Had I not heard the Prince’s words with my own ears, I would not have believed him capable of voicing doubts about Lord Petersham aloud. Suspicion from Bow Street I could understand. Suspicion from a so-called friend, I could not.
Lord Munro, rather than Petersham, entered the room next.
The guard who accompanied him said, “Viscount Petersham is not downstairs. I brought Lord Munro up since he’s on the Bow Street list.”
Lord Munro looked haughty. “Charles will be here momentarily. Diggie was helping him dress when I obeyed the summons to the Pavilion.”
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Jack Townsend said.
“I know you by reputation,” Lord Munro replied.
“Good. I understand you and Lord Petersham are sharing a house in Brighton. Is that true?” Mr. Townsend asked.
“Yes, it is.”
Mr. Townsend glanced at Mr. Lavender. That man turned a page in his notebook. As if by some silent signal he took over the questioning. “Lord Munro, were you present when Lord Petersham mixed the snuff he brought here last evening?”
“Of course I was. I admire Charles’s superb taste and abilities in most things, snuff included,” Lord Munro stated. “I enjoy watching him mix blends.”
“After he mixed the snuff to his satisfaction, he then placed it in a special snuff box, is that right?” Mr. Lavender said.
Lord Munro nodded. “The box was a gift from me. The snuff was a new blend which Charles promised his Royal Highness he might be the first to sample.”
Mr. Townsend had been pacing a few feet back and forth, but came to a stop at these words. “Did he say why the Prince would be the first?”
I could remain silent no longer. Before Lord Munro could answer, I said, “Because Lord Petersham counts himself honoured to be one of the Prince of Wales’s friends.” I followed this statement with a penetrating gaze at Prinny.
“Well, the fact is, I encouraged Petersham to let me be the first to try the new blend he’d been working on,” was the royal comment.
“So you see, Mr. Townsend,” I said equably, “there was nothing ominous in Lord Petersham’s mixing a new blend of snuff. Just as there was nothing ominous in his honouring the Prince with the first pinch. I was present in the room when the viscount told the Prince he was working on the snuff. Lord Petersham allowed his Royal Highness to be the first to try it in order to please the Prince.”
“Nothing ominous, Mr. Brummell, except that someone dropped dead after partaking of that new snuff,” Mr. Lavender pointed out. He turned his back to me, effectively giving me the message that I should keep my thoughts to myself, and resumed his questioning. “Lord Munro, after Lord Petersham mixed the snuff, did you sample it?”
“Of course I did,” Lord Munro replied somewhat indignantly. “Charles always asks my opinion.”
“And what was your opinion?” Mr. Lavender asked.
“That it wasn’t quite right yet. Something more was needed, I’m not sure what . . .” Lord Munro trailed off.
“And did Lord Petersham take your advice? Did he continue working on the snuff?”
“Oh, yes, why—” Lord Munro suddenly hesitated. It seemed to me that he had thought of something, but was reluctant to divulge it.
Mr. Lavender and Mr. Townsend perceived it too. Both men stared at Lord Munro. Mr. Townsend said, “You saw him mixing the snuff again?”
Lord Munro swallowed, looking uncomfortable. “I can’t remember,” he finally said.
“Think hard,” Mr. Lavender directed.
Lord Munro fixed him with a cold look. “I’ve told you I can’t remember. That is all I have to say.”
A short silence followed. Then Mr. Townsend said, “Very well, Lord Munro. I’ll ask you one final question: Have you any reason to believe that Lord Petersham might wish the Prince of Wales ill?”
“None whatsoever,” Lord Munro pronounced. “I have cooperated with you, but I draw the line at the thought that Charles might have had anything to do with the attempt on the Prince’s life. The very idea is insulting.”
For once I found myself in agreement with his lordship.
Lord Munro bowed to the Prince and backed from the room as one does in the presence of royalty. Mr. Townsend and Mr. Lavender had their heads together while Mrs. Fitzherbert whispered to the Prince. I wished for a glass of something strong. Anything.
Petersham sauntered into the room a few tense minutes later. He was faultlessly dressed in a rich plum-coloured coat over pale buckskin breeches, but dark circles were evident under his eyes. From our long friendship, I know this to be a telltale sign that the viscount had not had enough sleep.
He bowed to the Prince, then looked through heavy-lidded eyes at the rest of us. “What’s going on here?”
“Petersham, they—” I began, only to be quickly cut off by Mr. Lavender.
