Death on a Silver Tray (13 page)

By the sheer force of her will and a penetrating stare, Lady Crecy brought her daughter to our side from where she had been seated across the room. “There you are, Penelope. Here is Mr. Brummell come to our party.”

Penelope’s grey eyes opened wide. She dropped me a curtsy and sniffed loudly.

I bowed and studied her, knowing Lady Crecy had maneuvered me into this position so that I might dance with the girl and thus create interest in her. Usually I am an expert at gracefully extricating myself from circumstances exactly like the one I was faced with at the moment.

However, as I gazed upon Lady Penelope’s rather plain countenance, I saw a hopeless look in her eyes which prompted me to say, “Lady Penelope, I know I have arrived frightfully late on the scene, but would you do me the honor of standing up with me for the next contredanse?”

Grey eyes blinked in surprise. Lady Penelope nodded shyly and dabbed at her nose with a crumpled handkerchief, while her fond mama looked on with satisfaction.

Now I was free until the contredanse to find Sylvester Fairingdale. I had been surprised to learn from Robinson that Mr. Fairingdale would be attending an entertainment that included dancing. The customs of mourning for a loved one restrict the bereaved’s activities to more sedate forms of amusement such as card-parties, a friend’s musical evening, or venturing to the opera or theater. Dancing is considered bad form.

The reel ended and flushed dancers waved fans to cool their heated cheeks. Footmen circled with more glasses of champagne. Procuring a glass for myself, I nodded to acquaintances, keeping an eye out for Fairingdale.

I did not see him, and made my way to where Petersham and his friend Lord Munro stood conversing. Petersham’s winning smile was not in evidence tonight. At his side, Lord Munro looked sullen.

“Et tu, Brummell?” Petersham accused at my approach.

The snuff box! I had not obtained his snuff box from the auction, sacrificing it along with the painting. I recalled Perry had told me Mr. Kiang won it and that Petersham had been cast into the dismals.

“There is no need for Shakespearean references, Petersham. I hear enough of the Bard every time I go to White’s and Delbert is on duty. I do beg your pardon, though, for not being able to obtain the box.”

“And beg you shall!” Petersham retorted. “What the devil happened? When I woke around two in the afternoon, I expected to have word from you saying you’d ridden out to Sidwell’s and struck a bargain.”

“I know, I—”

“And when I hadn’t received anything by three, I had my valet, Diggie, you know, run over to your rooms only to be told by Robinson that you were not at home. I suffered a great deal of inconvenience, I can tell you. I had to shave all by myself because Diggie was out.”

“Tricky business with those side whiskers,” I threw in.

Petersham narrowed his eyes at me. “Then, I had to
hurry
while dressing and attend the auction myself. You
know
I do not leave my house until after six.”

“It’s bad for his asthma,” Lord Munro put in.

“I give you my humblest apology, Petersham—”

“Only to arrive at the curst auction and have that garishly clad Mr. Kiang fellow have the riches of Midas at his disposal. His outrageous bids left me in the dust. My precious snuff box, gone to that foreigner! It’s too much for a man to shoulder.”

Lord Munro tsked sympathetically, all the while glaring at me over Petersham’s bowed head.

“Look here, Petersham, I have given you my apology. I did intend to ride out to Sidwell’s but an urgent matter required my attention. I lost the Perronneau painting too, you know.”

“I can’t imagine any matter being more urgent than a snuff box promised to a friend,” Lord Munro chided.

Can it be he dislikes me?

Petersham lifted his head. “What ‘urgent matter’?”

I signaled a footman and exchanged my empty glass for a fresh one. Munro handed a glass to Petersham and secured one for himself.

The distraction gave me the opportunity to avoid Petersham’s question. He and Munro could hardly be counted upon to remain silent if I shared with them the details of Freddie’s call and my subsequent investigation into Lady Wrayburn’s murder.

“Allow me to make it up to you,” I finally said. “I shall draw a design of the snuff box and commission Rundell and Bridge to make you one. The jeweler created Sidwell’s; he ought to be able to replicate one for us.”

