“Do go on,” I encouraged him shamelessly.
“Well, sir, it seems Lord Sidwell is preparing to, er, retire to his country estate. It is said he needs to take himself away from the temptations of London, especially from the gaming tables.” Robinson lowered his voice. “There is talk that he might even be forced to sell his town house.”
Now that was distressing news. I paused in the act of arranging my hair with one of Floris’s smooth-pointed combs. Robinson took the comb and finished my hair. Then he pulled out a bottle of Eau de Melisse des Carmes lotion and began rapidly massaging it into my fingers.
I wanted the painting, make no mistake, but I felt a twinge of pity for the old man who was forced to part with it. Gambling fever ran rampant through London, and sometimes I feared going too far myself. Tradesmen could be put off, but a debt of honor, such as a gaming debt, must be paid at once.
Finished with the hand cream, Robinson put the top back on the bottle and stood waiting for my pronouncement.
I gazed into the tall mahogany-framed dressing glass. A convenient article, it rested on castors and could be moved about the room at will. The dressing glass had two brass arms, each containing a lit candle. In this light, I studied the full length of my appearance critically, not missing a single detail. I made one final adjustment to the folds of my cravat. Robinson pulled a square of linen from his pocket and wiped his brow. By now you may have realized that The Dressing
Hour
is a bit of an understatement.
Content, I turned to leave the room, vigorously pushing aside thoughts of ruin at the gaming tables. I need not worry. Such an ignominious end would never befall me.
For if one got too deeply in debt there were only two alternatives. Flee the country. Or place a pistol to one’s temple and pull the trigger.
And death, social or actual, held no appeal for me.
Little did I realize how much a part of my life it would soon become.
Chapter Two
Fans fluttered and jewels flashed in the candlelight of the crowded drawing room of Lord and Lady Perry’s Grosvenor Square town house.
The large square chamber was done in the neo-classical Adam style, with the carpet woven into pleasing geometrical medallions, a design echoed in the painted ceiling. Delicate shades of cream and olive with rose-colored accents were repeated throughout the room, complementing each other. Rows of gilt chairs sat facing the ornate fireplace, next to which the tenor would perform for the distinguished guests. I noticed a magnificent harp stood positioned in front of the chairs and gathered we would be treated to its soothing sounds.
Among the crowd of people one man stood out. I gazed at him curiously then went to greet my hosts.
“Brummell! Glad you could attend,” Lord Perry welcomed me. Perry is a well-favored man about thirty years of age with a strong profile. An earl in command of three income-producing estates, he had been a much desired bachelor until only a year ago. At that time, defying the predictions of matchmaking mamas who thought their daughters’ dowries would attract the earl, the former Miss Bernadette Martin, a demure lady, both of countenance and of pocketbook, captured his heart and became his wife.
Lady Perry, a petite brunette, was fashionably attired. She wore a dainty, pale pink gown designed in the new classically inspired mode. The styles taken from ancient Rome and Greece make for gowns constructed of the lightest materials, cut low on the bosom, and draped in a clinging manner like a goddess in Greek mythology.
She smiled at me. “Mr. Brummell, how kind of you to come. Now the success of my musical party is guaranteed.”
She had a teasing gleam in her velvet brown eyes I could not resist. “My lady, your triumph has nothing to do with me and everything to do with your beauty and charm. Why, you are a woman of great achievements. Only think, you have managed the near-impossible feat of prying Perry away from his music sheets and pianoforte.”
“Now, if only I could persuade the beast to play for us this evening.” Lady Perry gave her chagrined husband’s arm a playful rap with her fan. A silent message of affection seemed to pass between them before she directed her attention back to me.
“Mr. Brummell, please do stay for a bit after the music. I am serving a light supper and asked Cook to prepare lobster patties when I heard they are your favorite.”
“Perry,” I exclaimed, a hand over my heart, “I am in love with your wife. You had better beware.”
“Ah, but Brummell,” Perry said, “
she
is not in love with
you
.”
We all chuckled. Then, seeing another guest enter the drawing room, Lady Perry excused herself. Perry and I watched her retreating form.
