The Tainted Snuff Box (3 page)

I raised an eyebrow.  “Strong words.”

Lady Perry waved her fan to cool her cheeks.  “Mr. Brummell, have you ever noticed that a reformed ladies’ man is the first to accuse and condemn others of his very own past behaviour?”

Smiling, I looked to see Perry’s reaction to his wife’s words, but he had been distracted by the musicians.  “Er, excuse us, will you, Brummell?” Perry said, taking his wife’s hand.  “I want to speak to that cellist before they begin the next set.  His talent is quite remarkable.”  The two walked away in the direction of the musicians. Lady Perry glanced back at me over her shoulder with an amused expression at her husband’s fervour for music.

I stood alone.  I turned my attention from Signor Tallarico and scanned the crowd looking for one particularly dear face.  Alas, the Duchess of York was not amongst the company.  I had hoped Freddie would decide to leave the comfort of her country estate, Oatlands, for a lungful of sea air.  I supposed she had found she could not leave her loyal companions:  upwards of one hundred dogs.  I seized a crystal glass full of wine from a footman to drown my disappointment.  My motto is “When your spirits are low, get another bottle.”

There was one more familiar face missing from the company.  Maria Fitzherbert, Prinny’s “wife,” was ill and had taken to her bed.  The Prince, longing for feminine companionship, had encountered Lady Bessborough at the Castle Inn earlier and brought her along to the Johnstones’.

I did my best to circulate among the guests, greeting Lady Bessborough, exchanging a social word or two with the Creeveys, talking about the theater with Sheridan, and speaking to a number of other guests known to me.  All the while, I consumed a healthy quantity of Mr. Johnstone’s undoubtedly smuggled French wine, and managed to determine which gentleman was Arthur Ainsley, the one to whom Prinny may or may not have promised a Parliament seat.

Mr. Ainsley, an intense-looking man with the blackest hair and palest complexion I had ever seen, unconsciously thwarted my attempts to speak to him.  He spent the time before dinner in earnest conversation with a mousy young lady in a severely plain gown.  Overseeing the conversation was a gentleman I thought I recognized as Lord St. Clair.  Charles James Fox had introduced us some time ago, Lord St. Clair being greatly respected in Parliament and a renowned orator.  St. Clair was known to have two daughters, and I thought the young lady Mr. Ainsley was speaking to must be one of them.

Seeing no way to graciously intrude on them, I had to content myself with studying the man from afar.  I had plenty of time to do so, as dinner had been put back while we awaited the arrival of the Prince’s brother, the Duke of Clarence, who was unpardonably late.

Prinny, cranky when kept from his food, finally suggested to Mrs. Johnstone that she should serve without the Royal Duke, a recommendation swiftly taken because of the advanced hour.

The Royal Duke arrived in due course, actually during the second course, and everyone, with the possible exception of Lady Perry, poor thing, enjoyed the delicacies provided.

However, this did not prevent the two royal brothers from bickering when we gathered in the drawing room again around one in the morning when the meal finally ended.  I was chatting with Lord and Lady Perry when the quarrel began.

 “A delicious repast, everything quite in order despite the unnecessary delay,” the Prince said in a loud voice, firing the first volley.  Everyone quieted.

William, the Duke of Clarence, or Silly Billy as the Navy man is called behind his back, is not someone I especially admire.  Uncivilized and fond of cursing as if he were still walking the decks of a ship, he rounded on his brother.  “Damn me, it’s not my fault the blasted magistrates interfered and the fight had to be held a goodly distance from Brighton.”

Prinny’s lip curled.  “You insulted our hostess by delaying dinner over a pugilistic contest?”

Everyone stood riveted at the sound of raised royal voices.  “I completely understand, your Royal Highness,” Mrs. Johnstone said, hoping to divert the two.  Her hands fluttered nervously about her diamond-clad bosom.  “Would anyone care for tea?”

The Duke of Clarence was not to be distracted.  “Pearce beat Gulley.  It was a contest not to be missed,” he said with a look that plainly said his brother should be aware of the importance of such an event.

Scrope Davies, a young fellow of my acquaintance who is mad for horseracing when he is not languishing in the arms of one of his many lady friends, piped up, “That’s so, isn’t it, Yarmouth?  No one thought Gulley could be bested.”

Lord Yarmouth, who fancied himself an amateur pugilist, nodded.  “Earlier, Tom Cribb, the Black Diamond, beat William Richmond, the American Black, but it wasn’t much to see.  Neither one of them barely touched the other.”

