“I do not understand,” I said pleasantly.
“Yes, you do. In point of fact, that is the problem. You understand far too well. Tell me, why would a man like yourself, whose company is sought after, whose taste is deemed the standard for elegance, and whose loyalty to his friends is well known, trouble himself with investigating a murder?”
“Murder? I was only seeking pleasure. Er, could you ask this man to take that gun away from my head? The sensation is most disagreeable.”
“Do not play the fool, Mr. Brummell. I am very much aware of your inquiries.”
I glanced around the room as if thinking of a reply. In truth, I was trying to find something I could use as a weapon. With a length of steel pressed into my carefully groomed hair, my only chance was to slump to the floor and make for cover. Surely Devlin was not an expert at shooting a moving target. Was he?
“You are correct,” I said, spotting a strong leather whip tossed into a chair by the desk. I hesitated to think of its use. “I have been trying to determine who would poison the Prince. I fail to see what that has got to do with your club, sir.”
“You are intelligent enough to have realised the tainted snuff was not meant for the Prince, Mr. Brummell. And although you were always polite to Sir Simon, you could not have cared much when he left this world. Somehow you have found out about his—now my—secret club.”
“I heard rumours. Have you taken over, then, since his untimely death? Is this all some sort of rite of initiation? If so, I fear I must tell you I do not find it amusing—”
“Enough of this game! You may have found out about Sir Simon’s club, but that is as far as you will get,” the tall man declared, rising to his feet. “Devlin, take Mr. Brummell down to the caves where the sound of a gunshot will not be heard.”
The pugilist’s grip tightened painfully on my arm. There was no choice but to try to remain in the study. Here, I might have a chance. In a cave during a one-to-one fight with Devlin, I feared I would be the loser. The strength of his punches was already known to me.
I decided to gamble on the study. Keeping my tone amiable, I said, “Since you are going to kill me anyway, why not take a minute to clear up a few things first,
Lord St. Clair
.”
His lordship grew still.
My gaze locked on the eyes behind his mask.
Slowly, he turned around and moved back to the chair. He removed his mask and seated himself. His manner was nonchalant. “How did you know?”
“Through careful deduction and a bit of luck.”
“Should oi kill ‘im, now, milord?” Devlin asked.
Lord St. Clair held up a hand. “In a moment. Tell me how you found out I was involved. Have you told anyone else?”
I was not reckless enough to answer the second question. “I shall tell you what you what to know if you have your henchman remove that pistol from the back of my head.”
At a nod from Lord St. Clair, Devlin lowered the gun from my head, but only to the small of my back.
“At the Pavilion, my initial reasoning was that Mr. Ainsley might have reason to wish the Prince harm.”
“Why is that?” Lord St. Clair asked.
“It seems Mr. Ainsley and Prinny had a disagreement over a peerage that would lead to a seat in Parliament. But this never seemed a strong enough motive for the young man to have resorted to poisoning the heir to the throne. However, it was indeed a Parliamentary matter which brought about the murder of Sir Simon.”
“You intrigue me,” Lord St. Clair said in a flat voice.
“Sir Simon, greedy fellow that he was, wanted the high tax reinstated on tea. That way, his already profitable smuggling enterprise would become even more lucrative. But how could he persuade Prime Minister Pitt to reinstate the tax? He had no credibility with Mr. Pitt. They had quarrelled over the matter in the past. Then Sir Simon was presented with an irresistible opportunity to get his way. Through you. Everyone knows Mr. Pitt respects your opinion, my lord.”
Lord St. Clair had perfect control over himself. I admired his aplomb, if nothing else. “Yes, he does. And I told that bastard baronet that I would not persuade Pitt to reinstate the tax.”
“So Sir Simon resorted to blackmail, and you, having an understandable aversion to blackmail, decided to kill him.”
“Naturally. A blackmailer is never satisfied. I did initially go to Pitt and speak with him about the tax. There was talk of it in Parliament. But I would not jeopardise my position with the Prime Minister by pressing the matter. That is when I decided Sir Simon had to be eliminated once and for all.”
“How did you come upon the idea of the poisoned snuff?” I asked in the manner of one discussing an idea no more lethal than where to hold a picnic that afternoon.
