Once in London, I ordered Robinson to convey Chakkri to my house in Bruton Street, while I joined the Perrys in their Adam-styled drawing room in Grosvenor Square.
Setting aside my trepidation that Robinson might seize the opportunity to “accidentally” lose Chakkri in the crowded Mayfair streets, I accepted pen and paper from Lady Perry. In a few short sentences, I described the mysterious Frenchwoman’s plight, and begged Miss Lavender to come to Grosvenor Square as soon as she could.
I sanded the note, and Lady Perry ordered a footman to hurry its delivery to Miss Lavender personally at the Haven of Hope. In case he should not find her there, which was entirely possible since it was nearing five o’clock, I also gave Miss Lavender’s direction in Fetter Lane.
Meanwhile, Betty had bustled her charge to the kitchen, proclaiming that a hot cup of tea was just what the woman needed. Privately I thought a good deal more than tea would be required to quiet the Frenchwoman’s nerves.
Lady Perry then turned her attention to directing a maid to make up a room for Victor Tallarico.
“No, you must not,” the Italian protested, rising. “I’ll seek a hotel for the night. In the morning I’ll inquire about renting rooms.”
“I shall not hear of it,” Lady Perry proclaimed. “Anthony, you must convince Victor to remain with us.”
Perry picked up a bottle of Madeira wine and poured out a large measure. “Why not stay here until you can make more permanent arrangements, Victor?”
Tallarico did not miss his cousin’s lack of enthusiasm for the plan. “Grazie, but I tend to keep erratic hours, and would be more comfortable at a hotel.”
“Oh, surely not—” Lady Perry said, sending her husband a speaking look.
“I insist, mi bella,” Signor Tallarico pronounced. Kissing her hand and favouring her with a wink, the Italian gave me a nod of farewell and then exited the room.
Lady Perry retired to her chamber to change from her travelling dress, but not before letting her husband know of her displeasure at his lack of warmth where his cousin was concerned.
“It is not that I dislike Victor,” Perry said, as he and I seated ourselves in rose-coloured plush chairs by the fire. “He is just not as settled as I might wish. His activities run to the racketing sort. He is better off, as he himself said, at a hotel.”
“Er, Perry,” I said, taking a swallow of the fine Madeira. “Have a care to whom you express that opinion of your cousin. After what happened at the Pavilion . . ..”
Perry ran his hand through his dark hair. “I was referring to Victor’s escapades with females, but I know what you are talking about, Brummell. Jack Townsend’s brain is failing him, though. Victor would not take time away from his pursuit of the ladies to involve himself in spying or plotting with Napoleon’s allies.”
I studied Perry’s face carefully. I found it disturbing when I saw the slight bit of doubt in his eyes. Almost as if by speaking the words aloud, he was reassuring himself that they were true. “As Tallarico intends to remain in London for a time, you will have the opportunity to renew your acquaintance, perhaps be an example to him.”
Perry snorted. “Victor has never listened to anyone. Certain people must find their own way in the world, eh, Brummell?” He turned to look at me. “You have not followed my lead either, have you? While I cannot think you indulge in the sort of dissolute behaviour Victor does, you are as yet unwed at the age of seven and twenty.”
“Ah, Lady Perry, you have rejoined us at precisely the right moment,” I said rising and sweeping her a bow. A servant followed her into the room carrying a tray laden with tea and sandwiches. Yes, I was relieved that the conversation with Perry had been interrupted. I count him as one of my closest friends, but that does not mean I will discuss my most private feelings with him.
While we ate and exchanged small talk, a corner of my mind examined the absent Victor Tallarico. I allowed this corner free rein to consider him as a suspect in the poisoning. A mental image of the Italian standing in front of an emissary from Napoleon in Rome, accepting orders to act on the new King of Italy’s behalf, formed in my mind’s eye. Could it be true?
I remembered the glint of the knife he had so quickly produced when he thought his cousin might need his assistance. Signor Tallarico’s chief interest in life was women and, more specifically, his conquest of them. Perhaps it had been a woman who had persuaded him to carry out the deed.
And the man did wear a pink waistcoat. Could he really be trusted?
As I said, I tried to come up with every devious political plot in which I could cast Signor Tallarico, but the fact remained that I did not believe a single one of them. The man was guilty of no more than filling a lady’s ear with whispered promises of delights he claimed only he could deliver.
The entrance of the butler broke my thoughts. “Miss Lavender, my lord.”
Perry and I rose to our feet as Miss Lavender advanced into the room. Her gaze found me and her lips curved into a slight smile.
That smile made me pause. Not only did it brighten an already attractive face, but it seemed to convey the spirited signal that Miss Lavender considered herself my equal.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Brummell,” she said. “I came as soon as I received your letter.”
I performed the introductions, all the while admiring the translucence of Miss Lavender’s porcelain-like skin and the sheer richness of her auburn hair in the candlelit room. As is her custom, she wore a neat, serviceable gown, this one in a rust-coloured wool that complimented her hair. I suddenly found myself feeling rather pleased that Tallarico had taken his leave before Miss Lavender arrived.
