“Please be my guest one evening at White’s club for gentlemen,” I said, wanting Prinny to know the man had my approval.
“
Grazie
,” Tallarico promptly responded.
“Be sure to let me know if you change your plans,” Mr. Lavender directed.
When Signor Tallarico had departed, I rounded on the Prince. “Now, sir, may we question Arthur Ainsley?” He seemed the most likely suspect to me, and thus far Prinny had avoided questioning him. From what I could tell, he had not mentioned Mr. Ainsley to Mr. Townsend. I wondered if the Prince was embarrassed over the situation he had found himself in with Mr. Ainsley and was reluctant for the story to come out.
“Er, yes, a most disagreeable young man, though one with a talent for architecture,” the Prince said in response to Mr. Townsend’s questioning look.
“That is correct,” I said, deeming it best not to make matters worse for his Royal Highness. “Mr. Ainsley harbors an unmerited grudge against our Prince.”
“A grudge, you say?” Mr. Lavender asked.
“Indeed. Somehow, Mr. Ainsley brought the Prince into a conversation regarding the young man’s desire for a seat in the Lords side of Parliament. He is the younger son of an earl, so you can see his predicament.”
“He wants a voice in the government badly, does he?” Mr. Lavender queried.
“He does,” I concurred. “So badly, he, er, misunderstood, something the Prince said to him regarding the matter. He believes the Prince promised to elevate him to the peerage in the event the King is declared mentally deranged and the Prince is made Regent.”
“What a pretentious young pup!” Mr. Townsend exclaimed. “We must speak to him next. Lavender, you start things off.”
Mr. Lavender nodded, but said nothing. The Prince squirmed on the royal mattress.
A few minutes passed and Arthur Ainsley entered the room. He bowed low to the Prince and was introduced to the Bow Street men. His countenance was much as it always is: a paper-white complexion topped by the blackest hair and eyes.
Mr. Lavender came around the desk with his notebook in hand and fixed Mr. Ainsley with an unswerving gaze. “Are you loyal to the Prince of Wales?”
Mr. Ainsley appeared startled by the question. “Yes, of course I am.”
“Have you ever had an argument with his Royal Highness?”
Mr. Ainsley’s gaze swung to the bed.
Prinny met his eye.
The young man looked back to Mr. Lavender. “No.”
“No?” Mr. Lavender repeated skeptically.
“No, we have never had an argument,” Mr. Ainsley said firmly.
“I’ll remind you, laddie, that you are dealing with Bow Street, besides being in the presence of Royalty. It won’t do to lie.”
Mr. Ainsley was all indignation. “Are you calling me a liar, sir? My father, the Earl of Bentley, shall hear of this!”
Mr. Townsend stepped forward, motioning Mr. Lavender behind him. “Calm yourself, Mr. Ainsley. We are all gentlemen here. With the exception of the lovely Mrs. Fitzherbert,” the head of Bow Street said with an ingratiating smile.
Mr. Ainsley’s angry expression relaxed one fraction of the length of a bee’s stinger.
“What I think Mr. Lavender is trying to get at is, have you and the Prince ever had a disagreement of any sort?”
Mr. Townsend said. “You know what I am speaking of, Mr. Ainsley, the sort of conversation that results when one person misunderstands another and the result is a touch of animosity.”
“I suppose you could say that we have,” Mr. Ainsley admitted grudgingly. “But I did not try to poison his Royal Highness!”
“No one claimed you did,” Mr. Townsend said in an avuncular manner. “Though it would be helpful if you saw anyone tamper with the snuff box Lord Petersham brought to the dinner party.”
I frowned. I could not like the way Mr. Townsend made it seem that unless Mr. Ainsley could give him another suspect, more might be made of the misunderstanding—if it was a misunderstanding, and Prinny had not made the promise in a fit of drunken boastfulness—between Mr. Ainsley and the Prince over a peerage.
Mr. Ainsley seemed to interpret the Bow Street man’s words the same way. “No. I mean, no, I did not see anyone put anything in the snuff box. It puzzles me why you are questioning me, and the others, for that matter. What happened is clear. Lord Petersham mixed a fatal blend of snuff for the Prince. I confess I know not why—”
“Lord Petersham did no such thing,” I said in a confident voice. “For he had no motive to do so.”
Mr. Ainsley glared at me. “You cannot know that. Who can discern what is in another’s mind? Who can say Lord Petersham might not have been tempted with money by the French, or another enemy? He strikes me as a man who requires a lot of funds to maintain his comforts. Simply because you do not know of his motive, Mr. Brummell, does not mean Lord Petersham did not have one.”
The Prince of Wales sat forward in his bed. “Zounds! I had not thought of Petersham in that light before. But a different snuff box every day, and ones of such quality, must cost him a fortune.”
“Which his family has,” I swiftly reminded the Prince. I looked at the skeptical faces around me and focused on Prinny. “Sir, you have known and trusted the viscount for years. Lord Petersham did not add poison to that snuff, your Royal Highness. I am certain of it.”
“I’m not,” Mr. Lavender said.
“Nor am I,” Mr. Townsend said. “You may go, Mr. Ainsley. Guard, bring in Lord Petersham.”
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?