The Tainted Snuff Box

by Rosemary Stevens

  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 m
y 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.

  Chapter Eighteen

  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.

  There was no letter, only the spoken command that I present myself at Carlton House immediately.

  Ned and Ted carried me in my sedan-chair to the royal residence after a slight delay. Robinson had insisted on ridding my coat of cat fur. A few of the hairs proved stubborn against his special cloth. Seething, the valet had resorted to a pair of tweezers. I stood for this as long as I could—noting the tweezers were the same ones he used on my brow!—then took my leave.

  Arriving at Carlton House, I opened the door to my chair and told the twins to wait for me.

  “Er, sir,” Ted said anxiously. “Couldn’t we come in with you?”

  Thinking the country boys wanted to see the inside of a royal palace, I shook my head sadly. “I am sorry.” I turned to go.

  “Wait!” cried Ned. “Mr. Robinson said we was to stay with you and protect you. We are strong, you know. Just look at these muscles.”

  Before I could utter a protest, Ned stripped off his coat, tossed it on top of the sedan-chair, then turned and posed, muscles flexing.

  We were the object of everyone’s gaze.

  “Ned, put your coat back on, please. As much as I appreciate your sentiments, and those of Robinson, I can take care of myself. Wait for me here.”

  The twins obeyed reluctantly. Approaching the door to Carlton House, I saw even more guards stationed about the grounds. I spent thirty minutes cooling my heels while word was sent to the Prince of my arrival.

  Finally, none other than Mr. Lavender came to collect me.

  “Surely they have not reduced you to looking after his Royal Highness,” I said good-naturedly.

  But the Scotsman grunted an indistinguishable reply and remained tight-lipped throughout our progress to the Rose Drawing Room.

  When the doors to that room opened, it became clear that the Prince had assembled the principals involved in the investigation: Jack Townsend, John Lavender, and myself, with the startling addition of William Pitt, Prime Minister of England, accompanied by his friend, Lord St. Clair. Pitt nodded to me by way of greeting. I thought he looked unusually pale and drawn. With the exception of the Prince, everyone was standing.

  “Brummell,” His Royal Highness began. “There has been a development in the matter of the tainted snuff box.”

  “Oh,” I responded equably, but feeling myself tense.

  Jack Townsend nodded at Mr. Lavender, who produced his notebook and said, “Bow Street believes Lord Munro withheld information from us the day we questioned him at the Pavilion. Information about what he observed when Lord Petersham was mixing the snuff that killed Sir Simon.”

  A great feeling of foreboding washed over me.

  “Mr. Lavender found out something about Petersham, Brummell,” the Prince said. “Something I don’t like at all.”

  “What could that possibly be, sir?”

  Mr. Lavender looked to the Prince for permission, and at his nod, spoke. “It seems that Lord Munro saw Lord Petersham grind a white powder and mix it into the snuff.”

  Everyone knows snuff is brown. Panic rose in my chest, and I forced myself to maintain my composure. Otherwise, I might leave the room, find Lord Munro, and bang his head against the floor until he took back the damning words and promised to keep his mouth shut in the future.

  “Mr. Lavender, did you question Lord Petersham as to what the powder might be?” I asked evenly.

  “Aye. His lordship claimed it was sea salt,” the Scotsman said, a strong measure of disbelief attached to his words.

  “Er, sea salt,” I said, my mind racing for a reason why Petersham thought sea salt would be a good addition to snuff.

  Lord St. Clair pulled up a chair for Prime Minister Pitt, since Mr. Pitt had grown paler. I imagined the Prime Minister had enough on his mind with government matters. The fact that England was at war no doubt complicated his duties.

  “Petersham told Lavender that he thought sea salt would help my breathing,” the Prince said scornfully.

  “I can’t say I like that excuse,” Jack Townsend said, speaking for the first time. “It’s nonsensical.”

  “Not at all,” I countered. I looked at the Prince. “Sir, you know Petersham suffers from asthma. Perhaps he found that sea salt relieves his symptoms and thought it might help you with your occasional breathing problems.”

  The Prince mulled this over.

  Jack Townsend scoffed. “How do you know that, Brummell? Did Lord Petersham say anything to that effect before the box was passed to the Prince?”

  “No,” I admitted. “At least, not in my hearing.”

  Prinny shook his head. “Not one word about anything other than snuff being present in the box was said to me. That is, not until Sir Simon died in front of my eyes! Brummell, when Townsend and Lavender brought the news of Munro’s disclosure to me earlier in the day, I sent for you and Pitt. I wanted you to know before . . . before further action is taken against Petersham.”

  Pitt said, “I would never have thought a gentleman of Petersham’s background would commit such an unspeakable act.”

  “Neither would I,” Lord St. Clair said regretfully.

  I gazed at the company in astonishment, then spoke to the Prince. “Sir, you cannot believe this, I know you cannot. Petersham is your friend. What could his reason be for hurting you?”

  “I don’t know,” the Prince mumbled.

  “The viscount said little to defend himself, when I asked him about the so-called sea salt,” Mr. Lavender pointed out.

  “I can well accept that. The viscount does not think anyone capable of believing him responsible for the poison. He trusts his friends. And most importantly, he has no motive,” I said, but my words seemed to fall on deaf ears.

  “You make a good case for Lord Petersham,” Mr. Lavender said. “But if not the viscount, then who added the poison to the box?”

  “Yes, Mr. Brummell,” Jack Townsend remarked with a sharp edge
to his voice. “Let’s hear what you have to say.”

  There was only one thing to do and that was express my new theory. I disliked doing so before I had had a chance to explore the possibilities, but there was nothing for it. From the atmosphere in the room, I judged it would not be long before Petersham would be formally charged with attempted murder, an act sure to set the Nobility on its ears.

  I cleared my throat and began, “Your Royal Highness, as you know, I have been investigating this problem. The only person present at your dinner table that night who had any sort of motive to wish you harm is Arthur Ainsley. I shall continue to learn what I can of him. In the meantime, another idea has occurred to me. Perhaps we are overlooking the obvious. Perhaps the poison was intended for Sir Simon all along.”

  “What?” the Prince of Wales exclaimed.

  Mr. Pitt looked thoughtful.

  Mr. Lavender eyed me as if I were a small child, and he were the adult forced to listen to my ramblings.

  Lord St. Clair gave me a look of pity.

  Jack Townsend took a step toward me. “All right, I’ve listened to you, Mr. Brummell. Now let me tell you what I think. I think this case is not over.”

  Relief swept through me. There was hope for Petersham yet.

  Mr. Townsend continued. “It’s true Lord Petersham had no motive of which we are aware. But the fact remains that it was his snuff box that contained the poisoned snuff, snuff he admits to mixing. As for Arthur Ainsley, he has been out of Town, and we’ve not questioned him yet. I’m willing to hold off on further action in regard to Lord Petersham until Bow Street has spoken with Mr. Ainsley.”

  “Excellent plan, Mr. Townsend,” I said approvingly.

  Then his next words chilled me to the bone.

  “However, what you said about Sir Simon, Mr. Brummell, seems the ravings of a desperate man. Are you a desperate man?”

  “A desperate man? What do you mean by that?” I replied, sure I could not have understood him. Gone was the usually gracious Jack Townsend. In his place was an ill-mannered lout.