Robinson unpursed his lips long enough to ask, “Shall I have the twins bring up a bath?”
“Absolutely. I am anxious to rid myself of the dirt from travelling.”
“So am I,” Robinson claimed with a pointed look at the feline, then he exited the room. The valet had ridden home from the Perrys with Chakkri in his charge. I suppose I should be grateful the cat was not halfway to the coast in a carton marked “Siam.”
“Quite a bumble-broth in Brighton, eh, Chakkri?” I said, moving to the wardrobe to select my evening clothes. “Who would have thought a short jaunt to Brighton would give us two deaths? I cannot help thinking of the girl Freddie and I found on the beach.”
The cat turned his head toward me. “Reow,” he said urgently, his tail switching from side to side.
“A sad sight indeed,” I agreed, gently lifting a gentian-blue coat from the wardrobe. “I shall keep in touch with that worthless magistrate, Mr. Kearley, and see if the girl’s identity is discovered. Freddie will want to know of any news as well.”
The cat turned his attention back to the fire, his tail tapping impatiently on the carpet.
I studied my selection of waistcoats. The white silk or the white jacquard? The silk. “More pressing, though, is the matter with Prinny. I have given my word as a gentleman that I shall find his would-be assassin. Even if I had not made my promise, someone needs to lift a hand to help Petersham before he finds himself mixing snuff at Newgate prison. Freddie said we cannot know everything about Arthur Ainsley’s motivations and I agree. Robinson can discover the man’s London residence and habits so I can discreetly inquire more fully into his life. Meanwhile, White’s is sure to be rife with speculation. I want to hear what is being said.”
Chakkri remained silent, his posture now one of unconcern. He stared into the fire so long, I feared his eyes would dry up and fall from his head onto the Persian carpet. Why he turned his back on my musings about Prinny’s would-be assassin I cannot say. I confess to having given up trying to understand his feline brain.
At that moment, my servants, Ned and Ted entered the room, carrying a large copper tub filled with hot water. Robinson followed, fussing, and directed them to place the tub close to the fire. He set a small tray with a pot of tea and a teacup on the table next to the chair.
Ned and Ted are completely identical twins, tall country boys with golden hair and muscular physiques. They have only been in my employ as chairmen a short time, having recently arrived in London from Dorset County where they had lived on a pig farm with their mother. They are devoted to her, their main goal in life being to send money home to “Mum.”
Though Robinson balked at their coming to live with us, claiming that between them they do not have the intelligence of a turnip, I optimistically believe he is growing accustomed to having them around. They do the heavier work about the house, in addition to carrying my sedan-chair. Previously, I had to hire men from the Porter & Pole. Most were none too clean, nor sober for that matter.
With the tub in place, Ted adjusted the sleeves of his blue and gold livery—garments I personally designed—and said, “Welcome ‘ome, Mr. Brummell, sir. Did you ‘ave a good time in Brighton?”
Without waiting for me to reply, Ned said, “We were supposed to take a trip to the sea once. It were a fine summer day, and Pa went to feed the pigs afore we left, while Mum loaded the farm cart. We never seed Pa alive again. Best we can tell, ‘e slipped on somethin’ greasy and fell into the pigs’ swill. Miss Frances, Mum’s favourite pig—and the fattest thing you ever did see—must of come chargin’ over the minute she seen Pa face down in ‘er breakfast. I reckon as ‘ow Miss Francis was only trying to get Pa out of ‘er way when she run over and threw ‘erself atop ‘im in the slop, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that things don’t always work out the way a body plans, ain’t that right, Ted?”
His brother shook his head sadly. Ned barely paused for breath before continuing. “Naw, I reckon Pa couldn’t get ‘isself out from under almost three ‘undred pounds of ‘ungry pig. Mum found ‘im smothered in the corn gruel. To this very day, the sight of corn gives me a turn. And if I try to eat it, well I . . .. “Ned looked puzzled for a moment, then asked, “What was I sayin’, Ted?”
Ted raised the sleeve of his coat to his eye and wiped a tear. “You was tellin’ Mr. Brummell why we ain’t been to the sea. You’re finished now.”
“You must make the journey another time,” I said.
Robinson looked at the twins in revulsion. “I shall be certain to instruct Andre never again to prepare his corn soufflé.”