Lord St. Clair had that smug look of someone who thinks himself clever. “I had been lingering in Brighton, waiting for an opportunity. You see, it had to be the consummate murder. I cannot have my family name tarnished.”
“You sent the letters to the Prince.”
“Ingenious, was it not?” Lord St. Clair said, warming even more to his topic. He was bragging a bit now. “What better way is there than to kill someone, then make it look like another was meant to die? I hoped the Prince would come running to his Pavilion to hide like the cowardly baby he is, and I got my wish. Then, Sir Simon fell right into my hands by toadying to the Prince. My first thought was to conceal myself and shoot Sir Simon while he was at the Pavilion. Everyone would think the shot was meant for the Prince.”
“But the house was heavily patrolled.”
“The grounds were not,” he pointed out. “And the Prince is so prone to hysterics, he would immediately assume the shot was meant for him.”
I could not argue with this. “Then you were at the Pavilion that night after we all returned from the Johnstones’ dinner. You heard Petersham talk about how he was mixing a new blend of snuff. You heard him promise to let the Prince be the first to try it.”
Lord St. Clair spread his hands. “A chance like that does not come along every day.”
“What if the Prince had inhaled the poisoned snuff?”
“Do not be ridiculous. Sir Simon was playing his role of food taster for all it was worth.”
“Even so—”
“I expect I would have intervened had not Sir Simon taken the box from your hands. In a manner that would reflect well on me, of course. As it turned out, there was no need. All I had to do was slip the poison into the box while everyone was moving about after dinner. A sound plan, if I say so myself.”
A plan that chilled me even now. “What about the blackmail, Lord St. Clair. How did the girl die?”
For the first time, his lordship appeared to grow angry. “You found out about that, too? Really Mr. Brummell, the world will be better off without you.”
“I know of those who would agree. Still, if you would be so indulgent as to tell me what happened with the young lady . . ..”
Lord St. Clair made an impatient sound. “That silly girl. Josette was her name. If she had not put up a struggle, she would still be alive.”
“French, was she not?” I encouraged, though reeling in horror inside.
“Damn all those cursed Frenchies. Yes, she was an orphan raised in a convent. During the course of pirating a ship in the Channel, one of Sir Simon’s men came across a vessel sailing to Calais. Josette’s governess had decided the roads between Rouen and Calais were too dangerous for the young heiress to travel and had chosen the sea instead. Ironic, eh?”
“Indeed,” I uttered through gritted teeth.
“Josette had been on her way to marry a widower her trustees had selected for her. Through our club, Anubis, Sir Simon was aware that I have a taste for untouched young women. He had Josette brought here and saved for me.”
“Lady St. Clair—”
“Smells of the shop,” Lord St. Clair sneered, referring to his wife’s background in the merchant class. He shook his head with regret. “If only Josette had not struggled. The stupid chit protested so much, I had her drugged. Even that did not quell the fight in her. She fell and struck her head. What a waste.”
“And you had her body thrown into the sea.”
He chuckled mirthlessly. “Imagine my surprise when she came back to shore. Seemed she wanted what I had to offer, after all.”
My chest burned with unleashed anger at Lord St. Clair’s callous view of the young girl.
Lord St. Clair, done with relating how astute he had been, looked at me. “You will admit, Mr. Brummell, that I have delayed the time of your death long enough.”
I thought quickly. I needed to catch the pugilist off guard. “Why not kill me right here in the study like you did Jemmy Wheeler?”
The strategy worked. I felt the pressure of the gun pressed to my back ease a bit. “You was the one who shot Jem? He was my friend,” Devlin said in a hurt voice.
Confusion reigned in the next seconds. With all my might I drove my right elbow backward into Devlin’s stomach. He grunted, then sank to the floor. I swung around and watched him, puzzled that my thrust had been that powerful.
Then my startled gaze rose to where Miss Lavender stood on the other side of him, the butt end of a pistol in her hand. I could hardly believe my eyes. “You saw today’s date on the list, despite my precautions, you mad girl. Give me that gun.”
But Miss Lavender had apparently been listening to Lord St. Clair’s cold-hearted recital of the events leading to Josette’s death. Her green eyes gleamed with fury as she stepped over the unconscious body of Devlin and came forward into the room. Her gaze never wavered from Lord St. Clair.
