By The Dressing Hour that evening, I felt the level of my frustration demanded a quiet evening in my room, a well-prepared dinner, a couple of bottles of Chambertin wine, and Chakkri my only company. Unless I could persuade Freddie to take her meal with me and the feline.
But it was not to be.
By dinner the Prince wanted a report on Mr. Ainsley, yet had maddeningly spent the afternoon closeted in his library with the very gentleman himself.
Upon my seemingly indifferent questioning, a chatty footman outside the door proved useful. He imparted the information that his Royal Highness did not wish to be interrupted as he was deep in discussions of architectural designs with Mr. Ainsley. I was assured that half-a-dozen armed footmen were with them.
Though I lingered in the general vicinity of the library as long as I could, wanting to catch Mr. Ainsley, I finally had to give up and go abovestairs to my bedchamber to dress for the evening.
Along the way, I sought out Freddie, hoping for a few minutes of her company. I was anxious to be sure that her nerves had not been completely overset by the afternoon’s events,
and—very well I admit it—that she had not been too charmed by Signor Tallarico.
I sent word to her room, only to have Ulga inform me that the Royal Duchess was lying on her bed with a cool cloth to her forehead and could not be disturbed. There would be no opportunity before dinner for a private chat. Devil take it.
I did run into Perry and inquired about the deceased young lady on the beach. Neither he nor Lord St. Clair nor Mr. Kearley had recognized her. Mr. Kearley would do what he could as magistrate for the district, then the girl would be buried in an unmarked grave. A twinge of pain squeezed my heart when a mental image of her sprawled on the beach came into my mind. I shook my head over a life cut much too short. Opening the door to my chamber, I mused that someone, somewhere, must be frantic over the girl’s disappearance.
My thoughts were redirected when Robinson handed me a welcome glass of wine. We selected proper evening attire: Fine white linen shirt, black breeches, and figured white waistcoat topped by a long-tailed, slate-blue coat. I always carry my father’s Venetian gold watch but, other that, wear no jewellry. My quizzing glass does not count as jewellry. It is a social necessity.
While I dressed, Chakkri slept like one dosed with laudanum in the center of the bed. As punishment for my petting Humphrey, the cat would no doubt ignore me entirely until he determined I had suffered enough.
“If I may ask, sir, when will we be returning to London?” Robinson inquired while laying out thin black shoes for my inspection.
“We only arrived yesterday,” I said, giving a nod of approval to the shine on the shoes.
“Yes, sir,” the valet replied with a wistful sigh.
“You and Chakkri share the same sentiments on being in Brighton. He does not care for it either. Have you noticed that he has been sleeping almost continuously since we got here?”
We both glanced at the cat, though I think the action was involuntary on Robinson’s part. The valet gave a pleased smile. “Indeed, I have. Stray cat hairs have been confined to your bed. Fifteen of them this afternoon. That makes my job of seeing that you appear in public without the ornamentation of cat hair on your clothing much easier.”
Chakkri opened one blue eye, stared at me, then snapped it shut without a murmur.
Perhaps I had been sentenced to thirty hours of feline indifference for petting Humphrey, unless Chakkri extended my term for the offense of bringing him to Brighton. In that case, it could be days before he spoke to me again.
“Sir,” Robinson said, moving to the dressing table to retrieve a bottle of Eau de Melisse des Carmes lotion. “I inquired discreetly as to Mr. Arthur Ainsley’s character. In particular, I tried to ascertain his sentiments regarding the Prince of Wales.”
“And what did you find?” I asked, holding out my hands.
Robinson poured a bit of the lightly scented lotion onto my left hand and began vigorously massaging it in. Have I mentioned that my hands are beautifully pampered? One would not wish for them to appear anything less than their best while raising my quizzing glass or delicately taking a pinch of snuff.
Robinson examined my nails which are neatly squared in shape. “Mr. Ainsley has frequently made cutting remarks about the Prince in the presence of his valet. He called the Prince ‘double-tongued’ and said he was capable of playing false with a man’s dreams.”
The Prince was double-wived and double-chinned, too, but that was beside the point. I thought of him and Ainsley in the library, poring over sketches of the Pavilion. “And to look at him with the Prince, one would think them boon companions.”