“That’s all right, Mr. Brummell. I’ll ask the questions.”
I stood leaning against the fireplace, resisting the urge to drum my fingers on the mantel in irritation.
“Who’d you say you were?” Petersham asked, covering his mouth and suppressing a yawn.
“I am John Lavender from Bow Street. This is Jack Townsend.”
Petersham strained to open his eyes wider. “Townsend? Devil take me if I’ve seen you since the races in Brighton last summer. I say, I like that hat. Rather a broad brim. Good for keeping the sun out of one’s eyes. Did James Lock, the hatter, make it?”
“No, but I can give you the direction of the hatter who did.” Mr. Townsend smiled. Obviously he was going to let Mr. Lavender ask the harsh questions so he could remain on good terms with the high-born Petersham.
“My lord, let us change the topic, if we may,” a tinge of sarcasm touched Mr. Lavender’s words, “to snuff boxes.”
“Be glad to,” Petersham said, looking around. Near the fireplace where I stood, not too far from the desk, was a bamboo-style chair. The viscount dropped into it, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “His Royal Highness has some of the best snuff boxes I’ve seen. Sorry, Brummell, but it’s the truth.”
“That is quite all right,” I said magnanimously, pleased at the frustrated look on Mr. Lavender’s face. Surely he would see there is no guile in the viscount.
“The box you brought last evening to dinner—”
“Ahh, that particular one is special, Mr. Lavender. It was a gift to me from Lord Munro. I daresay the Prince covets it, as beautiful as it is. Oh, but you never had a chance to really examine it, did you your Royal Highness? That ugly scene with Sir Simon.” Petersham shook his head. Then, “That reminds me, where is my snuff box?”
The Scotsman looked hard at Petersham. “It’s being held by the Bow Street Police Office as evidence in a case of attempted assassination of the Prince of Wales.”
“When will I get it back?” Petersham wanted to know.
Mr. Lavender looked incredulous. “My lord, do you not realize that the snuff in that box killed a man?”
Petersham looked blank. “I know that some minor baronet who did not dress well and smelled awfully of jasmine will soon be six feet under.”
Prinny said, “It was an attempt on my life, Petersham.”
The viscount sighed deeply and pondered the statement. “You know, I’ve given the matter a bit of thought.”
“I hope the effort was not too much for you,” Mr. Lavender said.
“Not at all,” Petersham waved a hand. “Brummell here told me that everyone would think the snuff was poisoned, but I thought the notion nonsensical.”
Mr. Lavender pinned me with a glare I thought might blind me. Though in all fairness, I must say the Bow Street man would likely settle for turning me into a mute. That way, I could not meddle in his investigations . . . or his daughter’s life.
Petersham went on: “But, you know, I trust Pitcairn as a good doctor, so I suppose I’ve got to accept that poison was in the snuff. I just can’t figure how it got there. Or why anyone would want to besmirch snuff that way.”
“The person who did so wanted to kill the Prince,” I reminded him.
“That’s ridiculous. Who would want to hurt his Royal Highness?” Petersham asked. “Weren’t any Frenchies about.”
The Prince grasped chunks of the bedclothes in his fists.
Mr. Lavender calmly lifted a slim box from his pocket. Made of ivory, with a small turquoise in the center, it contains toothpicks. I know because I gave it to him. Mr. Lavender once saved my life. The Scotsman selected a toothpick and popped it in his mouth.
I did my best not to cringe at this ungentlemanly habit.
Petersham observed the box and cried, “Say, that’s a nice little box for a Bow Street man.”
I tensed. Would Mr. Lavender force me to explain why I had given him the gift?
The Prince leaned forward to get a better look, but after only the briefest of glances in my direction, Mr. Lavender pocketed the box and said, “Catching criminals can be lucrative. Now, my lord, let me pose a question to you. You say you can’t think of who would put poison in the snuff. How do you think it got there then?”
Petersham shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Mr. Lavender removed the toothpick from his mouth and pointed it at Petersham. “You are telling me, my lord, that you don’t know the content of your own snuff?”
“Of course I know what’s in my snuff,” Petersham stated, much offended.
“Then you must have known it had poison in it,” Mr. Lavender said flatly.
“Well, I didn’t,” Petersham said.
“Did you try the snuff before you brought it to the Pavilion, Lord Petersham?”
Here was the question I had tried to ask Petersham in his bedchamber.
