The Tainted Snuff Box

by Rosemary Stevens

  “If I might ask you, Miss Lavender,” Lord Perry said, “are you willing to take this lady to your shelter?”

  “Yes, I am, and we’ll leave at once, my lord,” Miss Lavender said. “Lady Perry, may I beg the assistance of your maid? I think it will ease this woman’s coming to me if Betty sees her settled in. I assure you I will return Betty to you safely this evening.”

  “Of course,” Lady Perry agreed. “I shall walk to the door with you. Oh! I daresay we need another cloak. Betty, would you . . .” The four women exited the room, Miss Lavender informing her father he might take his evening meal at Ye Olde Cock Tavern, as she expected to be home quite late.

  This news did nothing to improve the Bow Street man’s temper. “I’ve some questions for you, Lord Perry.”

  “I expect you had best sit down,” Perry said in a resigned tone as we resumed our seats. “I suppose this is about the attempt on Prinny’s life?”

  Mr. Lavender looked uneasily at the plush chair Perry indicated before seating himself. “Is your cousin here?”

  Lord Perry was every inch the earl. “Victor? No, he has gone to look for a hotel. If you have come to question me about him again, you are wasting your time. I have nothing further to say.”

  The two men’s gazes met and held.

  Mr. Lavender looked away first. He pulled his tattered notebook from his pocket. “Very well, my lord,” he said, burring his “r.” “Let us discuss Lord Petersham.”

  The wave of disapproval emanating from me would have cowed a lesser man.

  Lord Perry snorted a laugh. “First my cousin, now Petersham? Surely you do not think the viscount capable of concocting an assassination?”

  “Lord Petersham tries to give the impression of one lazy beyond comprehension, but I’m not fooled by the act. No man,” Mr. Lavender said, tapping the notebook with emphasis, “can be that slothful, my lord.”

  I chuckled. “You obviously are not well acquainted with the viscount.”

  “When I said ‘my lord’ I was addressing Lord Perry, Mr. Brummell,” Mr. Lavender barked. He rarely misses an opportunity to remind me of my rank. Or lack thereof.

  “Brummell is right,” Lord Perry stated. “Petersham is content with the usual gentleman’s pursuits, and he enjoys mixing blends of snuff. Tea, as well, I believe. There is not an ounce of harm in him.”

  “There was certainly more than an ounce of harm in that snuff he mixed,” Mr. Lavender said.

  “But he did not intend for there to be,” I said.

  The Bow Street man ignored me. “Lord Perry, how long have you known Lord Petersham?”

  Perry thought, then said, “As long as I can remember.”

  “And in that time, have you ever heard him speak ill of the Prince of Wales? Ever heard him say England would be better off without his Royal Highness?”

  Perry looked at Mr. Lavender with contempt. “This is ridiculous. Of course not. You will never convince me that Petersham had any intention of poisoning the Prince. That snuff box was on the sideboard in the Eating Room for a good part of the evening. Anyone present could have added poison to the contents of that box.”

  “That is precisely what I tried to tell Townsend and Mr. Lavender yesterday,” I said to Perry, then turned to the Bow Street man. “Petersham had a public conversation with the Prince about his new blend of snuff. A number of people knew the Prince was to be the first to try it. As Perry said, anyone in that room could be responsible, even the servants. Logic will tell you Petersham is not that person.”

  “Logic, eh?” Mr. Lavender said. “Let me tell you, laddie, logic doesn’t often play a part in crimes like murder. Passion, greed, and revenge, they are the ones.”

  “There you are,” I said triumphantly. “Even though Bow Street thinks it logical that Petersham is responsible because it was his snuff, he is not. You must look for the person with one of the motives you yourself outlined for us, Mr. Lavender.”

  The Bow Street man was not convinced. “You have a way of muddling things, Mr. Brummell, I’ll give you that.”

  “I am not muddling anything! What could possibly be Petersham’s motive? There is none, I tell you.”

  Mr. Lavender pocketed the notebook and rounded on me. “You are very protective of your friend.”

  “Yes, I am. I have no wish for his name to be bandied about in such a disgraceful manner. And I don’t want you going about insinuating Lord Petersham is responsible.”