“That may be, sir, but Mr. Ainsley does speak in an uncomplimentary way behind the royal back.”
“Interesting.” My mind went back to the previous evening. I recalled the way Ainsley had looked, and the bitter way he had bemoaned the Prince’s lack of compassion for the “ambitions of others,” I believe was how he put it.
“The younger son of an earl, Mr. Ainsley resents his brother, the heir to the title,” Robinson continued. He reached for a small scissors and snipped a wayward cuticle. “Above anything, Mr. Ainsley wishes to be powerful. He fancies himself an intellectual and wants to display his knowledge in Parliament.”
“Has he money?” I asked, dropping my left hand and extending my right.
Robinson briskly repeated his ministrations. “As to that, although he did recently receive an inheritance from his maternal grandmother, I fear it is not enough for one with Mr. Ainsley’s goals.”
“Yes, he would need a tidy sum to rise to power in the government,” I reflected, wondering how Ainsley planned to increase his wealth.
Content with my grooming, and satisfied my clothes were quiet perfection, I left Robinson to tidy the chamber. I descended the stairs to find people assembled in the Long Gallery, drinking wine and exchanging gossip.
The Long Gallery is precisely that being over one hundred fifty feet in length. Thanks to the abundance of enormous mirrors framed in beechwood carved to resemble bamboo on the walls, the area looks much wider than it is. Real and imitation bamboo furniture, including twelve black-and-gold lacquered hall chairs, reflect the Prince’s preoccupation with Chinese design.
The walls are covered in a deep pink color—darker than Victor Tallarico’s pink waistcoats—with painted rocks, trees, shrubs, and birds in a subdued tone of blue, everything in the Chinese style.
From where I was standing next to an eight-tiered pagoda, his Royal Highness stood only a short distance from me, Sir Simon stuck to his side like a leech. What made Sir Simon’s clinging especially disturbing was that the Prince had obviously been making his way down the Long Gallery, greeting his guests. For him to allow Sir Simon to tag along like a favorite spaniel while he played the gracious host, showed me the depths to which the Prince had fallen victim to Sir Simon’s toadying.
“Brummell,” Prinny said, approaching me. “Have you that report I asked for?”
He wanted it now, in front of Sir Simon? Not that I had anything new to say about Ainsley, but the Prince could not know that.
Unfortunately for my fashion sensibilities, my gaze shifted to the baronet, tonight rigged out in his high, powdered white wig and a deep maroon satin coat. The skirts of that garment were boned to assure that they stood out around the wearer, the buttons ruby-encrusted. The display of wealth did not end there. A long, gold-coloured waistcoat sported row upon row of gold thread embroidery. As was his custom, Sir Simon wore enough lace to beggar a dozen ladies’ lace boxes.
Tearing my gaze away from this fashion disaster, I bowed to the Prince. “Sir, I regret to say I cannot provide any new information. The subject of your inquiry proved otherwise engaged today. Indeed, he participated in activities that your Royal Highness might be better able to describe than myself.”
“What? Oh, right, just so. Ainsley brought me a copy of Views of Oriental Scenery, a most inspiring narrative of Indian architecture. We spent the afternoon discussing how I could apply some of the designs to the Pavilion.”
“How congenial,” I said. “You can understand, then, why I was not able to perform the service you desired.”
“Yes, yes, but I want you to keep an eye on Ainsley nevertheless, Brummell,” Prinny said, glancing around to see if the man in question was within earshot. Several yards away, Ainsley stood in his perpetual state of brooding next to a niche filled with a large Chinese figure. The Prince stared at him and said, “Ainsley could be the one behind the threats against me.”
Sir Simon’s painted face wrinkled in surprise. “Do you think so, your Royal Highness? You should have asked me to find out what I can about the man.”
I felt myself tense with indignation. Did this painted pudding-bag think to supplant my friendship with the Prince of Wales?
Sir Simon winked lewdly. “I wager that within a day I’d be able to tell you what he eats for breakfast and which female’s slipper he drinks his wine out of.”
Down the Long Gallery, I saw prim Lady Prudence gazing dutifully at Arthur Ainsley while he pontificated about some, I was sure, boring, topic. I could not picture Lord St. Clair’s daughter offering, nor Arthur Ainsley accepting, her shoe as a substitute for fine crystal. Even so, Sir Simon’s boastful declaration irked me.