“How good of you to come,” Lady Perry said. “Will you not sit down and have a cup of tea?”
Here is an example of what a kind person Lady Perry is. Another lady of her rank may not have deigned to sit down and share refreshments with a social inferiour. The daughter of a Bow Street man moves in an entirely different world than the one Lady Perry inhabits, and their worlds meet only on limited levels. Those levels do not normally include taking tea.
Miss Lavender accepted the offer of a seat, I suspect because she did not wish Perry and me to remain standing. She gazed about her elegant surroundings with interest, but declined the tea saying in a businesslike manner, “I’d like to hear more about this woman’s condition. Has she been beaten?”
Lady Perry seemed taken aback at Miss Lavender’s direct approach. I could have told her that the Bow Street investigator’s daughter was not one to engage in roundaboutation.
No pampered Society girl, Miss Lavender seeks to ease the wrongs women endure due to the limitations imposed upon them by the law, social customs, and the ruthless treatment they often suffered at the hands of men. Or so she has told me.
Gazing into her green eyes, I suddenly wondered what actually motivated Miss Lavender. Was there something in her past that led her to be so conscientious in helping other females?
To answer her question regarding the Frenchwoman’s physical condition, I replied, “No, Miss Lavender, the woman did not appear physically harmed, at least not that I know of.” I raised an inquiring eyebrow at Lady Perry.
Her ladyship gave a little shake of her head. “When Betty came up to help me change out of my travelling dress, she told me the Frenchwoman had not said a word about her situation. Betty had all she could do to get a few sips of tea past the woman’s lips. The woman said nothing, would accept no food, and is still frightened to death. We do not even know her name.”
I nodded. “As I told you in my letter, Miss Lavender, the woman seems terrified of men, specifically. Had not Lady Perry been present, I feel the woman would have run off rather than go anywhere with me.”
“How lowering for you, Mr. Brummell,” Miss Lavender said.
Before I could deliver a reply to this saucy comment, she continued speaking. “So we have no idea who she is or what happened to her. Only that she has suffered some upset which has paralyzed her with fear.” Miss Lavender sighed. “Bring her to me, please.”
“Of course,” Perry said. Lady Perry rang for Betty. “Do you have room for her at your shelter, Miss Lavender?”
“I will not turn her away.”
“Do you have many women to look after?” Lady Perry queried.
Miss Lavender thought for a moment. “We had a new arrival this morning, a fifteen-year-old girl heavy with child, who brings our number to nineteen. A chambermaid, the girl had been turned out without a reference after the master of the house—the very one responsible for her condition—learned she was pregnant. She’s been living on the streets for the past four months and only learned of my shelter when she was caught stealing an apple. The grocer happens to be one I frequent. Mr. Lavell took pity on her and rather than bring charges against her, he brought her to me.”
Lady Perry listened to this account with one hand placed protectively over her stomach. “How dreadful! And how good the merchant was to realize the poor child was merely hungry.”
“A rare man, indeed,” Perry concurred. “Many would have had the chit hauled away to the nearest roundhouse.”
“Yes, Mr. Lavell is good,” Miss Lavender said with a fond smile.
Was that smile indicative of a warmer relationship between the two? My brows drew together. Miss Lavender could do better than a grocer, surely. I reflected that one day soon I might decide to visit Miss Lavender’s shelter, and the surrounding neighborhood. I am a curious fellow, you know.
At that moment, my attention was caught by the sight of Betty standing in the doorway with the Frenchwoman. Betty, bless her, had provided what I suspect was one of her own dresses to the distressed female. And distressed she most certainly remained. The Frenchwoman shrank at the sight of Perry and me, clinging to Betty and making the sign of the cross. Betty managed to inch her into the room.
Miss Lavender rose from her chair. “Good afternoon, my name is Lydia Lavender. What is yours?”
The Frenchwoman did not respond. Her rounded eyes remained focused on Perry and me as if at any moment we might attack her.
The next few minutes were all confusion.
A voice with a Scottish lilt sounded from behind where Betty and the Frenchwoman stood.
“Lydia! What are you doing here?” Mr. Lavender demanded.
The sound of a male voice so close at hand startled the Frenchwoman into a scream, followed by a rapid repetition of the word “no.” She stood rooted to the spot, her entire body trembling.
Betty and Miss Lavender rushed to comfort the woman. Lady Perry would have joined them, but her husband placed a gentle hand on her arm in a restraining manner.
Mr. Lavender abruptly became aware of my presence and shook his finger at me, a mannerism I feel he employs to put me in my place. “What’s this all about? What are you doing here, Mr. Brummell?”
I eyed the Bow Street man with mock gravity. “We are holding a tea party. May I see your invitation?”
Lord Perry took command of the situation. “Mr. Lavender, I did not hear you announced,” he said in glacial tones.