  “And I don’t want you involved in another murder case,” Mr. Lavender said, his voice well above the level of normal conversation.

  “The Prince of Wales does want me involved,” I shot back.

  “Madness runs in his family.” With that, Mr. Lavender shoved a hat shaped like a coal-scuttle on his head and stomped from the room.

  “I do not think we convinced him of my cousin’s or Petersham’s innocence,” Perry said ruefully.

  “Neither do I,” I said, with growing concern. “May I have some of that Madeira?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Robinson opened the door to No.18 Bruton street upon my arrival home. “Good evening, sir. I trust everything worked out to your satisfaction regarding that strange woman you found on the London Road.”

  I crossed into the black and white tiled hall. “Miss Lavender is taking her in. Remember, the Bow Street man’s daughter runs a shelter for women in trouble,” I said, handing him my greatcoat, gloves, and hat.

  I retained the dog’s head walking stick Freddie had given me, reflecting that I missed the Royal Duchess already. I would write to her in the morning, telling her about the Frenchwoman.

  Robinson followed up the stairs behind me. “Will you be dining at home this evening, sir?”

  “No, I am not hungry at the moment. I shall be spending the evening at White’s and will order something there later. You may bring me some tea, though,” I said as we entered my bedchamber.

  This room contains every luxury a gentleman of fashion might require. The floor is covered by a red, blue, and ivory floral-designed Persian carpet. A set of large mahogany wardrobes line one wall. A tall, mahogany-framed dressing glass, one that rests on casters and can be moved about the room at will, stands in one corner. In another corner, a black lacquered screen is set up, Chakkri’s private sand-tray resting behind it. Engravings and paintings make my walls a delight to ponder, while my most prized Sevres porcelain collection sits on a

  crescent-shaped side table. The room is dominated by a tented bed with ivory silk hangings.

  Er, perhaps I should amend that to read as follows: The room is dominated by a compact bundle of Siamese fur named Chakkri. Asleep in the exact center of the bed, the cat woke at my entrance, let out a low “reow,” and stretched until it seemed he was a yard long. Then he stood up. Looking at Robinson, the cat made as if he would knead his sharp claws on the ivory silk coverlet.

  The valet sucked in his breath on a horrified gasp.

  Satisfied, Chakkri sprang from the bed without so much as a claw nicking the costly material. I am not surprised the animal did no damage. The cat has shown me from the day he arrived in my house that he holds an appreciation for the finer things in life. He slinks around fragile crystal, purrs at my delicate Sevres, and rolls in delight on the fur rug of my sedan-chair.

  “Good evening, old boy,” I greeted him, placing my stick across one of the chairs. I bent and petted his incredibly soft fawn-coloured fur. “Are you happy to be home?”

  But Chakkri was not inclined toward conversation at the moment. A new article had entered the house and must be inspected. He rose on his hind legs to sniff every inch of the dog’s head walking stick. Despite the canine motif, the cat appeared to approve the new addition, rubbing his whisker pad against it, giving the silver dog a playful nip on the nose. Finished with his examination, Chakkri moved to a position in front of the fire and began toasting his fur.

  Robinson unpursed his lips long enough to ask, “Shall I have the twins bring up a bath?” />
  “Absolutely. I am anxious to rid myself of the dirt from travelling.”

  “So am I,” Robinson claimed with a pointed look at the feline, then he exited the room. The valet had ridden home from the Perrys with Chakkri in his charge. I suppose I should be grateful the cat was not halfway to the coast in a carton marked “Siam.”

  “Quite a bumble-broth in Brighton, eh, Chakkri?” I said, moving to the wardrobe to select my evening clothes. “Who would have thought a short jaunt to Brighton would give us two deaths? I cannot help thinking of the girl Freddie and I found on the beach.”

  The cat turned his head toward me. “Reow,” he said urgently, his tail switching from side to side.

  “A sad sight indeed,” I agreed, gently lifting a gentian-blue coat from the wardrobe. “I shall keep in touch with that worthless magistrate, Mr. Kearley, and see if the girl’s identity is discovered. Freddie will want to know of any news as well.”

  The cat turned his attention back to the fire, his tail tapping impatiently on the carpet.