“Mr. Ainsley is only one possibility. I trust you to keep this information to yourself, Sir Simon.” Prinny commanded. “There are many possible corners, both at home and afar, from which the threats could have come,”
“Foreigners!” Sir Simon said in a disdainful tone. “You can’t trust any of ‘em.” Taking a step closer, Sir Simon murmured, “Your Royal Highness, have you noticed that the foreigner I told you about last night at the Johnstones is in our midst now? He’s over there, flirting expertly, so he can get a leg over Lady Chastity. Daresay she looks like the type that will let him.”
The Prince joined Sir Simon in a lascivious snicker. “Which one is he? God’s truth, Sir Simon, you find a way to make me laugh in spite of my anxiety.”
Sir Simon obligingly pointed at Victor Tallarico.
Down the Corridor, Tallarico, clad again in a dark coat over a pink waistcoat, bent close to whisper something in Lord St. Clair’s other daughter’s shell-like ear. Lady Chastity was all giggles in the Italian’s presence. His brown hair mixed with her golden curls, so close were the two.
Still, I saw no harm in Lord Perry’s cousin. I did feel disappointed in the Prince and worried for our friendship. Sir Simon brought out the wilder side in him. I felt the Heir Apparent had strayed from his usual discrimination in his choice of friends when he chose to associate with the baronet. Sir Simon did not reflect well on Prinny’s character.
Besides, I wanted no one to supplant my place as the Prince’s favorite. Can you blame me? It was through my friendship with him that I first came to Society’s notice. I have no aristocratic background nor any great fortune to recommend me. I have only my sense of style and the friendships I have formed to keep me on my invisible throne at the head of Society.
Suddenly I wished to be away from them. I could not bear to hear how the conversation might degenerate. I said, “I shall avail myself of this opportunity to speak to Mr. Ainsley, your Royal Highness. As for Victor Tallarico, he is Lord Perry’s cousin. I believe that to be recommendation enough for his integrity.”
“Dash my wig, Mr. Brummell!” Sir Simon expostulated, and at that moment I wished I could knock his wig and its wearer to the floor. “Many a man from a so-called fine family indulges in activities you’ve never even dreamed of. Just because a man is related to, or associates with, honourable people doesn’t mean he is honourable.”
“How very right you are, Sir Simon,” I said, fixing my gaze on Prinny, then casting a speaking look at the baronet.
I looked at the Prince again. “Will you excuse me, your Royal Highness?”
He nodded his permission, and I turned on my heel and strolled in Arthur Ainsley’s direction. I cooled my aggravation with a glass of wine procured from one of the many footmen in the room. Glancing at my pocketwatch, I noted only five minutes remained before six, the traditional time the Prince led his guests in to dinner.
Lady Perry smiled at me from where she stood with her husband and Lord and Lady St. Clair. I returned the gesture, though I did not stop to talk. My goal was Mr. Ainsley. I did notice that Lady St. Clair had a rather pinched expression on her face. Likely she did not approve of Lady Perry being in public in her condition, though there was nothing yet in Lady Perry’s appearance to indicate she was with child.
Still, Lady St. Clair struck me as the sort who probably removed herself to her country estate the very day she learned she was pregnant and remained there until after giving birth, deeming it unseemly to do otherwise.
“Good evening, Lady Prudence, Mr. Ainsley,” I said, wandering over to where the two stood by the fireplace. Neither one looked happy at the intrusion. “The Prince was just telling me of your discussion this afternoon regarding Indian architecture.”
“I brought him a book he liked,” Mr. Ainsley muttered shortly.
Not a friendly soul, is he?
“Mr. Ainsley is an expert planner, Mr. Brummell. The Prince is wise to accept his help in renovating the Pavilion,” Lady Prudence declared.
Let us hope he was not planning the Prince’s demise. “Lady Prudence, have you an interest in architecture, as well?” I asked.
“Yes, Mr. Brummell, I have. Mr. Ainsley has been kind enough to educate me, and I find myself grateful to him for doing so.” She favoured Mr. Ainsley with a serene smile.
