Rosemary Stevens (2 page)

I feel like an older brother to the naive lieutenant, protective and somewhat responsible for his continuing to draw breath in this life. “Financial matters of Watier’s are nothing to do with you, Fairingdale.”

Mr. Jacombe was not so easy to dispense with. “You discharged the soldier’s debt to your club? Why?”

The word “compassion” sprang to my lips, but I bit it back. “The lieutenant here is down on his luck. How was I to call in the debt? Have him shine my boots from now until eternity? My man, Robinson, would not have it. The valet considers his own abilities superiour to any other.”

Lieutenant Nevill broke in. “Mr. Brummell is a gentleman,” he declared passionately. “The epitome of a man of honour. He won more from me Saturday night than I could ever pay. The only path left to me was death. Mr. Brummell talked me out of it. I owe him my life.”

Mentally, I rolled my eyes at this impassioned speech. Was I ever this young and emotional? Yes, I had to admit, I was.

Mr. Jacombe’s mouth puckered. He folded his arms across his barrel-like chest. “Yet here you are back at the tables again! The honourable thing is not to engage in a game of chance if you do not have the means with which to play. Give me one good reason why I should not challenge you to a duel for calling me a cheat.”

At these lethal words, the occupants of the room froze in a stunned tableau.

While the room held its collective breath, my mind worked furiously. There must not be a duel. The lieutenant was sure to be the loser.

At the moment, his angular features were a study in deliberation whilst he contemplated how to answer Mr. Jacombe’s question. Then he said, “I play because I must win funds to marry the woman I love.”

“To marry?” Mr. Jacombe drawled in an incredulous voice. “What lady of good birth and breeding would marry a penniless soldier who loses at cards and then accuses a gentleman of cheating?”

“Her name is Molly, and she is the finest girl I know,” the lieutenant spoke with pride.

Molly? I passed a hand over my eyes. She could not be the same Molly who repeatedly turned my household upside down last year by flirting with both of the twin men who carry my sedan-chair.

Mr. Jacombe tapped a beefy finger on the green baize. “Who is her father?”

Lieutenant Nevill swallowed hard. Underneath my fingers, I could feel his shoulders tense even more. Boldly, he spoke his mind. “Molly does not know who her real father is, nor her mother.”

I drew a deep breath. When he was alive, my own father always criticized me, but at least I knew who he was. I felt a measure of sympathy for the young girl.

“I assume she is as penniless as you are,” Mr. Jacombe spoke sharply.

“What has that to do with anything?” Lieutenant Nevill spoke without even trying to conceal his insolence. “She lives on her own at the Haven of Hope shelter and works hard to better herself.”

Good God. The lieutenant’s Molly was indeed the same girl I knew. If she were betrothed to the lieutenant, I could only assume she had given up her ways as a flirt, maturing as she grew older.

Mr. Jacombe appeared flustered for a brief moment. Then his expression turned thunderous. For an instant I thought he would strike the lieutenant, but he quickly regained his composure.

His voice was quiet, yet held an undertone of cold contempt. “The Haven of Hope? Everyone knows that is merely a cover for a brothel.”

Like liquid fire rising from Hades, up through the soles of my black evening shoes, fury rose in me, making even my face feel the burn of its heat.

I am generally an easy-going sort, but my friend, Miss Lydia Lavender, whom I just mentioned to you as being one of the most important females in my life, runs the Haven of Hope shelter for women. Mr. Jacombe had just insulted a woman I hold in high regard in the most vile way.

Before I could control myself enough to say a word, however, the lieutenant shot to his feet once more. “That duel is in order after all! I shall not have you so abuse Molly, the woman I love.”

He was right, I thought grimly, but perhaps I should be the one fighting the duel. Not many in Society know of my friendship with the middle-class Miss Lavender, but I could not let that be a factor now. The red-haired Miss Lavender’s reputation was at stake as was Molly’s.

“Mr. Jacombe, the Haven of Hope is not a brothel. I shall have to ask you to retract your statement,” I said with a menacing calm.

“One of your favourite light-skirts, there, Brummell?” Jacombe asked with a hint of scorn in his voice. “No, it won’t do. This young soldier wants to face me down the length of a pistol—unless it is to be swords?—at Chalk Farm. Tomorrow morning then at dawn, Nevill?”