Later, after having made short work of my bath, I donned my black breeches and a white linen shirt and began the exacting task of tying my cravat. “Robinson, what was the talk in the servants’ coach of the Prince’s brush with death?”
His expression scornful, the valet said, “Mr. Hearn, who serves Lord Perry and fawns over Lady Perry’s maid, Betty, got into a heated exchange with her over Signor Tallarico. Betty cannot see any harm in the Italian, while Mr. Hearn believes his lordship’s cousin must be a spy for Napoleon.”
Was there no female immune to Tallarico’s charm? “Did Mr. Hearn give any reason for his convictions?”
“No, sir.”
“Here, I have done with my cravat. Help me into this coat, would you, Robinson. What did Diggie have to say?”
“That fool,” Robinson snapped. “Do you know Lord Munro told him some idiotic story about your having two glovemakers and Mr. Digwood believed him? One glovemaker for your thumb and one for the rest of your hand. Have you ever heard the like?”
“Great heavens, how did you respond?”
Robinson briskly smoothed the back of my coat across my shoulders. “I did not lower myself to reply to such utter twaddle.”
I chuckled. “Next time, you might tell him, just between the two of you, that I use three glovemakers. Why should I be remiss when it comes to my pinkie? Surely that finger requires special care. But, tell me, did Diggie say anything about Petersham’s snuff box and how the snuff came to be tainted?”
“No, sir. Mr. Digwood gave the impression Lord Petersham is not in the least concerned about the matter, which if I may say so, sir, seems unwise.”
“Hmmm. Yes, quite right,” I said, putting on a pair of narrow black shoes. “What of Arthur Ainsley? Was anything said about him?”
“Indeed, sir,” Robinson crooned in the manner of one saving the best morsel of information for last. “I paid particular attention, as you had expressed an interest in Mr. Ainsley. Apparently Betty had it from Felice, who serves the St. Clairs, that Lady Prudence talks to her sister, Lady Chastity, frequently about Mr. Ainsley. Though Lady Prudence finds all that is to be admired in the gentleman, Felice found it shocking to hear that in Mr. Ainsley’s opinion, England would be better served if the Duke of York were appointed Regent in the event of the King being declared incompetent to rule.”
The Duke of York made Regent? I had never considered the idea. Of course, it could happen if the Prince of Wales were deceased. His daughter was only nine years old. The Duke could be made Regent until Charlotte came of age.
And what would that mean for Freddie?
I stood transfixed by the very idea. How would she be able to continue her life at Oatlands, where yours truly is so frequently to be found? Freddie might be obliged to live with her husband at Windsor Castle or Buckingham. Suddenly I had an inkling of how Ned felt when he saw corn.
“Sir, are you all right?” Robinson asked. At my nod, he continued, “Evidently, in a fit of pique, Mr. Ainsley told Lady Prudence that the Prince of Wales was a laughingstock and unable to even lead the fashions—you being the superiour to him in matters regarding elegance—so why anyone should think him capable of running the country was beyond Mr. Ainsley’s imagination.”
“Well, we already know Mr. Ainsley has decided opinions in matters related to the government.”
“But, sir,” Robinson said severely, “you have not heard everything. Only listen to this: Betty reported that Felice was positively worrying herself to flinders over Lady Prudence’s relationship with Mr. Ainsley, fearful of his single-minded intensity. Her anxiety reached new heights when she overheard Lady Prudence talking to Lady Chastity. According to her,
Mr. Ainsley said he wished with all his heart that you had not allowed Sir Simon to take the snuff box back from you when it was being passed to the Prince. He wished Sir Simon’s fate upon the Prince.”
Good God.
“Reeooow!” shrieked Chakkri, startling me out of the shocked state Robinson’s words had put me into. My gaze swung in the direction of the cat, only to see him leap onto the blue chair and then pounce down on the tea tray, sending it sliding to the very edge of the table.
Robinson saw the cat’s deed, too. He sprinted across the room in time to catch the tray before the teapot and its contents crashed to the floor. “That fiendish feline!”
But I thought Ainsley was the one who had earned the description of fiendish.
The outward preoccupation of the fashionable gentleman is his clothes and his appearance. But there are other things with which he can relieve the boredom of a life spent in leisure. Chief amongst these is gaming.
