Chapter Three

 

The next afternoon, I hired a coach to take me to Talbot’s Art Gallery. However, I did not leave my rooms before writing a scathing message to Mr. Griffin, the sedan-chair maker. This was the last time I wished to travel about Town without the comfort of my own conveyance.

The exhibition began at three o’clock; thus I knew that Petersham, the slug-a-bed, would not be on the scene. Nonetheless, I did not anticipate how many members of Society would be there. Entering the gallery, I groaned when I saw the crowd gathering around the Perronneau painting.

Lord Perry stood contemplating a lute. I joined him. “Good afternoon, Perry.”

“Oh, hello, Brummell. Would you look at the workmanship on this lute? South Indian if I am not mistaken.”

I raised my quizzing glass and examined the instrument. “A lovely piece. Ivory inlay.”

“Indeed. And mark the delicacy of the paintings of the deities on either side of the strings. You know, Brummell, they say you can tell a lot about a person by the art he collects. I never knew Sidwell had such a whimsical side. I thought the only music he appreciated was the music of the dice-box.”

“You must bid on the lute, Perry. Someone with your passion for music should own it.”

Lord Perry glanced around the room, then indicated

Mr. Kiang with a slight nod of his head. “I wonder if the rest of us are wasting our time here. The emissary from Siam seems determined to make off with the lot.”

I turned in the direction of Mr. Kiang and received a mocking salute.

I puzzled over this briefly, until a commotion coming from the front door captured the attention of the room.

Lord Perry said, “What the deuce? Here is the dowager Countess Wrayburn. I have not laid eyes on the old harridan in years. Probably since the Season of ‘03 when she proclaimed the future Duchess of Wiltenshire ‘trollopy-looking.’ ”

“I remember,” I said, recalling that the Countess never had a kind word for anyone. “Fortunately, she does not go about much anymore.”

In the loud voice often adopted by the near-deaf, Lady Wrayburn shouted at her companion, a frightened, but rather pretty, young lady about twenty years of age. “You stupid child! I told you I didn’t need this heavy cloak! I’m sweating like a farmer’s wife! One of my shawls would have served! Here,” she yelled, reaching claw-like hands up and pulling off the offending garment. She heaved it at the younger woman. “You lug it about for the next hour, you ninnyhammer!”

“I am sorry, my lady,” the companion replied quietly. She then held up her hands as if to ward off a blow. The cloak fell to the floor.

“Damn you, girl, pick that up!” the dowager screeched.

The command was instantly obeyed.

Lady Wrayburn and her trembling companion moved into the room to study a drawing. Now that the ugly scene appeared to be over, the gaping onlookers turned their attention back to the art pieces on display.

“A thoroughly unpleasant woman,” Perry remarked in an undertone.

“Her comment comparing herself to a farmer’s wife is not that far off the mark,” I ventured. “Though I would be willing to wager many farmers’ wives have better manners.”

“You would wager on most anything, though, would you not, Brummell?” Lord Perry asked with a mocking smile.

Before I could deliver a rebuke to this cocky observation, the front door swung open, and to my astonishment, Viscount Petersham, looking exceptionally pale and with dark circles beneath his eyes, entered the room. “Good God, Petersham, is that you? I cannot remember when I have seen you out so early.”

“And there’s a valid reason for it,” the viscount moaned. “I’m not myself until the evening. It’ll be a deuced miracle if I don’t bring on one of my asthma attacks. But I had to come see that snuff box you described, despite the ungodly hour.”

That was understandable.

Lord Perry exchanged greetings with him, then moved away to view a stunning painting by Raphael.

Petersham, who had glanced around and determined who was in attendance, spoke to me in a low voice. “I thought by now one of Lady Wrayburn’s enemies would have choked her to death with her own ghastly tongue. What’s she doing here kicking up a dust?”

“Defying death and making life hell for those around her,” I replied. “Come on, I know you want to see the snuff box.”

We moved past a display of Chinese drawings to where the snuff box sat on a tall pedestal enclosed with glass. A card next to it indicated it had been made only a year before by Messrs. Rundell and Bridges, jewelers.

Lord Petersham gasped in ecstasy. “It is exactly as you described, Brummell. Venus as a mermaid. It would make some men want to join the Royal Navy.”

From across the room, the shrill voice of the dowager countess intruded. “What’s everyone making a fuss over that Perronneau for? It belongs in the dustbin! Cats! I can’t abide them! I want that painting by Raphael!”

Her remark about cats came as no surprise to me. Does it not stand to reason someone like Lady Wrayburn would not appreciate the gentle beauty and fine intelligence of felines?

About to turn my attention back to the snuff box, I noticed Mr. Kiang approach. When he was a few feet away, he stood in a posture that indicated he was waiting to speak to me.

“Excuse me a moment, Petersham,” I said, though I doubted the spellbound viscount, who had not taken his eyes from the snuff box, heard me.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Kiang,” I said. My gaze immediately focused on the buttons of the Siamese man’s coat. They were fastened incorrectly.