“Egad, dueling is illegal, Jacombe,” Petersham tried.

But none of us paid attention.

“Will you act as my second, Mr. Brummell?” Lieutenant Nevill asked.

“Yes. I shall serve as your friend, though I would prefer to be the one firing the pistol,” I replied. My gaze locked on Theobald Jacombe.

“I never had any quarrel with you, Brummell,” Mr. Jacombe stated with a faint air of surprise.

“You do now,” I stated.

The lieutenant rose from his chair, the wood scraping against the wood of the floor. The matter decided, he turned away and hurried out of the club without another word.

I looked at Mr. Jacombe, hardly bothering to conceal my disgust. How neatly he had turned an accusation against himself into a young man’s defense of his love’s honour.

“I’ll be happy to stand as your second, Mr. Jacombe,” Sylvester Fairingdale eagerly offered.

Mr. Jacombe nodded at him once. “Very well, Fairingdale. It’s a shame about the soldier, but there was nothing else I could do.”

I flashed him a look of disdain, words choking in my throat. There had been plenty he could have done to avoid this nightmare.

Undoubtedly, Mr. Jacombe was a better shot than the lieutenant; for the young man had told me he had not served in the military long, nor handled firearms beforehand. Then there was the fact that Mr. Jacombe was at least twice the lieutenant’s age and therefore had twice the life’s experience.

I felt the injustice of the situation as if it were the weight of a coach on my chest. A devilishly uncomfortable state of affairs, I assure you.

Mr. Jacombe gathered a group of his cronies and left the club, no doubt realizing I was about to throw him out.

Victor Tallarico ordered a bottle of port. “Have a drink, Brummell. You did what you could.”

“He’s right, Brummell,” Petersham agreed. “Jacombe wants to fight.”

Sylvester Fairingdale sat swinging his quizzing glass on its ribbon, obviously well-pleased with himself. For his consequence could only be raised by standing at the great Mr. Jacombe’s side. Fairingdale and his plans were akin to a barking loon.

“Leave these premises at once, Fairingdale,” I commanded him.

“In a moment,” the fop said, examining the cards on the table.

All of a sudden he raised two cards.

Each was the king of diamonds.

I went to grab them from his fingers.

In a flash he pocketed them and, laughing, he dashed out the door.

I followed him outside, but the night was dark and the cad had disappeared. I punched my fist into my open palm, hearing my father’s voice inside my head rebuking me for not preventing what might be a fatal confrontation for young Lieutenant Nevill.

* * * *

Because of the meeting of the new Parliament, many families were in Town who ordinarily would not be. Add to that the fact that no less a personage than the Prince of Wales was hosting tonight’s activities at Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, and the result was a crowd in excess of four thousand people.

The twelve acres that make up Vauxhall Gardens appeals to all classes of Society. There is something for everyone to enjoy whether they be lovers seeking to steal a kiss in the Dark Walk, or just people out to hear the concert, view the fireworks or enjoy the Cascade exhibition.

One could eat wafer-thin slices of ham and chicken in the supper boxes, watch the military band march, or promenade with friends down any of the numerous gravelled walks that are lit by hundreds of lamps, all for the price of admission: three shillings.

Perhaps the spirit of Vauxhall is best summed up in an old ballad. I confess I cannot recall the author, but it goes like this:

Now the summer months come round,

Fun and pleasure will abound,

High and low and great and small,

Run in droves to view Vauxhall.

See the motley crew advance,

Led by Folly in the dance,

English, Irish, Spanish, Gaul

Drive like mad to dear Vauxhall.

Each profession, ev’ry trade

Here enjoy refreshing shade,

Empty is the cobbler’s stall,

He’s gone with tinker to Vauxhall,

Here they drink, and there they cram

Chicken, pasty, beef and ham,

Women squeak and men drunk fall.

Sweet enjoyment of Vauxhall.

Upon my arrival in the Gardens that night, the Prince of Wales, or Prinny as he is called, had just begun marching a company of soldiers under his orders.

While Prinny has never seen a moment of battle, he persuades himself he is a great military man. Chiefly he designs his regiment’s uniforms.

