The Tainted Snuff Box (26 page)

“What is all that?” Miss Lavender asked, coming to stand beside me.

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“So do you!”

“Well, let us see.”  The mask caught my attention first.  I picked it up and examined it curiously.  In the shape of a jackal’s head, it was meant to wear over one’s face.  “This could conceal a person’s identity quite nicely.”

“I wonder why Sir Simon had such a thing.”

“Not for attending respectable masquerades, I would wager.”

I put the mask aside reluctantly and picked up a seal.  “Another jackal’s head.  Sir Simon must have been fond of the animals,” I said wryly.

“Did you hear what you just said, Mr. Brummell?  You said, ‘the animals.’“

I stared up at Miss Lavender, my hands stilled over the items.  Mentally I could hear Marie sobbing about “ze animals.”  “Just so, Miss Lavender.”

A folded piece of paper was the last item.  The writing revealed a list of dates and times.  Above the dates—one of which I noted was the day after tomorrow—was the word “Anubis.”

Miss Lavender read over my shoulder.  “Anubis.  That’s the Egyptian deity with the body of a man and the head of a jackal.”

I refolded the paper before the intrepid Miss Lavender could see the dates.  “Precisely.”

“What does it mean?  Anubis was the guardian of souls.  He conducted the dead to judgment.  Was that a fitting description of Sir Simon?  You say he was a smuggler, and that dead man over there said he was a blackmailer.  That doesn’t sound like a person I would want guarding my soul.”

“No.”  I stood.

Miss Lavender eyed me shrewdly.  “What are you thinking?  I can tell you have a theory.  You had best tell me.”

“The theory is not one suited to a lady’s ear.”

Miss Lavender leaned close.  I could smell the scent of autumn on her, wet earth, damp leaves, apples, and cinnamon.

She stared at me in the candlelit room with those green eyes of hers and said, “Have you forgotten?  I am not a
lady
.”

For some reason unknown to myself, the thought crossed my mind at that particular moment that it would be quite pleasant to kiss Miss Lavender.  Hard on the heels of this ill-conceived idea came the notion that Miss Lavender might very well allow me to do so.

The point could be argued.

An equally lively debate could ensue as to whether my kissing a girl of Miss Lavender’s station in life would, after all, be wise.

My hand closed over the dog’s head walking stick Freddie had given me.

Miss Lavender sighed.  Why she did so, I could not tell you, but the matter was pushed aside when the sound of footsteps came from the front hall.

“Doubtless that is Wheeler’s partner.  Since I hear he is known as Devlin the Devil, I suggest we take our leave,” I said, assembling the mask, seal, and list, then thrusting them into my pocket.  I grabbed Miss Lavender by the hand, and we made a swift exit into the cold night air.

We hurried to the thicket of trees where my horse was still tethered.  Untying him, I glanced at Miss Lavender.  “Do you not possess a proper riding dress?”

She put her hands on her hips.  “Not with me.  I’m sorry to incur your disapproval, but I did not expect to be travelling by horse.”

“Er, well, how shall we do this, then?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!  Just give me a hand up and then get behind me.”

I did as she bade, placing my arms around her, my head next to hers, and grasped the reins.  I must say that it was not at all a disagreeable posture.  Though I cannot help feeling that inferiour wool is exceedingly rough underneath one’s chin.

Once in Brighton, I ordered a private coach, and we began the journey back to London.

To avoid Miss Lavender’s inevitable questioning, the moment we settled ourselves in the coach, I yawned.  “I confess to being overcome with fatigue.  You will excuse me.”

“No, I won’t, Mr. Brummell.  I wish to discuss all that has transpired.”

“Much as I regret being so disobliging, I fear I shall insult you more if I fall asleep while you are speaking.”  

Under her protests, I propped my head against the side of the coach and closed my eyes.  She looked weary as well, so I hoped that after a short length of time, she would succumb to sleep.

Meanwhile, I considered the information I had gleaned over the evening.  The pieces of the puzzle began taking form, if not quite falling into place.

Evidently, Sir Simon ruled at the head of a secret club called Anubis, whose members met at his house.  Everything pointed to it:  The farmer in Hove had spoken of “peculiar things” of which Sir Simon was involved.  He had said the baronet was evil.  Marie had called the place a “house of evil.”  To add to that, I recalled Lord Yarmouth telling me that fateful night at White’s that there was a club on the sea coast whose activities went beyond the pale.

