I spent the next quarter of an hour willing every tense muscle in my body to relax. My friend Lord Perry is normally a man of such sense that his behaviour tonight had upset me. But, after a few more glasses of Mr. Johnstone’s wine, my equanimity was somewhat restored.
Later, at the Pavilion, Prinny seemed reluctant for the evening to end. Three comfortable rooms were lit with hundreds of candles. Whist, backgammon, and chess had been set out in two of the rooms. In the third, a young man played music on a beautiful rosewood pianoforte.
I gravitated toward the latter chamber, hoping the melodies of Haydn would further relax me, and praying I would find a glass of potent liquid refreshment. Do not judge my drinking habits too harshly, I beg you. Would you not view a quantity of wine a necessity had you just been subjected to a quarrel between two royal brothers, an outraged husband’s challenge to a duel, a knife-wielding, hot-tempered Italian, and a greedy cad? I thought so.
Every night at midnight, champagne, punch, lemonade, and sandwiches are served at the Pavilion. Though it was long past that hour, footmen carrying trays of food and drink circulated about the room. I accepted only a glass of champagne, fearing for the buttons of my waistcoat should I try to eat anything else after our extravagant dinner, and spied my friend Viscount Petersham standing by a window. I began making my way to speak to him. Abruptly, the last sound I wanted to hear at the moment assaulted my ears over the Haydn.
“Your Royal Highness, allow me to try a piece of that sandwich before you eat it,” Sir Simon’s voice rang out across the room. “One cannot be too careful, especially when foreigners are in our midst.”
“Foreigners? Here at the Pavilion?” The Prince’s voice showed his distress, and Sir Simon leaned close to speak confidentially. No doubt the loathsome baronet was relating his meeting with Perry’s cousin, Victor Tallarico. I did not see Lord and Lady Perry nor his cousin about. Perry must have insisted his wife retire. As to Signor Tallarico, he could only have sought feminine companionship.
About to continue on my way, I paused, noting the presence of two footmen standing close to Sir Simon. I surely would have remarked on them had I seen them before. They were tall, thickly built men, with muscles practically popping out of their coat sleeves, and scars marring their faces. You know the type of rough fellow of whom I speak.
What was curious was the impression I received that the burly pair appeared to be in Sir Simon’s employ rather than that of the royal household. Why would two of Sir Simon’s footmen be present in this chamber instead of waiting in the entrance hall for their master? Had Sir Simon volunteered their services to the Heir Apparent? Or had he commanded them to stay near after Lord Perry’s threat and the appearance of Signor Tallarico’s shiny knife?
When I reached the window, I saw too late that Viscount Petersham was in conversation with the Duke of Clarence. Fortunately, the Royal Duke chose that moment to end the exchange. I escaped with merely a bow. Had he remained, I might have been tempted to ask him if his sister-in-law, the Duchess of York, was in town.
“Brummell, I didn’t know you’d arrived in Brighton,” Petersham said, favoring me with his winning smile. Petersham had departed London for Brighton a few days earlier with his constant companion, Lord Munro, in attendance. Although we frequently debate his decision to sport side-whiskers, we have been friends since we both served the Prince of Wales in the Tenth Light Dragoons back in the 1790s.
“I arrived earlier today. I must say that never before have I felt such tension in Brighton,” I replied, finishing my champagne and placing the empty glass on a nearby table.
“Robinson throwing a fit over the pebbles on the beach scratching your boots?”
I chuckled. “Matters have not sunk so low. Yet. But he does not want to be in Brighton. Robinson says London is the only place for civilized people. Actually, I think he misses his league of gossiping butlers, underbutlers, footmen, maids, and other valets. So, Petersham, I see you were speaking to Prinny’s favourite brother.”
“Favourite, you say? That’s a good one. Prinny likes him as well as he likes a good draft of cold air. Which reminds me of why I’m standing by the window. I’ll soon have a fit of my asthma if I don’t get a breath of fresh air.” Looking around to be certain no one was watching, he unlatched the window and eased it open a bit, letting a welcome breeze into the stuffy room. “Ah, that’s the ticket.”
“You were not at the Johnstones’ and missed an altercation between the two royal brothers.” I briefly described how they had argued over the pugilistic fight the Duke had attended.
Petersham listened, then said, “So that’s what got the Duke all wound up. He was just ranting to me about how he couldn’t understand why Mrs. Fitzherbert put up with the Prince, what with him being married to Princess Caroline and rumoured to be having a go with Mrs. Davies.”
I raised my right eyebrow halfway up my forehead.
“Mrs. Davies?” I queried, “Surely not a relation of Scrope Davies?”