The most stylish place for a gentleman to throw the dice is White’s Club in St. James’s Street. With four hundred and fifty members, White’s may be privileged, but there is nothing exclusive about who may lose their fortune over the turn of a card. For example, some years ago, one Sir John Bland found he was thirty-five thousand pounds down after an evening of wagering at White’s. He shot himself.
White’s also has a notorious Betting Book, of which yours truly has been the subject on more than one occasion. Twice in the past seven years, bets as to whether or not I shall marry have been entered. One was by my own hand: shortly after obtaining my majority and being elected to White’s, I bet Mr. Osborne twenty guineas that I would be married before him. Mr. Osborne was the richer for my folly. In l801, two friends made a bet that one of them would not be married before I was. He lost as well, sad to say.
Some whisper that I am too particular in my tastes to settle on any one companion. Is there anything wrong with wanting the very best? And if I cannot I have the best because she is already married—er, I mean for whatever reason, well . . .
Ned and Ted carried me in my sedan-chair down St. James’s Street to the entrance of White’s. I opened the door to my conveyance, the autumn air stinging my face and feeling more like winter this evening. It was too cold for the boys to remain outside waiting for me, since I had no idea how long I would be. If they whiled away the time in a nearby alehouse, God only knew what sort of condition they would be in by the time I was ready to go home.
Thus, I gave the twins leave to take themselves back to Bruton Street, instructing them to see if Robinson required anything of them. I hoped the valet would not order the boys to jump into the Thames.
I climbed the few steps to White’s. Delbert, the club’s Shakespeare-loving footman, threw open the front door for me.
“Good evening, Mr. Brummell. I am happy to see you returned from Brighton.” The white-wigged footman looked around furtively before whispering, “‘I would have him poison’d with a pot of ale’ may best describe the situation at the Pavilion, eh?”
“Snuff, it was snuff, not ale,” I remonstrated, giving my brain a chance to work on the quotation. At last I said, “
King Henry IV, Part One
, I believe, Delbert.”
Delbert looked blue-devilled. “I am fast losing hope that I’ll ever catch you out, sir.”
I chuckled. “‘Where most it promises, and oft it hits, where hope is coldest and despair most fits.’“
Delbert stood stricken. I handed him my greatcoat, hat, gloves, and stick, and walked toward the sounds of laughter coming from the gaming tables.
“
All’s Well That Ends Well
!” Delbert called triumphantly.
I turned and favoured him with a slight bow that acknowledged his success. Privately, I thought all had not ended, and all was not well. Thus, my aim was to discover what I could from the gamblers.
Scrope Davies, and Lords Yarmouth, Petersham, and Munro had just finished a round of whist.
“Brummell!” Scrope called out. “Come join us. I think we have done with play for the moment.”
“All rolled up, are you?” I teased him. Barbs flew back and forth following this taunt, including a few regarding my own bad luck at the tables of late. A waiter brought bottles of wine, and glasses were filled. Lumley “Skiffy” Skeffington, Lord St. Clair, and Richard Sheridan wandered over and sat down.
Ignoring Lord Munro’s dour look, I greeted Petersham and the others, then pulled up a chair between Scrope and Yarmouth.
Much to my dismay, one of the inhabitants of this earth whom I least wanted to see chose that moment to mince his way onto the scene. While he was not greeted with any warmth, my nemesis, Sylvester Fairingdale, affixed himself to our group. He and I looked at one another, then, as if by mutual consent, each of us hastily looked away.
Fairingdale is a fop of the first order. The coxcomb thinks he practices the art of dressing better than I do, and he continually searches for a way to prove himself in the eyes of the
Beau
Monde
. He would like nothing better—and would stop at nothing—to topple me from the invisible throne from where I rule London Society.
Tonight he wore another ghastly ensemble which he, no doubt, considered the very glass of fashion. His cravat was wound up so high, it forced his chin up even higher than he normally holds it. His long nose stood in danger of being burnt by one of the candles in the chandelier.
His clothing was selected, I suspect, for its autumnal theme. I say “I suspect” because I do not pretend to understand such a graceless lack of taste. His clothes are well tailored and of fashionable cuts, I grant you. But the combination of colours he chooses . . . Well, I shall allow you to judge for yourself. Tonight his breeches were straw yellow, his waistcoat was Indian red and brown striped, and all was topped by a coat of copperish orange.