  I studied my selection of waistcoats. The white silk or the white jacquard? The silk. “More pressing, though, is the matter with Prinny. I have given my word as a gentleman that I shall find his would-be assassin. Even if I had not made my promise, someone needs to lift a hand to help Petersham before he finds himself mixing snuff at Newgate prison. Freddie said we cannot know everything about Arthur Ainsley’s motivations and I agree. Robinson can discover the man’s London residence and habits so I can discreetly inquire more fully into his life. Meanwhile, White’s is sure to be rife with speculation. I want to hear what is being said.”

  Chakkri remained silent, his posture now one of unconcern. He stared into the fire so long, I feared his eyes would dry up and fall from his head onto the Persian carpet. Why he turned his back on my musings about Prinny’s would-be assassin I cannot say. I confess to having given up trying to understand his feline brain.

  At that moment, my servants, Ned and Ted entered the room, carrying a large copper tub filled with hot water. Robinson followed, fussing, and directed them to place the tub close to the fire. He set a small tray with a pot of tea and a teacup on the table next to the chair.

  Ned and Ted are completely identical twins, tall country boys with golden hair and muscular physiques. They have only been in my employ as chairmen a short time, having recently arrived in London from Dorset County where they had lived on a pig farm with their mother. They are devoted to her, their main goal in life being to send money home to “Mum.”

  Though Robinson balked at their coming to live with us, claiming that between them they do not have the intelligence of a turnip, I optimistically believe he is growing accustomed to having them around. They do the heavier work about the house, in addition to carrying my sedan-chair. Previously, I had to hire men from the Porter & Pole. Most were none too clean, nor sober for that matter.

  With the tub in place, Ted adjusted the sleeves of his blue and gold livery—garments I personally designed—and said, “Welcome ‘ome, Mr. Brummell, sir. Did you ‘ave a good time in Brighton?”

  Without waiting for me to reply, Ned said, “We were supposed to take a trip to the sea once. It were a fine summer day, and Pa went to feed the pigs afore we left, while Mum loaded the farm cart. We never seed Pa alive again. Best we can tell, ‘e slipped on somethin’ greasy and fell into the pigs’ swill. Miss Frances, Mum’s favourite pig—and the fattest thing you ever did see—must of come chargin’ over the minute she seen Pa face down in ‘er breakfast. I reckon as ‘ow Miss Francis was only trying to get Pa out of ‘er way when she run over and threw ‘erself atop ‘im in the slop, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that things don’t always work out the way a body plans, ain’t that right, Ted?”

  His brother shook his head sadly. Ned barely paused for breath before continuing. “Naw, I reckon Pa couldn’t get ‘isself out from under almost three ‘undred pounds of ‘ungry pig. Mum found ‘im smothered in the corn gruel. To this very day, the sight of corn gives me a turn. And if I try to eat it, well I . . .. “Ned looked puzzled for a moment, then asked, “What was I sayin’, Ted?”

  Ted raised the sleeve of his coat to his eye and wiped a tear. “You was tellin’ Mr. Brummell why we ain’t been to the sea. You’re finished now.”

  “You must make the journey another time,” I said.

  Robinson looked at the twins in revulsion. “I shall be certain to instruct Andre never again to prepare his corn soufflé.”

  Later, after having made short work of my bath, I donned my black breeches and a white linen shirt and began the exacting task of tying my cravat. “Robinson, what was the talk in the servants’ coach of the Prince’s brush with death?”

  His expression scornful, the valet said, “Mr. Hearn, who serves Lord Perry and fawns over Lady Perry’s maid, Betty, got into a heated exchange with her over Signor Tallarico. Betty cannot see any harm in the Italian, while Mr. Hearn believes his lordship’s cousin must be a spy for Napoleon.”

  Was there no female immune to Tallarico’s charm? “Did Mr. Hearn give any reason for his convictions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Here, I have done with my cravat. Help me into this coat, would you, Robinson. What did Diggie have to say?”

  “That fool,” Robinson snapped. “Do you know Lord Munro told him some idiotic story about your having two glovemakers and Mr. Digwood believed him? One glovemaker for your thumb and one for the rest of your hand. Have you ever heard the like?”