Then there was the jackal head mask I found in Sir Simon’s desk, along with the seal and the list of dates, which I could only assume were planned meetings.

But what went on at those meetings?

One could only speculate.  Yarmouth’s description was the most telling.  The club’s endeavours most likely went beyond high play at the gaming tables or the sampling of smuggled wine.

The key might lie in the name Sir Simon had chosen for his secret club.  I suspected that the baronet would have chosen the name Anubis, not so much out of respect for any Egyptian god, but more because Anubis represented the jackal.  Jackals hunt in packs, at night, and are base creatures known to be insatiable.

My sense was that this described the secret club, or at least, some of its attributes.  While the members might not go outside and hunt, perhaps their hunting had been done for them prior to their arrival.

The prey might very well include innocent young women. Wheeler spoke of the “fine gentleman what killed the virgin girl.”  A mental image of the young girl found dead on the Brighton beach appeared to haunt me once more.

Could she have been “prey” for the club members? 

Revulsion welled up in me at the thought of a “fine gentleman” destroying the innocence of a young lady.  How had she died?  Had the man in question killed her in order to keep her quiet?  Was that what Marie had seen that had frightened her so?

“The dastards.”  Unconsciously, I had spoken aloud.  My eyes flew open.  For a moment I thought Miss Lavender would discover I was only pretending to sleep.  But as I looked across at her in the semi-darkness, I saw her long dark lashes laid against her porcelain-like skin.  Her head rested on her folded hands against the side of the coach.

  Not even when we stopped to change horses at about midnight did she awake.  Climbing back into the coach as silently as I could after paying the posting house for a team of fresh horses, I gazed at her sleeping form and frowned.

The conventions state that a gentleman who has spent the better part of a night with an unmarried female alone in a coach has thoroughly compromised her.  Regardless of the fact that Miss Lavender is not of my station in life, she is an educated female, not some tavern wench.

We would not return to Fetter Lane until the small hours of the morning.  While I know that Miss Lavender is not a stickler for the proprieties, her father is another matter altogether.

I swallowed the cup of wine I had purchased at the posting house in one long gulp.  My dog’s head stick rested against the seat beside me.  With a tender touch, I caressed the silver top with my gloved thumb.  When I returned home, I would have to write to Freddie and tell her of my findings.  Furthermore, I knew she would expect me at Oatlands this weekend.  If I could untangle the muddle around Sir Simon’s death, perhaps I might feel free to visit her.

Unless I was spending the weekend with my new bride.

I closed my eyes and leaned against the squabs of the coach, concentrating on Sir Simon rather than any forced nuptials.

If I needed any confirmation that the baronet had been the intended victim of the poisoned snuff all along, I had it now.

But who were the members of the secret club, Anubis?

On whose hand had I seen a jackal ring?

Which one of the members had Sir Simon been blackmailing?

  How did the young girl die?

Why had Sir Simon and Prime Minister Pitt had a falling out?

The answer to the last question I would find out tomorrow, or today actually, from Lady Hester.

Or I would find out how it felt to stand in front of a vicar speaking my marriage vows.

As it turned out, I only narrowly escaped speaking those sacred vows.

Upon our arrival in Fetter Lane, I helped Miss Lavender out of the hired coach, hoping against hope that her father would not hear our arrival.

Luck was not on my side.

As I walked Miss Lavender around to the private entrance to her father’s lodgings, the man himself swung open the door and hurtled down the steps.  Clad in a plaid robe, with slippers on his feet, he still managed to look fierce.

“Where, by all that is holy, Lydia, have you been?” the Scotsman demanded.  He darted a disbelieving glance at me, then spoke in an awful voice.  “Lydia!  Have you been with

Mr. Brummell
all evening?”  The ends of his enormous mustache seemed to leap skyward in indignation.

“Father, let’s go inside out of the cold and I’ll explain—”

Enraged, the Bow Street man stared at me.  “I never thought to have the leader of the
Beau Monde
for a son-in-law, but have you I will, Mr. Brummell.”