“Of course I did,” came the reply.
“Then the killer must have added the poison to the snuff sometime during the long dinner, or just afterward,” I interjected. “What a relief. That narrows matters down considerably.”
“Mr. Brummell, if you don’t mind, I am conducting this questioning. I cannot bar you from this room, much as I’d like, but I must ask you to remain silent and let me ask the questions,” Mr. Lavender said, his patience tried.
I told you he wanted to turn me into a mute.
I put on my best bland expression, so he turned back to the viscount. “Lord Petersham, I put this question to you: If you tried the snuff before bringing it to the Pavilion, then why are you still living while Sir Simon, the first to try your snuff, is dead?”
Petersham rose languidly to his feet. “How should I know? Someone tampered with it after dinner, I suppose. Look here, I’d stay and chat with you fellows, but unless you’re ready to return my snuff box to me, I’ll take myself off. I’d like to drop by the Old Ship Inn for a bottle of their French brandy. Can I bring you a bottle, your Royal Highness? I hear they just received a new shipment.”
I passed a hand over my eyes. Everyone knew the Old Ship’s French brandy was smuggled. Not to mention that the last time Petersham had tried to give the Prince something to ingest, someone had died.
Perhaps by Petersham’s very lack of pretense, the men from Bow Street would see his innocence. Then again, perhaps not.
“Just one minute, my lord.” Mr. Lavender doggedly ticked items off on his fingers. “Since you have told me that you mixed the snuff, that you sampled it before bringing it to the Pavilion—”
Jack Townsend raised a hand. “Gentlemen, I think we’ve questioned Lord Petersham on the matter sufficiently.”
Mr. Lavender viewed his superior with an expression of utmost frustration. Undoubtedly the Scotsman had not given any consideration to the penalty of accusing a peer of the realm of wrongdoing, especially a seditious crime.
But Jack Townsend had thought of it. Most likely, he envisioned what the reaction of Petersham’s father, the Earl of Harrington, would be to any accusations made against his son. That, I judged, was the reason why Mr. Townsend had stopped Mr. Lavender from pressing too hard, and why he was willing to let Petersham go on his way. For the moment.
The second the viscount was out of the room Mr. Lavender rounded on Mr. Townsend. “Why didn’t you let me finish?”
“Let’s not rush our fences,” Mr. Townsend said, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Three suspects—Victor Tallarico, Mr. Ainsley, and Lord Petersham—have emerged as the most likely candidate for assassin, but it’s early days yet.”
“Early days?” Prinny expostulated. “How long are you going to take to find the villain? Long enough for me to die? What if the killer tries again?”
Mr. Townsend consulted Mr. Lavender’s list. “I see we have only the Duchess of York and Lady Bessborough left to question.”
“You can do that on your own, Townsend,” the Prince said, exasperated.
I made up my mind instantly that Freddie would not be questioned without my attendance.
At that moment, a footman in the King’s livery entered the room and bowed low. “I have a message from His Majesty, King George the Third, for his son, the Prince of Wales.”
“Bring it forward, man,” the Prince commanded.
He scanned the few lines and glanced at Mr. Townsend in a manner I could only describe as accusatory. “My father and Mr. Pitt have learned of the attempt on my life. Did you tell them?”
Mr. Townsend spread his hands in a depreciating manner. “The Prime Minister would not take it well had I not.”
“Well, now my father is demanding I return to London. He says I will be safer at Carlton House. I suppose I can only be grateful he did not command me to rusticate at Windsor.”
The Prince tossed the letter aside and curtly addressed the footman. “You may tell my father he has wasted his ink in writing me. I had already decided to return to Town. Tomorrow. I need a meal and a good night’s rest before attempting such a journey.”
The King’s footman backed out of the room.
“Shall I send word to the kitchens to send something up to you here, my dear, or will you dine with your guests?” Mrs. Fitzherbert inquired.
“I’ll dine in my room and only after a food taster has sampled each dish,” the Prince replied crossly. He looked my way. “Brummell, remember your promise to get to the bottom of this no matter who is implicated. That includes Petersham, you know.”
“Sir, I am aware of the fact and confident the viscount is completely innocent of any malice,” I said.
I contemplated the expression of acute aggravation on Mr. Lavender’s face at this reminder of my involvement in the matter. And on orders from no less a personage than the Prince of Wales.
The Scotsman’s toothpick bobbed up and down furiously as he no doubt ground his teeth against it.