“Miss Lavender, give me that gun,” I commanded, fearing that the intrepid female’s dedication and passion for the rights of women would overcome her good sense.
Lord St. Clair rose from behind the desk and grabbed the whip from the chair. He advanced menacingly toward Miss Lavender. “Cursed females! I am surrounded by them at my home, now this!”
He raised the whip into the air, about to strike Miss Lavender.
I lunged for the gun.
Too late.
Gripped by a white-hot rage over what she had heard, Miss Lavender took aim and fired her pistol at Lord St. Clair.
He howled, clutching the inner portion of his thigh.
Rapid footsteps echoing from the hall heralded the arrival of John Lavender. “Lydia! I followed you from London to see what you and Mr. Brummell were doing. What the devil happened here? Is that Lord St. Clair on the floor?”
Miss Lavender stood breathing as if she had run a mile.
Quickly I took the gun from her shaking hand and stood at her side. “Your daughter shot Lord St. Clair while defending herself, Mr. Lavender. St. Clair is the one who put the poison in the snuff. The poison was meant for Sir Simon as I, ahem, had thought. The baronet was blackmailing his lordship.”
Lord St. Clair writhed on the floor in pain, blood running down his buff-coloured breeches.
Mr. Lavender, a man apparently immune to shock after years of Bow Street work, eyed Lord St. Clair. “Is that so? Well, I’ll have a doctor summoned before I arrest his lordship. Lydia, since you’re safe, I’ll speak with you later. And you, Mr. Brummell.” He shot me a disapproving look and then went back out into the hall, shouting for a footman.
I put my arm around Miss Lavender’s trembling shoulders. “I am so angry you came here, I could shake you if you were not shaking already. It is a very good thing you missed anything vital when you shot Lord St. Clair.”
From the circle of my arm, Miss Lavender looked up at me. “Perhaps I do need spectacles after all. My aim was off by a good three inches.”
Outrageous girl!
“His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales, and Mr. George Brummell,” the butler at Lord and Lady Perry’s Town house intoned.
The company present in the drawing room bowed low.
For the Prince, of course.
Lady Perry had insisted upon giving a small party before she and her lord retired to the country for the winter. I greeted her and Perry now. “Lady Perry, how kind you are to be giving a dinner. May I hope you are feeling more the thing these days?”
She nodded. “Thank you, yes although I shall be happy to settle into Perry Grove until spring.”
Her husband stood at her elbow. “I insisted that Cook be aided by Gunter’s excellent catering so that Bernadette need not fret over the menu tonight. If I had my way, we would already be enjoying the country air.”
His wife rolled her eyes heavenward at Perry’s anxiety.
Victor Tallarico approached, and we exchanged greetings. “You have already been to the country at Oatlands, I hear, Mr. Brummell.”
“Yes, I have. Autumn in the country is a balm to one’s senses,” I said, wondering how he knew of my visit to Freddie’s estate.
The Italian gave a pained smile. “Sad to say, the Duchess hasn’t invited me to Oatlands yet. But I plan to correspond with her regularly and have hopes for an invitation before long. Her Royal Highness is a
bello
creature, too often alone.”
I fixed the Lothario with a seemingly benign look. Certainly he showed no sign of awareness that I wished to throttle him, which I did. “You are all kindness, I am sure, but the Royal Duchess does not lack for anything. Pray do not trouble yourself with her happiness in the future.”
Tallarico could not have misinterpreted my message, but he could choose to ignore it. “A lady can never be too happy, Mr. Brummell. And as to the happiness of ladies, I am particularly sad for Lady St. Clair and her daughters.”
“Their circumstances cannot be comfortable,” Lady Perry said.
“On the contrary, my love,” Perry said, “Recall that Lady St. Clair’s family is quite wealthy. They shall rise above the scandal, wait and see.”
Yes, I thought, money could open many closed doors. Lady St. Clair and her daughters would retire from Society for a while. Eventually the scandal of her husband’s deeds would die down. Mr. Ainsley would marry Lady Prudence in a quiet wedding. No doubt the young man would use his bride’s money to pursue his ambitions. He might very well be elected to a seat in the House of Commons.