“You are indeed fortunate to have such a charming partner for life,” I said softly. “But then I have long admired your intelligence.”
“Thank you. Bernadette is indeed a treasure.” Perry tore his gaze from his wife and turned to me. “Look here, though, I am sorry to tell you Sidwell sent his regrets and is not coming. I collect you would like to question him about that painting by Perronneau you are so intent on owning.”
I turned a quizzical eye toward Lord Perry. “Whatever can you mean?”
He waved a hand indicating the room. “It is the talk of the evening that you are adamant about buying the Perronneau that Sidwell commissioned Talbot to sell. I daresay until tonight not a soul knew about the painting, or the auction itself for that matter, as it is rumored to be rather small,” Perry said. “I cannot think who brought it up, but we have all been heartily warned off under the threat of the most dire consequences should we bid against you.”
Devil take it! I barely stopped myself from groaning aloud. Petersham had gone too far. I had merely wanted him to pass a quiet word that I desired the painting, not become the town crier!
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a somewhat shamefaced Lord Petersham accepting a glass of wine from a footman. He ducked his head and meandered away in the opposite direction when he saw me. I vowed to switch around his alphabetically arranged jars of snuff the next time I visited his quarters.
In a cool tone, I replied to Perry, “Yes, I intend on demanding pistols at dawn for anyone who dares cross me.”
Lord Perry smiled. The conversation turned to his favourite topic, music, and after several minutes we were joined by a short man wearing spectacles. His sandy hair had been pomaded and combed into a simple style, and his neckcloth was tied in an equally simple manner.
“Mr. Dawlish,” Perry said with satisfaction. “I know you are not much inclined to join social gatherings, but I thought the lure of a musical evening would be too much for you to resist.”
“Your lordship,” Mr. Dawlish said, making a stiff bow, “I am honored by the invitation. The Bible tells us David would take his harp and play, and Saul would obtain relief from the evil spirits that plagued him. I could not miss an opportunity to hear music from such an instrument.”
“And I am delighted you are here. I hope to persuade you to share your expertise on the harp’s origins. My quest for musical knowledge never ceases,” Perry told him. “Allow me to introduce Mr. George Brummell.”
I accepted Perry’s introduction to the Reverend Mr. Cecil Dawlish, the rector of a parish in London, listening with one ear as Perry explained how Mr. Dawlish and he had met at a concert and had subsequently enjoyed numerous spirited conversations about composers and instruments.
I was preoccupied with Mr. Dawlish’s appearance. He was dressed in a black coat and breeches, as clerics are wont to do. In truth, I feel a gentleman clad in a black coat, in addition to the correct style of black breeches, gives the appearance of a magpie. Colors in a coat, so long as they are in good taste, are much to be preferred.
These thoughts of what is fashionable in a coat and what is not, reminded me that I was curious to know the identity of the mysterious guest I had observed upon my arrival.
Before Perry and Mr. Dawlish could cross the room to inspect the harp, I said, “One moment, Perry. Who is that man standing alone by the window?”
I referred to a diminutive, golden-skinned man dressed in unusual, to say the least, garb. His single-breasted silk coat, the color of pineapples—not a color I can approve in a gentleman’s coat—buttoned all the way down the front, and possessed only a small collar which folded upward. A double row of gold embroidery lined the front of the coat, and his trousers sported the same embroidery down each leg. The garment was tied at the waist by a bright red sash.
Lord Perry turned his gaze in the man’s direction. “That is Mr. Kiang, an emissary from the King of Siam. He has been in England almost a year and is reputed to be from one of the best families in Siam. We have not seen him in London for a while as he has been in Bath and Brighton. You must have been in the country at Belvoir or perhaps at Oatlands the last time he was in Town.”
I raised one eyebrow. “I must give the name of his tailor to Grimaldi.”
Lord Perry appeared puzzled for a moment. “Grimaldi? You mean the famous clown?”
I drew in a deep breath. “Just so.”
Comprehension dawned, and Lord Perry laughed. The rector merely looked perplexed. I moved away and procured a glass of wine.
Abruptly a hush fell over the room, and all eyes turned toward the double doors to the drawing room. Ladies sank into the deepest of curtsies. Gentlemen bowed low.