What was going on? I thought irritably.

 First the buttons on my new breeches were not matched properly. Now the buttons on this man’s coat refused to align themselves in an orderly fashion. Had the world of buttons gone mad?

I struggled to ignore the imperfection. Mr. Kiang’s next words helped.

“So we know each other’s name, Mr. Brummell. You are a very clever man. But not clever enough in this instance.”

“How is that?” I inquired politely.

“After our conversation, I felt remiss in not knowing the identity of the gentleman who had advised me not to pay attention to what Mr. Brummell said.” He fixed me with an unyielding glare.

“I did warn you.”

The Siamese man’s eyes narrowed. Then his face cleared. “I admit I was angry at first. Then I found I admired your tactics. You are a man who knows what he wants and goes after it.”

I made a slight bow.

Mr. Kiang continued. “Because you desire the painting so greatly, I have decided it is truly special.”

I felt like kicking myself.

Mr. Kiang took a step forward. “Nothing can stop me from acquiring that painting for my King Rama. Nothing and no one.”

“We shall see.” My voice was controlled, but I fought a mounting irritation. I returned to Petersham’s side, fighting to maintain my well-known reserve.

Petersham tore his gaze away from the snuff box. “Who was that fellow with the dreadful coat?”

I quickly described what I knew of Mr. Kiang.

“Egad. I hope he doesn’t want this snuff box.”

“Never fear,” I said coming to an impulsive decision. “I shall take matters into my own hands. I have it on good authority that Sidwell is rusticating at his country house. I shall hire a coach and drive out there tomorrow. I will buy the painting and the snuff box from him outright. Then I shall return to Town before the auction to claim our prizes. Perhaps I will let Mr. Kiang see what a gracious winner I am.”

“I say! There’s a plan,” Petersham approved with a happy grin. “I’d go with you, I assure you, but since you’re going during the day—”

“My lady’s maid has got herself with child! What? I’ll kill the harlot!” The now familiar piercing voice of Lady Wrayburn exploded into the room and arrested everyone’s attention.

 A shocked silence fell.

The dowager countess and her companion stood before a small sculpture by Donatello, called “Madonna and Child.”

The companion, I perceived, was in tears, though trying valiantly to hide the fact. “Please, my lady. I did not mean to say anything. Lizzie has known for several weeks now, and we ... we were frightened to tell you. Just now, when I saw this sculpture, I spoke without thinking.”

“Without thinking? You are not able to think, Miss Ashton! Thinking requires a brain, an organ of which you are not in possession!” Lady Wrayburn struck her cane on the floor for emphasis. “How dare she? And how dare you keep this from me? I shall have you both turned off without references!”

Miss Ashton seemed to shrink at the threat.

The dowager countess appeared on the brink of apoplexy. “And after I took both of you in! She was without skills, so I had to train her! And you had no place to go after that wastrel you called ‘father’ died!”

“Please, my lady,” Miss Ashton begged, obviously humiliated, but maintaining her dignity. “Calm yourself. Let us go home and speak of this. I know you will make a compassionate decision once you have had time to reflect—”

“Reflect!” Lady Wrayburn shrieked. “The only thing I shall be reflecting on is what a fool I was to trust either of you! And who will do my hair now that Lizzie is in disgrace?”

What a vulgar scene. Drawn by the way Miss Ashton fought to maintain her composure while clearly frightened of her employer, I could not stop myself from intervening and moved to stand in front of the countess. “Lady Wrayburn, may I help you to your coach? You seem to be unwell.” Indeed, a severe case of cruelty afflicted her.

“What? Is that you, Brummell? Still leading the Polite World about with your beef-witted ideas on bathing and clean linen? I don’t need any assistance from you. I’m perfectly capable myself. Have to be. I’m surrounded by fools and betrayers!” In a fit of fury, she seized the Madonna and Child sculpture and banged it down on its pedestal.

Mr. Talbot rushed to protect the valuable piece of art.

The dowager countess stamped out of the gallery, cursing her companion and her lady’s maid the entire way.

I stood by watching in frustration. Miss Ashton cast me a swift look of gratitude before following her employer out the door.

“How gothic,” Lord Petersham drawled. “I need a drink. Maybe even a bottle or two. What say you, Brummell? Will you join me at White’s?”

“Yes,” I replied absently.

I do not know why I was so affected by what had happened. Servants are commonly mistreated in London, but Miss Ashton had seemed a gently bred girl. And her azure-colored eyes were divine.

Lord Perry announced his intention of going home and telling Lady Perry about the lute, so it was left to Petersham and me to join our friends at White’s. In the coach on the way over, Petersham kept up a stream of conversation about Lord Sidwell and his collection. I listened and answered appropriately, but my mind was on the scene we had just been treated to.

I could well imagine the sort of life Miss Ashton had to endure at Lady Wrayburn’s hand, considering that the older woman thought nothing of berating the girl in a public place. Even if Lady Wrayburn decided to keep the young miss, her future did not bode well. In time, Miss Ashton’s air of distinction might be crushed. In its place would be a dull, spiritless view of life. I hated to think of beauty being spoiled that way.