“I find prizefights deplorable,” the Prince said with heat.  “What kind of sport is it when men go into the ring, putting their lives at stake?  Their very lives, do you hear?”

Everyone did, and to a man knew the reason why Prinny felt as strongly as he did.  No one dared voice the words.  No one except his brother, undeterred by the fact the company had formed an audience to the siblings’ exhibition of animosity.

“What bloody nonsense!” the Royal Duke expostulated.  “Someone should have kept you in the nursery where you belonged that day back in ‘88 when Tyne gave Earl that fatal blow.  Might not have even been the damn punch that killed him, eh?  The blighter struck his head on the rails of the stage when he went down.”

Mrs. Johnstone flapped her hands in her anxiety.

The Prince, his face flushed, looked about to cry.  “Don’t remind me of it,” he moaned in an anguished voice.  “I haven’t attended a pugilistic contest since that day, and I never shall!  Barbaric competitions every one of them.”

The Duke of Clarence looked at his brother in disgust.  “You’re all sensibilities, aren’t you?  Paying Earl’s widow and her brats an annuity, and look at you now.  Hiding like an overgrown baby here in Brighton over some blasted letters from someone too cowardly to sign his name.  Bloody hell!  Who the devil would go to the trouble of killing you, anyway?”

No one dared breathe.

The Duke of Clarence had gone too far.  The brothers must be distracted before a royal scandal ensued.  I put down my glass and made as if to move toward the Prince, hoping a witty remark would spring to my lips and break the tension.  But little Lady Perry placed a restraining hand on my arm and stepped ahead of me toward the combatants.

“Your Royal Highness,” she addressed the Prince in a strong, dignified voice, “Mrs. Johnstone has told me she will not allow her dinner party to end before you favor us with a song.  Please say you will.  Your voice is most pleasing, and we do not get to hear you sing often enough.  I know we would all enjoy hearing you now.”

She turned toward the company in general for approval to this scheme.  A smattering of reluctant applause compelled the Prince to remove himself from his brother’s company without a backward glance.  I suspect some of the present guests were disappointed at the abrupt end of the royal squabble, but I was not.  Bravo, Lady Perry!

Presently, Yarmouth and Scrope engaged the Duke of Clarence in conversation.  No doubt they were going over every nuance and detail of the fight they had observed. 

Near where I stood with Lord Perry, the Creeveys breathed a sigh of relief.  Mrs. Creevey, a friend of Mrs. Fitzherbert, and a woman who loved a good piece of gossip, resumed her scrutiny of the Prince and Lady Bessborough in order to report back any flirtation.

On my other side stood a short gentleman unknown to me.  He was shovelling a piece of cake into his mouth.  I had observed him earlier at dinner, but averted my eyes lest I be put off my food.  Now he came to my notice once again.

Perry saw the direction of my gaze.  “Brummell, pray look away lest your stomach become as delicate as my wife’s.”

However, it was useless.  Like someone enthralled by a public hanging, I had to get a better look at the stranger’s manner of dress.  Without my permission, my right hand raised my quizzing glass.  

The round magnifier that I wear suspended from my neck by a thin black velvet ribbon told me what I had already deduced.  Here was a man of late middle years, clinging to the fashions of his youth.

His satin coat was of the old-fashioned cut that flared at the knees, and sported heavy silver braid trim and silver buttons.  A garishly bright sea-green in color, guaranteed to make one sea-
sick
, it hung open, revealing a long waistcoat in a lighter shade.  Froths of lace poured from his neckcloth.  His wrists were also covered with lace extending from under his cuffs.  Matching breeches ended in clocked stockings, and his feet were squeezed into red-heeled pumps.  Hideous!

This sartorial orgy surpassed even the numerous fashion tragedies of my nemesis, Sylvester Fairingdale, whom you may recall me telling you about in a previous adventure.

But there was worse.  Atop the man’s head, which was just about level with my shoulder, a towering white wig, complete with curls at the temples, sat over a highly painted and powdered face.  Next to bright red lips, a black patch in the shape of an animal’s head—I could not tell what kind—had been affixed.

My valet, Robinson, would have fainted straightaway at the sight.

I struggled to remain expressionless.  The man’s overuse of a jasmine scent, a practice invariably intended to compensate for infrequent bathing, assaulted my nostrils.