George Augustus Frederick, Prince of Wales and heir apparent to the throne of England, made his entrance. The tall, rather bulky man, known as the First Gentleman of
Europe—a title I admit I covet—conversed easily with those present as he made his way through the crowd. He craved the admiration and affection of all, and in my opinion, his engaging manners made it simple for the public to overlook his extravagance and self-indulgent nature.
A gruff voice at my elbow distracted me.
“Prinny still sulking since his latest attempt at taking over the government failed? He has only to bide his time. The King is mad as a March hare. Our prince will get his regency yet.”
“Lady Salisbury, I am delighted to see you,” I told her and meant it. She is a tiny but sturdy woman, with heavy black arched eyebrows accentuating her strong-willed face. I bowed over her hand. “I thought you would have removed to the country in preparation for the hunting season. How is it that the Diana of Hatfield is in Town?”
“Hmpf! How indeed. James had some tiresome business to attend. Otherwise, we would both be home at Hatfield. This morning I was in Green Park, and the nip in the air made me long for the thrill of the chase.”
I nodded in understanding, though I cannot personally tolerate the hunt. Only consider the inevitable mud which would be splashed on my topboots. Not to mention the early morning hour which leaves me with little time for a proper bath or the intricacies of The Dressing Hour. No, hunting is not an activity that can appeal to me. I believe I like it even less than the fox does.
Nevertheless, I adore the company of the plain-speaking Marchioness of Salisbury. Long ago, she had been Prinny’s mistress, and now she rules the highest of fashionable assembly rooms, Almack’s.
“Don’t think your clever tongue can divert me from the subject at hand, Brummell,” she scolded, a steely look in her eyes. “Prinny fumed through the spring and summer. Has it been long enough for him to recover, or is he still brooding over forming a regency and ruling the country?”
I considered the question and found myself reluctant to answer it, not wishing to speak ill of the Prince. “While I believe the Prince to be somewhat impatient in the matter—”
“Hah!” barked the marchioness.
“Yes, er, as you say, my lady, the King is not well, and I think our Prince will get his way before long.”
“Perhaps he won’t, after all. In January the King read the Address at the opening of Parliament as clear as that crystal goblet you’re holding and—” She stopped abruptly, then gasped. “Oh, Lord. Here comes Prinny.”
Outrageously, Lady Salisbury slipped away before the Prince of Wales could reach us. It was left to me to soothe the frown creasing the royal brow. “Sir, may I compliment you on your coat?” This was a tactic sure to bring him pleasure.
“You like this one, eh, Brummell? I recall two weeks ago I almost left the opera when you raised that damned eyebrow of yours at my new leek-green coat.”
“The color will not be fashionable, sir. The coat you are wearing now is a great improvement. The seams are particularly well-tailored.” They would have to be, to hold the Prince’s ever increasing weight.
“You know I rely upon your judgment. Hey now, it’s going about that some auction’s caught your eye. Anything there I’d be interested in?”
Many people liken the Prince to a sulky child. Behind his back, of course. Indeed, the look he leveled on me at the moment brought to mind a youngster kept out of a favorite game and none too happy about it.
I felt myself tense, though I trust I kept my expression impassive. Using only my left hand, I pulled a black and turquoise snuff box out of my pocket and flicked it open. I took a pinch with my right hand and delicately inhaled. My hands are beautifully pampered, I must tell you. In addition to massaging them daily with Eau de Melisse des Carmes cream, Robinson carefully trims my fingernails and buffs them to a healthy shine.
The Prince watched my every move, reached in his pocket for his own snuff box, and mimicked my actions.
Meanwhile, I contemplated my predicament. The Prince was known to have a penchant for collecting. In fact, he was a well known and generous patron of the arts.
If I enthused about the Perronneau, the Prince might conceive of a notion to possess it. On the other hand, seeing how everyone in the room apparently knew of my interest in the painting, it would not serve to deny it.
“Poor Sidwell is having to sell up to recover gaming losses. I thought I should help by purchasing a small Perronneau,” I said at length.
“Pretty thing, is it?” The royal eyes narrowed.
“Yes, sir, especially if you care for cats.”