As it turned out, I only narrowly escaped speaking those sacred vows.
Upon our arrival in Fetter Lane, I helped Miss Lavender out of the hired coach, hoping against hope that her father would not hear our arrival.
Luck was not on my side.
As I walked Miss Lavender around to the private entrance to her father’s lodgings, the man himself swung open the door and hurtled down the steps. Clad in a plaid robe, with slippers on his feet, he still managed to look fierce.
“Where, by all that is holy, Lydia, have you been?” the Scotsman demanded. He darted a disbelieving glance at me, then spoke in an awful voice. “Lydia! Have you been with
Mr. Brummell all evening?” The ends of his enormous mustache seemed to leap skyward in indignation.
“Father, let’s go inside out of the cold and I’ll explain—”
Enraged, the Bow Street man stared at me. “I never thought to have the leader of the Beau Monde for a son-in-law, but have you I will, Mr. Brummell.”
I gripped my dog’s head stick, Freddie’s dear face flashing through my mind. “Miss Lavender and I did ride in a closed carriage together from Brighton, but—”
“From Brighton!” Mr. Lavender bellowed. He took a step toward me. “You’ll be at the church at nine. That should give me enough time to rouse the vicar. By God, I’ve always wanted grandchildren, and now I’ll have them. Ones who spend their days endlessly wrapping linen around their necks until the folds fall just right, rather than tramping the fields getting muddy and learning how to hunt grouse!”
“Hunting, after all, is a beastly sport,” I ventured.
Mr. Lavender’s hands balled into fists.
Miss Lavender put a hand on her father’s arm. “There will be no wedding.”
“Oh, yes, there will be, Lydia,” Mr. Lavender contradicted. “You are compromised. What man will have you now?”
Miss Lavender spoke in the voice of reason. “Mr. Brummell and I merely rode in the same coach, Father. You are enacting a tragedy where there is none. Nothing happened. Come, I’ll make you a cup of hot rum against the weather.”
My own voice sounded calm to my ears. “Your daughter is correct, Mr. Lavender. My behaviour tonight was that of a gentleman. But since I am a gentleman, I am prepared to do the honourable thing and marry Miss Lavender if that is what she wishes.”
What else, I ask you, could I do? Mr. Lavender was correct. If word got around that Miss Lavender and I had, for all intents and purposes, spent the night together, no man would marry her. Not even her grocer.
“Aye, you’ll be wed as soon as I can arrange it,” he agreed.
“Father!”
“Which church do you prefer? I shall see that we have flowers. Miss Lavender deserves that at least.”
“What I deserve is—”
“I’ll send word to you, Mr. Brummell. Be waiting for it, and mind you don’t leave your house until you have it. By the Lord, it won’t be the wedding her mother—God rest her
soul—always dreamed of for her daughter. But we might get dear Mrs. Lavender’s wedding dress out and air it in time.”
“Miss Lavender, I hope Mr. Lavell will not suffer from a fatal depression at losing you,” I said sympathetically.
Finally able to express her feelings about the plans being made for her, Miss Lavender appeared distracted by my last statement. “Mr. Lavell? The grocer? He’s past his sixtieth year! What would he have to say in anything?” She asked incredulously.
For some reason, a sense of relief filled me that she was not romantically involved with the kind grocer after all.
“No one will have anything to say other than me,” the Bow Street man, used to being in charge, pronounced.
But Miss Lavender had had enough. “Father, you are wrong! I shall be the only one deciding my future. There is no reason why I should wed Mr. Brummell, and I tell you I shall not wed Mr. Brummell! You cannot force me. What’s more, the very idea that a woman should marry for the sake of satisfying some ridiculous rule set forth by who knows who is outrageous. I’ll not bow down before such nonsensical thinking.”
“But, Lydia—”
“No, Father,” she said firmly. “Good night, Mr. Brummell. Send word to me when you have learned more about Sir Simon. I shall be at my shelter later in the morning.”
So saying, the independent Miss Lavender took her father by the arm and bear-led him up the stairs. The sound of the two arguing carried over the night air.
Wearily, I was about to walk around to where the coach waited for me, when the sound of Mr. Lavender’s voice reached my ears.
“ . . . Cannot matter about Sir Simon. Bow Street is about to charge Lord Petersham . . .”
The door shut before I could hear the rest of what he said. But, then, I had heard enough. Just as I felt the weight of impending nuptials lift from my shoulders, another sort of apprehension filled me. For now I was the only thing standing between my friend Petersham and his complete disgrace.