I tilted my head and looked at the two. He needed an audience, so puffed up was he with his own real or imagined abilities. She was a dab of a girl, a reflection of her mother’s training in the conventions, no doubt. Where Lady Chastity clearly rebelled against her mother’s teachings, Lady Prudence embraced them and even expanded upon them. She needed someone as serious as she thought she should be.
I fixed a pleasant expression on my face and said, “There, Mr. Ainsley. Lady Prudence and I quite agree that the Prince is fortunate to have the benefit of your knowledge. He must have enjoyed the time you spent with him this afternoon making the ideas in his head become a reality, at least on paper.”
Mr. Ainsley regarded me with derision. “Reality? The Prince does not know the meaning of the word. The Pavilion is becoming naught but a pleasure dome, an unreal extravaganza of excess. Witness the number of mirrors in this room, for example. His Royal Highness is the very exemplar of narcissism.”
Lady Prudence drew in her breath sharply.
I struggled to keep a cool countenance at these heated words.
A tinkling of bells sounded, announcing dinner, and distracting me. I saw the Prince lead the way to the dining room, Freddie on his arm. I stared in surprise, for I had not seen her arrival. Naturally, as the highest-ranking lady present, she would go into dinner on the Prince’s arm. If I were lucky, I might be seated near her. First, though, I must finish my conversation with Ainsley.
But when I turned back to him, he and Lady Prudence had gone. I looked around and saw them joining Lord and Lady St. Clair, Mr. Ainsley smiling at something Lord St. Clair said.
The riddle of Mr. Ainsley would have to be dealt with later. Right now, I must content myself with studying him over dinner. There were more gentlemen than ladies present, so I did not have a lady to escort. As I was about to enter the Eating Room and find my place, Viscount Petersham and his friend Lord Munro caught up with me.
“I say, Brummell, well met,” Petersham greeted me with a mischievous grin. Lord Munro gave me a brief nod.
“Petersham, what has got you in high spirits?” I asked as we crossed into the Eating Room.
“I’ve my new snuff box, the one Munro gave me,” Petersham said, casting a fond glance at his friend. “It’s beautiful and it’s filled with my new special blend, the one I promised the Prince he’d be the first to try.”
“Splendid,” I said, peering over people’s heads trying to see if the Prince was going to follow the conventions when seating the guests. If so, Freddie would be on his right. There might be casual seating, though, since there were only a few more than a dozen of us. Perhaps I could sit next to the Royal Duchess after all.
“Here it is,” Petersham said, pulling the snuff box from his pocket. “Remember I said I would show it to you? Take a quick look.”
Diverted, I picked the snuff box up from Petersham’s outstretched hand and examined it with pleasure. An antique, the box was dated 1633. Made in the shape of a book, the box was inlaid with mother-of-pearl and engraved with a head of Charles II.
“What’s going on back there?” the Prince called. “Brummell, come and sit down, will you? Gad, Petersham, does that box Brummell is holding contain your new blend? Remember, you said I should be the first to try it. I shall not stand for your breaking your word.”
“Yes, sir,” the viscount responded proudly. “And you shall be the first.”
“Lord Petersham and Mr. Brummell, you vexing men,” Lady Bessborough called from her place on the Prince’s left. She acted as hostess while Mrs. Fitzherbert remained ill. “Do put that snuff box aside until after dinner. I am persuaded the Prince would not like his food to grow cold.”
Petersham looked like a little boy told to put away his favourite toy.
Lord Munro grasped his arm. “Why don’t you put the snuff box on the sideboard for everyone to see, Charles? Then after dinner, the Prince can sample your new blend.”
“Good idea, Harold,” Petersham said. He walked to the great sideboard and looked for a place to display the box. Plucking a pineapple from the top of a silver epergne, he put the snuff box in its place.
The Duchess of York smiled at me from her seat beside the Prince. The angel had reserved the place next to her for me.
I made sure all the ladies were seated, then slipped into my chair. “Freddie,” I said in a low voice, “I tried to see you earlier. Are you quite recovered from this morning’s shock?”
She nodded. “I suppose so, dear. Thank you for asking. Has there been any word as to the girl’s identity?”