I saw Lieutenant Nevill was one of the chosen men tonight. Scanning the crowd watching the soldiers, I found Molly. Even from a distance, I could see her shining eyes as she gazed upon her beloved.

I heaved a sigh. How long would it be before that collective vulture known as Society knew about the impending duel? Of course the duel should be kept secret, which made it even more likely that the news would fly around Vauxhall faster than birds fly away from a predatory cat. No doubt Sylvester Fairingdale would do his part to make the news known.

Yes, there he was, whispering to beat the band, so to speak, to Lady Crecy, an older matron, kind enough, but with a propensity for gossip.

When Fairingdale left her side, I procured a glass of wine and walked up to the lady and bowed low. “Good evening, Lady Crecy. Are you enjoying the lovely night air?”

“Mr. Brummell! I have just had the most shocking news!” Lady Crecy proclaimed, her too-tight grey curls bouncing as she spoke. “It is being said that Mr. Jacombe, Mr. Theobald Jacombe, mind you, is to participate in a duel. Have you ever heard the like?”

“Never.”

Lady Crecy’s ample bosom heaved. “See there! That was precisely my reaction. Dear Mr. Jacombe would never involve himself in a duel.

“No?”

“Absolutely not. Why, he is the model of propriety. He is such a good man both in his public life and private. You know he has a wife who is practically an invalid. Yet he is the soul of patience with her. No wonder all of London respects and admires him.”

“They do.”

“I am certain this can be nothing more than a dreadful rumour. Mr. Jacombe himself will undoubtedly appear shortly and laugh away the very idea of his participating in such a nefarious activity. Oh! There is Mrs. Creevey. Mayhaps she knows something more about this. Will you excuse me, Mr. Brummell?”

“Of course.” I watched her hurry away, and I drank the contents of my glass.

The military came to a pause in its review to a clapping of gloved hands. I took the opportunity to greet the Prince. Had word reached his ears about the duel? Did he know I was to stand as second to Lieutenant Nevill? If so, what would his reaction be?

“Brummell, well met.”

“The troops are looking good tonight, your Royal Highness,” I said, executing a low bow. “No doubt other troops are at this moment making Napoleon wish he never left Corsica.”

The Prince of Wales, now above forty years of age, is my good friend. He has superb taste in the arts and has done much to enrich our country’s supply of paintings, sculptures, and other works of art. He has created a palace in Brighton that will surely serve as a monument to him long after he has departed this life.

However, he can sometimes be overly dramatic and self-indulgent, the latter making itself known in the form of his ever-increasing girth. In fact, he could frequently be found enjoying a repast at Watier’s.

He smiled on me now. “Yes, the men are in fine form. Those silver and white dress uniforms for this evening were my creation. What think you of them?”

I bit my tongue, but not hard enough. “They are most eye-catching.”

Prinny chuckled. “Thank you.”

Now, you might know that my doctrine where a gentleman’s clothing is concerned is that the greatest mortification a gentleman can endure is to call attention to himself by his dress. Simple elegance is preferred. Luckily, the slight had gone right over Prinny’s royal head.

He glanced around, then looked me in the eye and said, “What is this I’m hearing about a duel between Jacombe and some army officer? None of the men in my regiment would participate in such low behaviour.”

So Prinny did know. I could not betray Lieutenant Nevill, yet I could not lie to the Prince. “Just so, sir. I am certain if there is a duel, none of the men in
your
regiment would be involved.”

There. Nevill was not in Prinny’s regiment. He was only marching here at Vauxhall tonight to swell the numbers of soldiers. A simple play on words can sometimes solve a problem rather neatly.

The Prince’s babyish face crinkled. “Doesn’t seem right that Jacombe would fight a duel. He’s a valuable man in the government and a decent shot as well.” The royal gaze remained on me. “Are you going to tell me what happened, Brummell? I know you are this soldier’s second.”

I felt a tremor of uneasiness that I hope was not reflected on my face. “Sir, since this is a matter of honour, I am certain you must agree that it would be bad form for me to speak of it.”

“Even to me?”

I considered this. “May I just say that the provocation was great on a young man suffering the throes of love.”

I could tell this eased his mind. I knew it would. The Prince had once given himself a self-inflicted sword wound over a lady to convince her of his love. The ploy had worked, too.