you for asking. Has there been any word as to the girl’s identity?”
“No one recognized her. As sad as it is, there is nothing more we can do at the moment.” I could not take my eyes from the Royal Duchess, and felt the day’s tensions draining away now that I could gaze upon her lovely face. Tonight she wore a magnificent emerald necklace set off to perfection by a rich green velvet gown.
“George,” she whispered. “We must pay attention to the company and not be rude.”
As if waking from a sleep, I looked around the table to see a few curious gazes cast our way. I took a deep swallow of the wine a footman stationed behind me had just poured.
Have I mentioned to you recently how much I dislike the Duke of York?
I turned my attention to the table. The food had been laid out before the guests came into the room. There were as many as forty dishes on the table, meats, vegetables, jellies, potatoes, more than we could ever consume. Although on my other side, Sir Simon made a hearty attempt to do so all on his own. Naturally, he took it upon himself to admonish the Prince not to try a single dish until he had partaken of it first.
To be fair, I must say I contributed to the demise of the fine dinner as well. I enjoy a zestful appetite, one that has yet to display itself on my still lean person, thank heavens.
Once the first course was complete, an army of footmen came in and brought in another round. We dined on these sumptuous dishes, then finished with a dessert course and the table was cleared.
Around ten o’clock, Lady Bessborough signaled for the ladies to follow her to the Saloon, leaving us gentlemen to our fruit, walnuts, and port. There was a general shuffling about as gentlemen got up, walked around, and stretched their legs. With the ladies gone, we could all sit together, arranging ourselves down the table from the Prince.
I took Freddie’s chair next to the Prince just in time. Sir Simon made a move for it too late and had to settle for sitting next to me, with Petersham and Munro on his right. Directly across from me was Lord St. Clair, engaged in conversation with Mr. Ainsley on his left, followed by Lord Perry, Victor Tallarico, and Doctor Pitcairn.
A trio of footmen came in carrying an unexpected treat. For our amusement, the Prince’s pastry chef, obviously not a Frenchman, had made a delightful confection. On each plate stood a spun-sugar frog, colored green, complete with raisins for eyes, looking ready to leap from our plates. Frenchmen are commonly called Frogs, you know.
The Prince laughed uproariously at the chef’s sense of humor. “We must have no fear of the Frogs, gentlemen. Instead we shall eat Napoleon and all the Frenchies alive if they come to invade us.”
Everyone joined in the laughter as port was poured into glasses.
Petersham had no sooner sat down than he sprang back up. “My snuff box!” He retrieved it from the sideboard and took his seat. “Before we devour these Frogs, your Royal Highness, you must try my new snuff.”
“Pass it this way at once,” Prinny commanded jovially.
With great ceremony, Petersham passed the box to Sir Simon, who passed it to me. I was about to hand it to the Prince, when suddenly, Sir Simon reached across and snatched the box out of my hand. Everyone looked at the baronet expectantly.
Sir Simon bounced in his chair—rather like the toad he was—hopping up and down. “You cannot be too careful, your Royal Highness. For your safety, I insist on trying it first.”
“Egad,” Petersham protested to the Prince. “I wanted you to be the first to try my new blend, sir.”
Sir Simon clutched the snuff box. “Your Royal Highness, you must allow me to take a pinch of the snuff first. After all, we cannot have you succumb in front of the Frogs.”
Good God, frogs on our plates and a toadeater at our table. I half expected to wake up and find myself on the banks of a stream, watching Sir Simon on his lily pad.
Did he really think Viscount Petersham would poison the Prince? No, he just wanted another opportunity to fawn over Prinny.
However, I seemed to be the only one with uncharitable thoughts toward the baronet. Except Petersham and Munro, everyone else, including the Prince, was chuckling at Sir Simon’s jest.
“Go on then, Sir Simon,” Prinny said. “Take a pinch, then pass the box along to me.”
On center stage now, the baronet placed a line of snuff on the back of his hand, raised it to his nose, and inhaled deeply.
He turned a triumphant face to us, red lips grinning.
Then his eyes bulged. The snuff box slipped from his fingers, bouncing from the table down to the carpet.
Sir Simon’s breath came in rapid gasps, an ugly sound.
The laughter around the table died.
Abruptly, Sir Simon’s hand went to his throat. He made a final choking sound, then keeled over, his head crushing the frog confection on his plate with a loud clatter.
Chapter Eight
“Oh, dear God,” the Prince uttered.
Sir Simon’s two brutish footmen rushed to their master.
The baronet’s eyes stared sightlessly at me. I quickly reached over, thinking to untie his lace cravat, but Doctor Pitcairn was around the table in a flash. “Good thinking,
Mr. Brummell, but I shall see to him.” He waved the footmen away and examined Sir Simon.
The stunned silence that had prevailed until now broke.
“Is he dead?” Lord Perry asked.
“What a shame,” Signor Tallarico said without a hint of sorrow.
“Must be dead,” Lord St. Clair concluded precisely.
“If he is dead, he has died a hero,” observed Mr. Ainsley with a piercing glance at the Prince. “He saved the Heir Apparent.”
The Prince’s eyes rounded, and his mouth opened and closed, little moans escaping him.
“Let us not jump to conclusions,” I said with as much composure as I could muster. “Sir Simon is of a certain age, and, not to put too fine a point on it, has just consumed a large amount of food and drink. Perhaps he has suffered a heart seizure.”
“Too bad, though it would be dishonest for me to say I liked the f
ellow. All that jasmine scent he wore, you know. Likely to bring on one of my sneezing fits,” Lord Petersham commented.
“Petersham,” I said rather sharply, “let us be quiet now and let the doctor do his job.” Dash it all, did the lazy viscount not realize the implications of this event? Sir Simon’s attack had come upon partaking of Petersham’s snuff.
Apparently, though, the viscount was oblivious. “Well, I don’t mean to sound unfeeling, but you didn’t like him either, did you, Brummell?”
I experienced a sudden urge to whip my neckcloth from around my throat and stuff it in Petersham’s mouth to silence him.
“I say, where is my snuff box?” Petersham went on blithely. “Pitcairn has things in control here. I’ve a mind to join the ladies. Get away from this unpleasantness, if his Royal Highness agrees.”
But Prinny’s eyes were fixed on Sir Simon as if envisioning that the baronet’s condition might well have been his own fate. His shock could not have been greater if someone had slapped him.
“I see the snuff box on the floor under Sir Simon’s chair,” Lord Munro said. “I’ll get it for you, Charles.”
“I am afraid you must not, my lord,” Doctor Pitcairn said, his examination of the baronet complete. “The magistrate will want nothing moved. Sir Simon is dead. It was not a heart seizure. He was the victim of a strong poison.”
Several people glanced in Petersham’s direction.
The Prince of Wales began to sob into his hands. “Someone tried to kill me. God help us. Maria, Maria, I need Maria. Oh, God, I could be the one dead.”
I rose and helped him to his feet. “Come, sir, I shall see you to your chamber. Word will be sent to Mrs. Fitzherbert. Her current illness is not contagious, is it?” I inquired more to take his mind away from Sir Simon than anything.
“No, no a mere disorder of the stomach. Send for her, Brummell, do. Oh, how my pulse gallops,” the Prince moaned.
I had never seen him so agitated.
I looked toward Doctor Pitcairn. “Perhaps it would be best for you to see to the Prince. I shall send for Mrs. Fitzherbert and the magistrate as well, and then join you.”
The Tainted Snuff Box Page 7