I closed my eyes for a moment. “The white powder in the snuff?”
Petersham’s jaw dropped. “How’d you know?”
“I had an audience with the Prince this afternoon, and Mr. Townsend and Mr. Lavender were present. They told me about the white powder.”
“Sea salt! It was only sea salt!” Petersham exclaimed indignantly.
“Calm yourself, my friend. I believe you.”
Petersham groaned. “Bow Street doesn’t.”
“Tell me, what made you think of adding sea salt to the snuff?”
“It’s like this. I told you I found the sea air refreshing. I’m able to breathe better by the sea. Then I thought of how every once in a while Prinny has trouble breathing.”
“True, but I think that is related to his ever-increasing girth rather than any problems with asthma like you have. Have not most of Prinny’s episodes struck after a heavy meal?”
Petersham thought a moment. “Egad, Brummell, I think you’ve the right of it. And here I thought he might suffer as I do. I was only trying to help.”
“You had best tell Mr. Lavender.”
A stubborn expression came over the viscount’s face. “I will, but Munro has done his damage.”
I wondered when we would meander around to the topic of Lord Munro. “How was it Lord Munro came to tell Mr. Lavender about the sea salt?”
Petersham drummed his fingers on the table. “The Bow Street man was questioning me when Munro arrived. Mr. Lavender asked what kinds of snuff Munro had seen me blend. That silly gudgeon told him, and added there was a white powder, as well, but he didn’t know what that was.” The viscount looked crestfallen. “Munro might as well have ordered a basket for my head to drop in after I’m beheaded at the Tower.”
I furrowed my brow and gave a little shake of my head. “I cannot think they do that anymore. The mess of spurting blood, you know. We are so much more civilised now. They probably just feed murderers to the lions kept at the Tower menagerie.”
“Joke if you will, but you know it’s no laughing matter. You’re the one who’s been trying to warn me since Sir Simon keeled over dead that night.”
“I know, but I am only trying to get you to brighten up and fight for yourself. God knows, I have had to defend you up to this point, since you refused to believe anyone would think you responsible.”
Petersham managed a grin. “Like when we were back at school, eh? You always kept the bullies from me.”
“Only this is not school,” I reminded him. “I am relieved to see you taking the matter seriously, but troubled that it appears you have given up hope before really trying.”
“What good is there? When a man is betrayed by his closest friend . . ..” Petersham held out his glass, and I poured him another measure of wine. He slumped miserably in his chair.
“You and Munro had a falling out after Mr. Lavender departed,” I said gently.
“Yes, and I broke one of my best snuff boxes when I flung it at him,” Petersham said sulkily.
“What did Munro say was the reason why he mentioned the white powder to Mr. Lavender?”
Petersham gazed into the fire, a mulish expression on his face. “He said he was only trying to help. To give Bow Street a clue they could follow to find the real culprit. Imagine that.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I never want to see him again,” the viscount pronounced firmly. “Does that answer your question?”
“Hmmm. While the outcome was not what we would like, perhaps Munro did mean well,” I said.
As you know, I cannot like Lord Munro, but I am aware that the relationship he has with Petersham is one the viscount values. I beg you will do me the favour of noticing how unselfish I am, defending Lord Munro. Do remember this the next time I tell you how I sometimes manoeuver things to my own advantage.
But my tactic was not enough for my friend. All of a sudden Petersham began gasping for breath, wheezing, and struggling for air. His hand went to his cravat, and he jerked it loose.
I leaped to my feet. My first thought was to send Delbert for a physician. Then I remembered witnessing a similar incident where the viscount had been able to help himself. “Petersham, old friend, breathe. You must breathe through your nose as deeply as you can.”
The viscount stared at me, still gasping, panic on his face.
“Petersham having one of his attacks?” a voice called from another table.
I held up my hand. “Yes, but I think we can handle it.”
I crouched down beside the viscount. “You can do it. Breathe through your nose, then exhale by blowing air out of your mouth. Pretend that one of your favourite snuff boxes is on this table,” I urged, motioning to the small round table that stood between the two chairs. “The lid of the snuff box is open, and for a game, you are trying to blow it closed.”