“How could you with all that caterwauling going on?” Mr. Lavender said.
“Father, please! I am trying to help this woman.”
“At whose request, Lydia?” A muscle in Mr. Lavender’s jaw flicked angrily. “Wait, don’t tell me. Mr. Brummell’s, no doubt. We’ll have to have another talk about your
hob-a-nobbing with him.”
“Now there is something for you to look forward to, Miss Lavender,” I said in a perfectly pleasant voice.
“If I might ask you, Miss Lavender,” Lord Perry said, “are you willing to take this lady to your shelter?”
“Yes, I am, and we’ll leave at once, my lord,” Miss Lavender said. “Lady Perry, may I beg the assistance of your maid? I think it will ease this woman’s coming to me if Betty sees her settled in. I assure you I will return Betty to you safely this evening.”
“Of course,” Lady Perry agreed. “I shall walk to the door with you. Oh! I daresay we need another cloak. Betty, would you . . .” The four women exited the room, Miss Lavender informing her father he might take his evening meal at Ye Olde Cock Tavern, as she expected to be home quite late.
This news did nothing to improve the Bow Street man’s temper. “I’ve some questions for you, Lord Perry.”
“I expect you had best sit down,” Perry said in a resigned tone as we resumed our seats. “I suppose this is about the attempt on Prinny’s life?”
Mr. Lavender looked uneasily at the plush chair Perry indicated before seating himself. “Is your cousin here?”
Lord Perry was every inch the earl. “Victor? No, he has gone to look for a hotel. If you have come to question me about him again, you are wasting your time. I have nothing further to say.”
The two men’s gazes met and held.
Mr. Lavender looked away first. He pulled his tattered notebook from his pocket. “Very well, my lord,” he said, burring his “r.” “Let us discuss Lord Petersham.”
The wave of disapproval emanating from me would have cowed a lesser man.
Lord Perry snorted a laugh. “First my cousin, now Petersham? Surely you do not think the viscount capable of concocting an assassination?”
“Lord Petersham tries to give the impression of one lazy beyond comprehension, but I’m not fooled by the act. No man,” Mr. Lavender said, tapping the notebook with emphasis, “can be that slothful, my lord.”
I chuckled. “You obviously are not well acquainted with the viscount.”
“When I said ‘my lord’ I was addressing Lord Perry, Mr. Brummell,” Mr. Lavender barked. He rarely misses an opportunity to remind me of my rank. Or lack thereof.
“Brummell is right,” Lord Perry stated. “Petersham is content with the usual gentleman’s pursuits, and he enjoys mixing blends of snuff. Tea, as well, I believe. There is not an ounce of harm in him.”
“There was certainly more than an ounce of harm in that snuff he mixed,” Mr. Lavender said.
“But he did not intend for there to be,” I said.
The Bow Street man ignored me. “Lord Perry, how long have you known Lord Petersham?”
Perry thought, then said, “As long as I can remember.”
“And in that time, have you ever heard him speak ill of the Prince of Wales? Ever heard him say England would be better off without his Royal Highness?”
Perry looked at Mr. Lavender with contempt. “This is ridiculous. Of course not. You will never convince me that Petersham had any intention of poisoning the Prince. That snuff box was on the sideboard in the Eating Room for a good part of the evening. Anyone present could have added poison to the contents of that box.”
“That is precisely what I tried to tell Townsend and Mr. Lavender yesterday,” I said to Perry, then turned to the Bow Street man. “Petersham had a public conversation with the Prince about his new blend of snuff. A number of people knew the Prince was to be the first to try it. As Perry said, anyone in that room could be responsible, even the servants. Logic will tell you Petersham is not that person.”
“Logic, eh?” Mr. Lavender said. “Let me tell you, laddie, logic doesn’t often play a part in crimes like murder. Passion, greed, and revenge, they are the ones.”
“There you are,” I said triumphantly. “Even though Bow Street thinks it logical that Petersham is responsible because it was his snuff, he is not. You must look for the person with one of the motives you yourself outlined for us, Mr. Lavender.”
The Bow Street man was not convinced. “You have a way of muddling things, Mr. Brummell, I’ll give you that.”
“I am not muddling anything! What could possibly be Petersham’s motive? There is none, I tell you.”
Mr. Lavender pocketed the notebook and rounded on me. “You are very protective of your friend.”
“Yes, I am. I have no wish for his name to be bandied about in such a disgraceful manner. And I don’t want you going about insinuating Lord Petersham is responsible.”
“And I don’t want you involved in another murder case,” Mr. Lavender said, his voice well above the level of normal conversation.
“The Prince of Wales does want me involved,” I shot back.
“Madness runs in his family.” With that, Mr. Lavender shoved a hat shaped like a coal-scuttle on his head and stomped from the room.
“I do not think we convinced him of my cousin’s or Petersham’s innocence,” Perry said ruefully.
“Neither do I,” I said, with growing concern. “May I have some of that Madeira?”