“No one recognized her. As sad as it is, there is nothing more we can do at the moment.” I could not take my eyes from the Royal Duchess, and felt the day’s tensions draining away now that I could gaze upon her lovely face. Tonight she wore a magnificent emerald necklace set off to perfection by a rich green velvet gown.
“George,” she whispered. “We must pay attention to the company and not be rude.”
As if waking from a sleep, I looked around the table to see a few curious gazes cast our way. I took a deep swallow of the wine a footman stationed behind me had just poured.
Have I mentioned to you recently how much I dislike the Duke of York?
I turned my attention to the table. The food had been laid out before the guests came into the room. There were as many as forty dishes on the table, meats, vegetables, jellies, potatoes, more than we could ever consume. Although on my other side, Sir Simon made a hearty attempt to do so all on his own. Naturally, he took it upon himself to admonish the Prince not to try a single dish until he had partaken of it first.
To be fair, I must say I contributed to the demise of the fine dinner as well. I enjoy a zestful appetite, one that has yet to display itself on my still lean person, thank heavens.
Once the first course was complete, an army of footmen came in and brought in another round. We dined on these sumptuous dishes, then finished with a dessert course and the table was cleared.
Around ten o’clock, Lady Bessborough signaled for the ladies to follow her to the Saloon, leaving us gentlemen to our fruit, walnuts, and port. There was a general shuffling about as gentlemen got up, walked around, and stretched their legs. With the ladies gone, we could all sit together, arranging ourselves down the table from the Prince.
I took Freddie’s chair next to the Prince just in time. Sir Simon made a move for it too late and had to settle for sitting next to me, with Petersham and Munro on his right. Directly across from me was Lord St. Clair, engaged in conversation with Mr. Ainsley on his left, followed by Lord Perry, Victor Tallarico, and Doctor Pitcairn.
A trio of footmen came in carrying an unexpected treat. For our amusement, the Prince’s pastry chef, obviously not a Frenchman, had made a delightful confection. On each plate stood a spun-sugar frog, colored green, complete with raisins for eyes, looking ready to leap from our plates. Frenchmen are commonly called Frogs, you know.
The Prince laughed uproariously at the chef’s sense of humor. “We must have no fear of the Frogs, gentlemen. Instead we shall eat Napoleon and all the Frenchies alive if they come to invade us.”
Everyone joined in the laughter as port was poured into glasses.
Petersham had no sooner sat down than he sprang back up. “My snuff box!” He retrieved it from the sideboard and took his seat. “Before we devour these Frogs, your Royal Highness, you must try my new snuff.”
“Pass it this way at once,” Prinny commanded jovially.
With great ceremony, Petersham passed the box to Sir Simon, who passed it to me. I was about to hand it to the Prince, when suddenly, Sir Simon reached across and snatched the box out of my hand. Everyone looked at the baronet expectantly.
Sir Simon bounced in his chair—rather like the toad he was—hopping up and down. “You cannot be too careful, your Royal Highness. For your safety, I insist on trying it first.”
“Egad,” Petersham protested to the Prince. “I wanted you to be the first to try my new blend, sir.”
Sir Simon clutched the snuff box. “Your Royal Highness, you must allow me to take a pinch of the snuff first. After all, we cannot have you succumb in front of the Frogs.”
Good God, frogs on our plates and a toadeater at our table. I half expected to wake up and find myself on the banks of a stream, watching Sir Simon on his lily pad.
Did he really think Viscount Petersham would poison the Prince? No, he just wanted another opportunity to fawn over Prinny.
However, I seemed to be the only one with uncharitable thoughts toward the baronet. Except Petersham and Munro, everyone else, including the Prince, was chuckling at Sir Simon’s jest.
“Go on then, Sir Simon,” Prinny said. “Take a pinch, then pass the box along to me.”
On center stage now, the baronet placed a line of snuff on the back of his hand, raised it to his nose, and inhaled deeply.
He turned a triumphant face to us, red lips grinning.
Then his eyes bulged. The snuff box slipped from his fingers, bouncing from the table down to the carpet.
Sir Simon’s breath came in rapid gasps, an ugly sound.
The laughter around the table died.
Abruptly, Sir Simon’s hand went to his throat. He made a final choking sound, then keeled over, his head crushing the frog confection on his plate with a loud clatter.