He did as I suggested. At first I did not think the stratagem would work. Just as I thought I must shout for Delbert after all, Petersham’s breathing eased. “That is the thing, keep breathing. Steady. Good,” I encouraged.
“I—I think I’m over it now,” he said in a shaky voice a minute later. “Thanks for reminding me what I needed to do.”
“Will a sip of this wine help?” I asked, offering him the glass.
He nodded and took a drink. “When the blasted asthma comes on, I can’t help but feeling like I can’t get any air. A fellow likes air, you know. In and out of his lungs.”
“I advocate it myself,” I concurred, pouring another glass of wine and swallowing the contents.
By gradual degrees he relaxed, at last sure that the attack would not come back on him.
We spent the next hour drinking steadily, talking of this and that, complaining about the lack of enough watchmen stationed for our protection—I related the story of the strange chairmen who took me away and beat me—and bemoaning the trials and tribulations of love.
Silently, I cursed Lord Munro for an unfeeling oaf. Obviously the quarrel between the two of them had been deeply upsetting to the viscount. Merely speaking of it might even have brought on his asthma attack.
Eventually, in the small hours of the morning, I judged Petersham too drunk to find his way home. Outside White’s, I summoned Ned and Ted and charged them with the task of making certain they delivered the viscount to his house and into Diggie’s care.
I hailed a hackney to take me to my destination.
No, do not quiz me about what I did for the remainder of the evening. Suffice it to say, I took my mind away from the menace of further action by Bow Street. Action that might be to the detriment of the viscount or myself.
Even so, a part of my brain could not stop thinking about a slice of my conversation with Petersham. I had explained my theory that Sir Simon might have been the intended victim of the poisoning all along. Petersham made the comment that the contemptible baronet was capable of making instant enemies. This observation served to remind me of Lord Perry’s challenge and subsequent threat to kill Sir Simon if he ever spoke ill of Lady Perry again. Also Victor Tallarico’s display of his knife.
If I convinced Bow Street that Sir Simon was likely the object of the killer’s wrath, would that place Lord Perry and Signor Tallarico in danger?
* * * *
I would have slept late the next day, but Chakkri had other ideas. Around eight, he woke me by the simple act of standing on my chest. I opened my eyes and looked into his alert blue gaze.
“Reow,” he said pleasantly.
“No, it is not time to get up,” I mumbled, removing him from my fine lawn nightshirt.
A minute or two later, he hopped onto my chest again and began playing with my quizzing glass.
Are you surprised? I sleep with my quizzing glass. One never knows when one will need it.
I rolled over onto my stomach and tried to go back to sleep, but it was no use. My brain had already begun running over the harrowing events of the past few days: the assault on my person, the nasty interview at Carlton House where my own honour had been called into question, my belief that Sir Simon had been the intended victim of the poisoned snuff all along, and the repercussions to Lord Perry and his cousin if he was.
But before I could act on my suspicions, there was Miss Lavender. I could not overlook my responsibility to her, nor the Frenchwoman I had put in Miss Lavender’s care.
If I wished to erase the black look she had given me last night when I did not have time to speak with her, I needed to impress her with an early arrival at her shelter.
Thus, I breakfasted—sharing the delights of Andre’s cooking with Chakkri—and once properly attired, I ordered the twins to carry me to New Street.
When we stopped at the door outside Haven of Hope, I alighted from the vehicle and looked about the neighborhood. The streets were crowded with wagons and drays. Humanity bustled in the area known as Covent Garden, outside Mayfair, with greengrocers calling their wares and people of the middle and lower classes trying to eke out an honest living, some not so honestly.
I noted that a few doors down, at No.3 New Street, the establishment of Lavell & Coxhead, Grocer and Tea Dealer stood ready to serve the public. No doubt this was where Mr. Lavell could be found, if one were inclined to see what he looked like—I mean, that is to say, if one were inclined to speak to him. Seeing the grocer’s name on the store’s sign, I realised that if Miss Lavender were to wed the man, she would not have to go to the trouble of changing the initials on her linen.
Telling myself it was none of my business, I raised my dog’s head walking stick and rapped it on the door to Haven of Hope.