Petersham shook his head. “I don’t think she is. But the Duke says the lady in question is—” the viscount broke off and looked around furtively before finishing, “—with child.”
“Good God,” I muttered. I remembered the Prince telling me that Princess Caroline was with child and he was not the father. It seemed both partners in that marriage were intent on having children. Just not with one another. “I wonder if Prinny is providing for her and the babe.”
“I couldn’t say with any certainty, but I would expect so.”
“Probably. And, as you say, it is all but a rumour anyway. Did the Duke speak of his own mistress, Mrs. Jordan? He certainly prefers to keep her in the family way.”
“No,” Petersham replied vaguely. His attention had been caught elsewhere. “I say, Brummell, have you met Prinny’s food-taster, Sir Simon?”
“I have had the honour,” I said wryly.
“Egad, I’ll wager not even you, who invariably has someone trying to gain your stamp of approval, have seen anyone toady to the extent Sir Simon does with the Prince. And his
clothes . . .” Petersham pulled a face.
“The perfection of studied simplicity of dress is not a doctrine Sir Simon embraces. By the way, are those two brutish-looking footmen his?”
“Yes. I think they’re ex-pugilists. The baronet probably thinks being accompanied by them adds to his consequence.”
Ah, then it was Sir Simon’s custom to have his footmen about and not a tactic employed since Perry’s challenge at the Johnstones’. Good. That scene was best kept private. One had to wonder, though, where the two had been while their master was threatened.
I kept these thoughts to myself, however, and replied, “Bathing and leaving off his powder and paint might be more to Sir Simon’s credit than going about with two rough fellows. Did you attend the boxing match tonight? You were not at the dinner party.”
“No, I woke late. Anyway, I cannot like the energy required in fights. So much effort is expended even just watching the contestants,” Petersham drawled. “It’s all too fatiguing.”
You might call Viscount Petersham a trifle lazy. When in London, he never leaves his house before six in the evening. Billiards is a game whose exertions are above his level of comfort.
From across the room, the Prince’s voice sounded. “I feel a draft coming from somewhere. Is there, mayhaps, a window open?”
Silence reigned as the guests looked around for the culprit.
Sir Simon raised his voice importantly. “Shall I have my men examine all doors and windows, your Royal Highness?”
Petersham quickly closed and locked the window beside us and spoke up. “I beg your pardon, your Royal Highness. I was enjoying the sea air.”
“Petersham?” the Prince inquired. “It’s not like you to expose yourself to a chill. What of your asthma? Surely you must always want a warm room.”
All eyes turned to us.
Petersham bowed low. Not about to insult the Prince’s choice in keeping the room over-warm, Petersham said, “Your Royal Highness is kind to be concerned. I am well. It is just that, as you are aware, I like to mix snuff, sir, and have found the sea air inspiring.”
“Oh? Tell us about your new mixture,” the Prince commanded. “I’m sure we are all eager to hear what you’ve come up with.”
“Sir, I cannot,” Petersham said in a solemn tone. “I brought several jars of snuff with me from London and am mixing a secret, unique new blend. You shall be the first to try it though, you have my word.”
The Prince nodded his acceptance of this plan, and conversation in the room resumed. Petersham’s lapse with the window was apparently forgiven with the promise of a new blend of snuff.
Sir Simon motioned to his footmen to build up the fire to increase the warmth in the room. I wondered briefly if the bacon-faced Sir Simon in all his awful grandeur did not offer to oversee the emptying of the royal chamber pot.
“You won’t be vexed with me, will you, Brummell, for letting the Prince try my new snuff first?” Petersham asked me. “My motives are selfish, I admit. There is talk the government may reinstate the tax on tea. And you know I love to mix teas as well as snuff. I’m trying to get on Prinny’s good side so he’ll use his influence to persuade Pitt not to levy that horrid excise on tea again.”
“Where did you hear that about the tax? I cannot imagine Prime Minister Pitt reinstating it. He is the one who cut it back in 1784.”
Petersham’s brows came together. “You don’t expect me to remember, do you? Remembering things makes my brain hurt.”
“Well, if you wish to remain in Prinny’s favor, you have done the right thing by not attending the pugilistic fight.”
“Munro wanted to go,” Petersham confided. “He enjoys the sight of men stripped to the waist. But I persuaded him we would be better for a quiet evening at home. He’s rented a house across the Steine.”
“Do not forget you promised to show me the new snuff box Munro gave you,” I reminded him, having a collection of snuff boxes myself.
Petersham’s face brightened. He is a lad with a different snuff box for every day of the year. “You’ll be overcome, I daresay, so great is the artistry. I have another with me tonight,” he said, pulling a pale blue box from his coat pocket and extending it to me.