  “Great heavens, how did you respond?”

  Robinson briskly smoothed the back of my coat across my shoulders. “I did not lower myself to reply to such utter twaddle.”

  I chuckled. “Next time, you might tell him, just between the two of you, that I use three glovemakers. Why should I be remiss when it comes to my pinkie? Surely that finger requires special care. But, tell me, did Diggie say anything about Petersham’s snuff box and how the snuff came to be tainted?”

  “No, sir. Mr. Digwood gave the impression Lord Petersham is not in the least concerned about the matter, which if I may say so, sir, seems unwise.”

  “Hmmm. Yes, quite right,” I said, putting on a pair of narrow black shoes. “What of Arthur Ainsley? Was anything said about him?”

  “Indeed, sir,” Robinson crooned in the manner of one saving the best morsel of information for last. “I paid particular attention, as you had expressed an interest in Mr. Ainsley. Apparently Betty had it from Felice, who serves the St. Clairs, that Lady Prudence talks to her sister, Lady Chastity, frequently about Mr. Ainsley. Though Lady Prudence finds all that is to be admired in the gentleman, Felice found it shocking to hear that in Mr. Ainsley’s opinion, England would be better served if the Duke of York were appointed Regent in the event of the King being declared incompetent to rule.”

  The Duke of York made Regent? I had never considered the idea. Of course, it could happen if the Prince of Wales were deceased. His daughter was only nine years old. The Duke could be made Regent until Charlotte came of age.

  And what would that mean for Freddie?

  I stood transfixed by the very idea. How would she be able to continue her life at Oatlands, where yours truly is so frequently to be found? Freddie might be obliged to live with her husband at Windsor Castle or Buckingham. Suddenly I had an inkling of how Ned felt when he saw corn.

  “Sir, are you all right?” Robinson asked. At my nod, he continued, “Evidently, in a fit of pique, Mr. Ainsley told Lady Prudence that the Prince of Wales was a laughingstock and unable to even lead the fashions—you being the superiour to him in matters regarding elegance—so why anyone should think him capable of running the country was beyond Mr. Ainsley’s imagination.”

  “Well, we already know Mr. Ainsley has decided opinions in matters related to the government.”

  “But, sir,” Robinson said severely, “you have not heard everything. Only listen to this: Betty reported that Felice was positively worryi
ng herself to flinders over Lady Prudence’s relationship with Mr. Ainsley, fearful of his single-minded intensity. Her anxiety reached new heights when she overheard Lady Prudence talking to Lady Chastity. According to her,

  Mr. Ainsley said he wished with all his heart that you had not allowed Sir Simon to take the snuff box back from you when it was being passed to the Prince. He wished Sir Simon’s fate upon the Prince.”

  Good God.

  “Reeooow!” shrieked Chakkri, startling me out of the shocked state Robinson’s words had put me into. My gaze swung in the direction of the cat, only to see him leap onto the blue chair and then pounce down on the tea tray, sending it sliding to the very edge of the table.

  Robinson saw the cat’s deed, too. He sprinted across the room in time to catch the tray before the teapot and its contents crashed to the floor. “That fiendish feline!”

  But I thought Ainsley was the one who had earned the description of fiendish.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The outward preoccupation of the fashionable gentleman is his clothes and his appearance. But there are other things with which he can relieve the boredom of a life spent in leisure. Chief amongst these is gaming.

  The most stylish place for a gentleman to throw the dice is White’s Club in St. James’s Street. With four hundred and fifty members, White’s may be privileged, but there is nothing exclusive about who may lose their fortune over the turn of a card. For example, some years ago, one Sir John Bland found he was thirty-five thousand pounds down after an evening of wagering at White’s. He shot himself.

  White’s also has a notorious Betting Book, of which yours truly has been the subject on more than one occasion. Twice in the past seven years, bets as to whether or not I shall marry have been entered. One was by my own hand: shortly after obtaining my majority and being elected to White’s, I bet Mr. Osborne twenty guineas that I would be married before him. Mr. Osborne was the richer for my folly. In l801, two friends made a bet that one of them would not be married before I was. He lost as well, sad to say.