He grabbed a glass of wine from a tray carried by a passing footman.  Guzzling the drink down greedily, he noticed my attention and addressed me in a condescending tone.  “You’re new to Brighton, aren’t you?  I’m Sir Simon, close personal friend and intimate confidant to the Prince of Wales.  I make it my business to know who associates with his Royal Highness.  You’ll do me the honour of introducing yourself.”

Ah, Prinny’s food taster!  My right eyebrow shot to my hairline at the man’s presumption.  Lord Perry threw me a warning look.  “I am George Brummell,” I said in a quiet voice.  There was not a trace of smugness in my voice, I assure you.  But before you go admiring my self-control, permit me to tell you it was impossible to be smug in the face of all that powder, that paint, and those red lips.

Sir Simon’s expression grew cold.  “Faugh!” he cried, as if he were the one smelling something gone bad.  “You’re the upstart trying to make gentlemen believe there’s something wrong with the way we’ve been dressing for a good many years.  You want us to dress like dullards!”

“Dullards?” I replied, one hand across my heart.  “Never say you think me dull.  My life would be shattered.”  A few titters came from nearby guests.  Mrs. Creevey looked our way.

Sir Simon knitted his brows, but my mockery went over his wigged head.  “Well, I do say it, and damn the consequences!  A man’s clothing bespeaks his station in life.  Your costume tells me you are common.  Indeed, who was your father?”  Sir Simon demanded.  “I’ve never heard of a
Lord
Brummell.”

Perry chose this moment to interrupt, devil take him.  I had been about to initiate a discussion of Sir Simon’s parentage.  He looked like the offspring of an overbred poodle and the dustman’s dog.

“Brummell, did you see where my wife went?  Did she leave the room?” Perry worried.  “I hope the sickness has not overtaken her again.”

“Lady Perry is by the musicians, helping the Prince select a song,” I said, indicating her whereabouts with a wave of my hand.  I did not misunderstand Perry’s goal in distracting me from the odious Sir Simon.  “She seems fine, my friend.  Cease your fretting.  Ever since you found out she is with child you have behaved like a domineering governess.”

“Your wife is with child?” Sir Simon asked Perry in a voice filled with disgust.  “Why is she out in company if she’s increasing?  We should not have to view a misshapen female.”

What an ill-bred man!  Dear Lady Perry’s figure was still slim, not that it would make the slightest difference if her condition had shown.  Those people who think a lady with child should not be seen in public show a lack of sensitivity to natural beauty.

Lord Perry turned a look of frozen hauteur on the baronet.  “I beg your pardon?  I could not have understood you correctly.”

“You may be an earl, Lord Perry, but you must be a want-wit if you’d bring a wife who’s breeding along with you to Brighton’s entertainments.  She can only prove a burden and keep you from a man’s amusements,” Sir Simon pronounced.

Dash it!  Now Perry and my roles would be reversed.  It would be my job to turn his attention away from Sir Simon.  “Speaking of amusements, have you seen the Green Man of Brighton?  He is known to only eat green food, dress only in green—”

But I got no further.  Perry’s face had become a marble mask of contempt.  “Explain yourself at once,” he commanded Sir Simon.

“There’s nothing to explain, my young buck,” Sir Simon replied, waving a hand dripping in lace.  “Every man knows that a woman is good for only two things:  pleasuring him in bed and bearing his sons.  Since your wife is busy with one, she’s useless for the other.  She should be shut away in the country somewhere until the babe is born and she can be ready to lie on her back for you again,” Sir Simon answered, his red lips spread in a lewd grin.  “Apparently, she’s done well at that in the past.”

“Why, you blackguard,” Lord Perry said a low voice, barely containing his fury.  “I shall meet you at dawn for speaking of my wife in such vulgar terms.”

A shiver of alarm raced through me at these deadly words.  I turned to look at Perry, but he would not meet my eye.  His gaze was riveted on Sir Simon.  The late-night party had suddenly taken on a very dark atmosphere.  “Perry, no.  You ought not have said that.  Come away now,” I said in a voice for his ears alone.  I kept my tone light and casual.  “This man is beneath your notice after all.  Let us cross the room to where the air is not so foul.” 

But my words fell unattended.  “You young fool,” Sir Simon growled at Lord Perry, the smile fading rapidly from his painted face.  He signalled a footman to take away his empty glass.  “You’re challenging me?  What the hell for?”