* * * *
Back in Bruton street, I fell into an uneasy sleep. My brain felt as if it continued churning along despite my slumber. Visions of Petersham being led off to Newgate where no one would help him with his asthma attacks tormented me. Then, the image of Perry standing before a judge being accused of carrying out his threat to kill Sir Simon sprang into focus. Lady Perry, heavy with child, was there, weeping.
Another dream brought the image of Victor Tallarico and his gleaming knife being led away by Bow Street. In a pink waistcoat, dirty and stained, the Italian paced the confines of his cell at Newgate, reliving past feminine conquests for no one’s benefit but his own.
In what would be the final nightmare, I stood in front of the Prince of Wales at Carlton House. Many of my friends were present. The Duke of York sat next to his brother, with his wife, my dear Freddie, at his side. In ringing tones, Prinny told me my presence was no longer desired at Carlton House. Our friendship was at an end. So was my place in Society.
Worst of all, I saw Freddie slip her hand into her husband’s. She did not look at me.
Abruptly I sat up in bed, my head pounding and my jaw tense. I glanced at the clock, noting I had been asleep only a few hours.
Nevertheless, I rang for Robinson, instructing him to bring me some tea and breakfast before my bath.
From the top of the fireplace mantel, Chakkri watched my every move. His tail lashed perilously close to one of my Sevres pieces. The cat’s mood reflected my own agitation as he jumped from one spot to another like a monkey in a cage, occasionally emitting a clipped “reow.”
Clad in my Florentine dressing-gown, I breakfasted and drank my tea. The twins brought up my bath, and I ordered them to ready the sedan-chair for travel.
My thoughts centered on Sir Simon. More specifically, who had wanted to kill him. I thought I would call on Lady Hester and find out if she knew what the quarrel had been that caused the end of the baronet’s relationship with Prime Minister Pitt. Lady Hester had said the friendship had cooled when Pitt found out Sir Simon was still smuggling. But I wondered if there was more to it than that, a clue that might lead me to a motivation for the murder.
Before I left the house, I wanted to write a letter to Freddie. My dream about her had disturbed me.
Once dressed and downstairs, I had Robinson bring me another cup of tea in my bookroom. He handed me the post, which included several personal letters, one from Freddie herself. I scanned the lines rapidly, reading with amusement Freddie’s description of an encounter between one of her ostriches and the short-legged Humphrey. The ostrich had been the loser. Also, one of Minney’s pups had found her way into the pouch of one of the kangaroos kept at Oatlands. The kangaroo had quite adopted the ball of puppy fur as her own.
Freddie could always bring a smile to my face.
Her letter ended with a plea for news, so I began to write. I told her of my visit to Marie and the resulting trip to Brighton and Sir Simon’s house. I debated the wisdom of telling her about my coach ride home with Miss Lavender. Was there a chance she might hear of it? Deciding there was not, I omitted it from my account.
Stretching out my hand for my cup of tea, I was startled when Chakkri suddenly leapt onto the desk and knocked the teacup over.
“Confound it! Will you leave the tea things alone? What is wrong with you this morning? Robinson!”
Leaving the valet to clean up the mess, I grabbed my letters and returned to my bedchamber. My temper was short from lack of sleep, and I was in no mood to subject myself to Robinson’s Martyr Act nor Chakkri’s antics.
Finishing my letter to Freddie, I broke the seal on a missive from Lord Perry.
Brummell,
The Prince held a musical evening last night and I expected to see you there. I wanted to ask you what you know about the investigation. John Lavender came to my house yesterday. He questioned Victor and me about our opinions in regards to Sir Simon. What the devil is going on?
Perry
I frowned. No invitation to the Prince’s musical evening had reached yours truly. Just as well, I supposed, as I was otherwise occupied and would have had to make my excuses to Prinny.
Did Mr. Lavender’s questioning at Perry’s house mean that Bow Street was taking my theory of Sir Simon being the intended victim seriously? I wished I might speak with Mr. Lavender on the topic, but did not think he would be willing to sit down and converse with me after last evening’s . . . er, controversy.
Breaking the seal on the next letter, I saw it was from Petersham.
Brummell,
Where were you last night? I have no friends any longer since Munro’s traitorous behaviour toward me. Yet I do have a stranger shadowing my every move. Unfortunately, he looks like one of Bow Street’s runners. Let me state now for the record that when they take me away, you may have my collection of snuff boxes. Last I checked, none contained any poisoned snuff.
Petersham
I tossed the note aside, more anxious than ever to visit Lady Hester Stanhope.