“Lovely,” I pronounced, examining the fine workmanship carefully before handing it back to him.
Petersham shrugged. “It’s a good box for summer, but a trifle light for winter use.”
At that moment, Lord Munro himself sauntered up to us. He is of average height and wears his pale hair in a wispy style. Oftentimes I have felt he is jealous of the friendship I have with Petersham. “Charles, it’s late. Shouldn’t we be going home? You cannot be much amused here.” He looked at me pointedly.
Having had enough of unpleasant encounters for one evening, I exchanged a polite remark or two before wandering away with Petersham’s promise to bring the new snuff box to dinner the following evening so I could view it.
I had not taken two steps when I observed Arthur Ainsley across the room with Lord and Lady St. Clair and two young ladies. I quickly decided that my slight acquaintance with Lord St. Clair would serve me well enough to gain an introduction to Mr. Ainsley.
Accordingly, I crossed the room and bowed in front of him. “Good evening, my lord.”
Lord St. Clair is a tall, angular man with features that manage to look stern and kind at the same time. His hair is a dark blond with a slight wave, cut short over a wide forehead. Tonight, his clothes were unexceptional, and he wore a single ring on his right hand. A spark of recognition lit his brown eyes. “Brummell, I thought the Prince said you had arrived. Good to see you again. Allow me to introduce my wife,” he said in his precise way of speaking.
“I am pleased to meet you, my lady.” As the introductions were performed, I bowed low over Lady St. Clair’s hand. A woman of middle years, she wore a quietly expensive gown of
nutmeg-brown silk. Her jewellry, consisting of a golden topaz set, was also reserved in taste, but of the best quality, and her dark hair had been arranged in a classic style. All in all, the impression I received was of a woman beyond reproach in her manner and appearance.
“Thank you, Mr. Brummell,” she responded in a formal tone. “May I present my daughters, Lady Prudence and Lady Chastity?”
Lady Chastity favored me with a blinding smile. Here was the girl Signor Tallarico had been flirting with earlier at the Johnstones’. Indeed, she is a striking female, with golden curls and merry green eyes. She had been one of the Toasts of the last Season in London, I suddenly recalled, and had turned down numerous offers of marriage, earning her the title of Flirt. I imagined she and her mother engaged in frequent arguments over the low cut of Lady Chastity’s gowns.
In sharp contrast, her sister, Lady Prudence, is very prim. Her face is the sort that rarely reveals a smile. A watercolor to Lady Chastity’s oil, her nondescript, sandy-coloured hair was pulled back into a severe knot on the top of her head. Her gown was a high-necked greyish muslin.
I said everything polite, noting that it was Lady Prudence with whom Arthur Ainsley had been so deep in conversation earlier. Now I looked at him expectantly. “George Brummell,” I said by way of introduction.
“Arthur Ainsley,” he replied. He has a deep, serious voice and manner. Not a man to sit around White’s Club exchanging bon mots. His manner was somber.
Defying the normal behaviour of mothers with daughters to marry off, Lady St. Clair did not linger to secure my approval. She quietly moved away after a murmured excuse, her husband and Lady Chastity behind her. Lady Prudence remained at Mr. Ainsley’s side, gazing at him with a reverent expression.
Unwilling to give up this opportunity to speak to Ainsley, I detained him by saying, “Is this your first visit to the Pavilion, Mr. Ainsley?”
The man hesitated a moment. I thought he wanted to follow the St. Clairs. “No, I have been here a few times before.”
“Ah, then you are familiar with the renovations the Prince has undertaken. Some say he has been overly ambitious in the architectural designs of his palace by the sea,” I said casually, letting the words drop and waiting patiently.
The transformation my words caused was notable. Without any dramatic change in his expression, his pale face began to take on a glow of intensity. His black eyes met my gaze, and I found I could not look away.
“His detractors are fools. The Prince’s ambition where the Pavilion is concerned should be honoured. He will create a lasting monument to the artistry of this age.”
“Indeed,” I murmured, temporarily at a loss as to how to respond to this passionate statement. “I had been admiring—”
But Mr. Ainsley did not hear me. He turned his head and fixed his gaze across the room where the Prince held court. His expression hardened. In an acid voice he said, “One could only wish his Royal Highness’s aspirations for his own projects extended to compassion for the ambitions of others.”
And with that, the young man abruptly strode away, Lady Prudence trailing behind.
Though the room was now almost suffocatingly hot, I experienced a chill at the bitterness Arthur Ainsley held toward the Prince of Wales.
Where would he allow his resentment to lead?