The green portal swung open, revealing the tall figure of Rebecca Ashton. Miss Ashton and I are acquainted through Freddie. “Miss Ashton, good morning.”
“Mr. Brummell!” she cried. “How delightful to see you again. Please come in.”
Before I could accept her offer, a girl of about sixteen years appeared beside her.
“Oh, Molly, are the candied violets ready for Mr. Lavell?” Miss Ashton inquired.
“Yes, ma’am,” Molly responded, her gaze swinging to the twins. Her brown eyes widened at the sight of them. Ned and Ted bowed and grinned in her direction. Molly blushed and tossed her dark curls. I stood aside so she could pass, noting that Ned and Ted watched the girl’s progress down the street.
“Is Miss Lavender here this morning, Miss Ashton?” I asked, entering the tiny, well-scrubbed hall. A set of double doors led to a large room, where a circle of wooden chairs had been set up rather like a classroom.
“I am afraid you have missed her, Mr. Brummell,” Miss Ashton said. “She did not go home last night until near midnight and then returned at seven this morning.” Miss Ashton lowered her voice, casting a hasty gaze toward a closed door behind her. “Lydia and the Frenchwoman had been in the sitting room together before Lydia left. I think Lydia is gravely concerned about her, as we all are.”
“Yes. Do you know if she learned anything new?”
Miss Ashton shook her head. “I do not think so. A pitiful predicament we are in, not even knowing the woman’s name. I believe that is why Lydia went to Hove.”
“Went to Hove?” I queried, alarmed. I remembered Miss Lavender trying to tell me something the night before about a house in Hove the Frenchwoman described. Something about the woman being held captive there.
Miss Ashton picked up the hem of the apron she wore and worried it between two fingers. “She told me she was going to hire a coach to take her there, and if I had not heard back from her by tomorrow morning, I was to go to her father.”
“Good God.”
“My feelings precisely. The girls and I have been making candied violets this morning, and I admit I could not tell you if they came out nicely or not. I am very anxious about what Lydia might find in Hove, especially since she would not take anyone with her.”
A cold knot formed in my stomach. There could be no question of continuing my investigation into Sir Simon’s death until I could be sure of Miss Lavender’s safety. I could only hope no one died or was arrested in the meantime. “I shall go after her.”
Miss Ashton gazed at me approvingly. “Oh, Mr. Brummell, that is the very thing. I am ever so much relieved. Do you know exactly where she has gone?”
“Dash it, Miss Lavender told me the Frenchwoman described a house there, but I cannot bring to mind what she said. May I see the woman and ascertain whether she will tell me what she told Miss Lavender?”
Miss Ashton looked doubtful. “You can try, but I expect you know what condition she is in.”
“I do.”
“Very well. She is in the sitting room, behind this door.”
“Ah, so that is why we have been speaking in lowered tones.”
Miss Ashton smiled, her azure-coloured eyes sparkling. She turned and opened the door. A small room, containing a cluttered desk in one corner, a row of books against one wall, and a cluster of threadworn chairs about the fireplace came into view. There were no windows. I thought of Miss Lavender’s assertion that the Frenchwoman was upset by the sight of men passing by.
The woman herself sat in one of the chairs, holding an orange cat. Stroking its matted fur, the woman appeared as calm as I had ever seen her. In French, she called the cat “Marmalade” and declared him handsome. She then scratched the top of the animal’s head, much to the feline’s delight. I was amazed at the transformation in her features. Obviously a lover of felines, the Frenchwoman’s skin did not look quite so sallow, nor the lines on her face so deeply etched, as she gazed tenderly at the cat.
All that changed when, in French, I said, “Good morning.”
The Frenchwoman gasped and drew back in fear when she caught sight of me, causing the cat to jump to the floor and scamper past me out of the room. The loss of her feline companion seemed to add to the Frenchwoman’s distress.
Miss Ashton crossed to her side and tried to soothe her, but the woman was having none of it. She began muttering once more about “ze animals” and saying “no, no.” I felt myself grow impatient as the minutes ticked by and the woman remained unresponsive to Miss Ashton’s pleas to tell her about the house in Hove. I feared for Miss Lavender’s safety.