I gripped my dog’s head stick, Freddie’s dear face flashing through my mind.  “Miss Lavender and I did ride in a closed carriage together from Brighton, but—”

“From Brighton!” Mr. Lavender bellowed.  He took a step toward me.  “You’ll be at the church at nine.  That should give me enough time to rouse the vicar.  By God, I’ve always wanted grandchildren, and now I’ll have them.  Ones who spend their days endlessly wrapping linen around their necks until the folds fall just right, rather than tramping the fields getting muddy and learning how to hunt grouse!”

“Hunting, after all, is a beastly sport,” I ventured.

Mr. Lavender’s hands balled into fists.

Miss Lavender put a hand on her father’s arm.  “There will be no wedding.”

“Oh, yes, there will be, Lydia,” Mr. Lavender contradicted.  “You are compromised.  What man will have you now?”

Miss Lavender spoke in the voice of reason.  “Mr. Brummell and I merely rode in the same coach, Father.  You are enacting a tragedy where there is none.  Nothing happened.  Come, I’ll make you a cup of hot rum against the weather.”

My own voice sounded calm to my ears.  “Your daughter is correct, Mr. Lavender.  My behaviour tonight was that of a gentleman.  But since I am a gentleman, I am prepared to do the honourable thing and marry Miss Lavender if that is what she wishes.”

What else, I ask you, could I do?  Mr. Lavender was correct.  If word got around that Miss Lavender and I had, for all intents and purposes, spent the night together, no man would marry her.  Not even her grocer.

“Aye, you’ll be wed as soon as I can arrange it,” he agreed.

“Father!”

“Which church do you prefer?  I shall see that we have flowers.  Miss Lavender deserves that at least.”

“What I deserve is—”

“I’ll send word to you, Mr. Brummell.  Be waiting for it, and mind you don’t leave your house until you have it.  By the Lord, it won’t be the wedding her mother—God rest her

soul—always dreamed of for her daughter.  But we might get dear Mrs. Lavender’s wedding dress out and air it in time.”

“Miss Lavender, I hope Mr. Lavell will not suffer from a fatal depression at losing you,” I said sympathetically.

Finally able to express her feelings about the plans being made for her, Miss Lavender appeared distracted by my last statement.  “Mr. Lavell?  The grocer?  He’s past his sixtieth year!  What would he have to say in anything?”  She asked incredulously.

For some reason, a sense of relief filled me that she was not romantically involved with the kind grocer after all.

“No one will have anything to say other than me,” the Bow Street man, used to being in charge, pronounced.

But Miss Lavender had had enough.  “Father, you are wrong! 
I
shall be the
only
one deciding my future.  There is no reason why I should wed Mr. Brummell, and I tell you I
shall
not
wed Mr. Brummell!  You cannot force me.  What’s more, the very idea that a woman should marry for the sake of satisfying some ridiculous rule set forth by who knows who is outrageous.  I’ll not bow down before such nonsensical thinking.”

“But, Lydia—”

“No, Father,” she said firmly.  “Good night, Mr. Brummell.  Send word to me when you have learned more about Sir Simon.  I shall be at my shelter later in the morning.”

So saying, the independent Miss Lavender took her father by the arm and bear-led him up the stairs.  The sound of the two arguing carried over the night air. 

Wearily, I was about to walk around to where the coach waited for me, when the sound of Mr. Lavender’s voice reached my ears.

“ . . . Cannot matter about Sir Simon.  Bow Street is about to charge Lord Petersham . . .”

The door shut before I could hear the rest of what he said.  But, then, I had heard enough.  Just as I felt the weight of impending nuptials lift from my shoulders, another sort of apprehension filled me.  For now I was the only thing standing between my friend Petersham and his complete disgrace.

* * * *

Back in Bruton street, I fell into an uneasy sleep.  My brain felt as if it continued churning along despite my slumber.  Visions of Petersham being led off to Newgate where no one would help him with his asthma attacks tormented me.  Then, the image of Perry standing before a judge being accused of carrying out his threat to kill Sir Simon sprang into focus.  Lady Perry, heavy with child, was there, weeping.

  Another dream brought the image of Victor Tallarico and his gleaming knife being led away by Bow Street.  In a pink waistcoat, dirty and stained, the Italian paced the confines of his cell at Newgate, reliving past feminine conquests for no one’s benefit but his own.