What was worse, though, was the more likely result of Miss Ashton being tossed out without a reference. What future would she have then? One on the streets, no doubt. With her looks, she was sure to find a man willing to set her up as his mistress. If she would to accept such a fate. The proud set of her shoulders told me she might prefer a final, but high-minded, stroll into the Serpentine River.

And what of the pregnant lady’s maid? Her plight was even more desperate.

The entire episode left me indignant. I wished I could think of a way to help the two women, but a solution failed me. Were there not innumerable females reduced to poverty across England? I could not play knight in shining armor to them all.

Once at White’s we were joined by young Scrope Davies, who should have been hard at his studies at Cambridge but rarely was to be found anywhere near that university. The party grew merry in time, with Scrope relating the details of a horse race he had won a large sum on, but I was restless.

I was not looking forward to tomorrow’s two-hour ride out to Sidwell’s estate either, but there was a posting house on the road which could be counted on to supply me with an excellent meal. That would make my trip more tolerable.

Still, I tossed and turned later during the night and was unusually impatient the next morning when dressing. After struggling with my cravat for almost a quarter of an hour, I dispensed with Robinson’s assistance, much to that man’s mortification.

I heard the knocker sound downstairs and decided that whoever it was would have to be told I was not at home. I must be on my way to Sidwell’s if I wished to return to London by the time of the auction.

Satisfied with my Venice-blue coat, buckskin breeches, and gleaming Hessian boots, I picked up my hat, selected a carved ebony cane from my collection, and closed the door to my bedchamber behind me.

I had almost reached the stairs when Robinson stopped me.

“Sir, one moment, please.”

I held up a restraining hand. “I am not at home to anyone who has had the misfortune to call.” I put my foot on the first step.

“Sir!”

“What is it?” I demanded impatiently, swinging around to face him. “The hired coach is waiting out front.”

Robinson assumed an injured air. “I am sorry to delay you, but thought you might wish to know that her Royal Highness the Duchess of York is in the drawing room.”

I stood thunderstruck. “Good God, man, what is she doing in Town? She rarely leaves Oatlands.” I felt my chest tighten in alarm.

I gave Robinson no chance to reply. I hastened past him and threw open the double doors to the drawing room. There was Frederica, the Royal Duchess herself, seated in a chair. My heart raced.

“Freddie! What in heaven’s name are you doing here? Not that I am anything less than delighted to see you.” I paused only long enough to deposit my hat and stick on a nearby table, then rapidly crossed to her side and bowed.

She rose to clasp both of my outstretched hands. We stood like that for a moment looking at one another. She is a small, dignified lady in her thirties. Her brown curly hair was held back from her face with a pale green silk bandeau which matched her gown. A few tendrils of hair framed her face, the rest fell to her shoulders. Her normally serene countenance was marred by worry.

“Oh, George,” she said in her sweet, light voice. “I am much distressed.”

“Please sit down,” I said, indicating a chintz-covered sofa. I took the place next to her, apprehension filling me at this unprecedented visit. I often spend weekends at Freddie’s country estate, Oatlands, but she has never come to my rooms. This is, after all, a bachelor’s residence. And I had just had her letter telling me of the new puppies and her prediction that she would be a busy lady this week. “Tell me what is wrong, Freddie.”

“Forgive my manners, George. I know I should be complimenting you on this enchanting room—”

“Never mind that now!” I blurted. “Are you ill? No, I can see you are the picture of beauty and health.”

That brought a tremulous smile. “You are always the perfect gentleman.”

“Do you need tea? A glass of sherry, perhaps?”

“No, thank you, dear. I shall tell you the news straightaway. Lady Wrayburn is dead!”

I am uncertain what I had expected, but it was not this. Confusion was my first emotion. “I am afraid I do not understand, Freddie. I saw the lady yesterday, and she had plenty of life in her, let me tell you. Was it her heart?”

Before the Royal Duchess could reply, I muttered, “Forget that. The woman had no heart. Recollect the time you rescued that old hound she ordered shot because his bad hip made him limp?”

“I remember it well, but listen to me, George. The countess was murdered!”

My eyebrows rose incredulously. “Murdered? By whom?”

“That is the problem. The police office at Bow Street think Miss Ashton, her companion, poisoned her. But I know, George, I simply know that cannot be true. You see,” she ended on a soft wail, “I recommended Miss Ashton for her position with the countess, because I knew her father.”

“Good God, Freddie,” I managed to utter.

“People will talk about how I gave my approval to her character, and there could be a scandal. But more importantly, what will happen to Miss Ashton? I cannot stand by and do nothing. That is why you must help me ... and Miss Ashton.”

“Freddie, I am Beau Brummell, not Bow Street. What can I do?”

“There is only one thing to be done, George. Find out who really killed Lady Wrayburn.” Her Royal Highness turned the full force of her compelling blue eyes on me.

Alas, I never have been able to deny her anything.