Petersham brightened. “You are no end of a good fellow, Brummell. Even if you are damned secretive,” he added, letting me know he realized I had not answered his question.

Lord Munro could not allow the issue to be resolved so easily. “But, Charles, are you sure you want a snuff box exactly like one that someone else has? Even if that Siamese man is across the world, won’t it bother you that your box is not an original?”

Petersham turned a stricken expression on me.

I restrained myself from shaking Lord Munro until his teeth rattled. Instead, I raised my hand in a forestalling gesture. “You and I can collaborate and make up a
similar
design, one even superior to the box we lost.”

Petersham favored me with his brilliant smile and all was well with our friendship, much to Lord Munro’s disappointment.

“Egad!” Petersham cried abruptly. “Look at that waistcoat!”

He and Lord Munro raised their quizzing glasses in unison.

Sylvester Fairingdale emerged from an anteroom where Lady Crecy had set up card tables. He entered with a mincing step, walking on the balls of his feet.

Mr. Fairingdale had a forward jutting chin, an infirmity which was not helped by the fact that he had wound his cravat around his neck to dizzying heights. The results were an unnaturally elongated neck, and a man who looked far down his nose at the world.

Robinson’s notion that Mr. Fairingdale would have more money now to indulge his foppish taste in clothing seemed to be alarmingly accurate. Taking in the glory of his costume, I had to forcibly stop my hand from grabbing my own quizzing glass and raising it to my eye.

The waistcoat Petersham referred to was of a rhubarb color and had embroidered pears stitched about the material at random. A spinach green coat topped it. Breeches in a shade of dull olive green hung loosely about his skinny legs.

The man was a walking salad.

Lord Munro summed up my feelings. “I’m feeling bilious.”

“Is he trying to outdo Henry Cope?” Petersham asked, referring to the eccentric Green Man of Brighton. Mr. Cope habitually dresses in green from head to foot. Everything in his house is said to be green, and the fellow eats nothing but greens, fruits and vegetables.

“Perhaps Fairingdale is
green
with envy,” Munro quipped.

He and Petersham chortled with glee.

“I’m certain Fairingdale feels superior to anything Cope does. Always has been an insufferable snob,” Lord Munro pronounced when he could speak again.

The snob in question perceived our interest and pranced his way to our side. I trust my expression did not reveal the extent of my disapproval of his manner of dress and deportment. In truth I felt ill from the sheer horridness of such a combination of colors.

My ability to keep a bland countenance must have failed me under the weight of Mr. Fairingdale’s folly.

“As well you might look, Brummell, for I know you have never seen anything to equal my costume. I daresay Lady Crecy is quite happy to have me here this evening to display it.”

“Indeed. Any hostess would be pleased to have you at her table. Perhaps before the soup course,” I added thoughtfully.

Petersham sniggered.

The barb sailed over Fairingdale’s head.

A few people started to gather near us, unobtrusively, mind you. But I knew they wanted to hear what my reaction to Fairingdale’s clothing might be.

“It must be difficult for you to bear that I have outdone you, Brummell, but I have long known my taste to be superior to yours,” he said, raising a hand to adjust the huge asparagus-colored peridot pinned among the folds of his cravat. I was surprised he could lift his hand, his fingers were so laden down with garish rings.

He went on, “I daresay by tomorrow everyone across the streets of London will be talking about your downfall as the arbiter of taste, and how I surpassed you in dress.”

“How sad that would be, if true,” I said in my best sincere voice. “For I have always felt the severest mortification a gentleman could incur is to attract observation in the street by his outward appearance.”

Mr. Fairingdale looked confused for an instant before regaining his air of supremacy.

“May I offer you my condolences on the loss of your aunt, Mr. Fairingdale?” I said, neatly turning the topic. “It is good to see you enjoying the comfort of your friends at a time like this.”

“Pshaw! I don’t care two straws about the countess,”

Mr. Fairingdale declared with a careless wave of his hand. “The real loss will be that of Rebecca Ashton. A fine looking woman. Too fine to hang at Newgate. In time, I might even have considered bestowing my attentions on her, overlooking her position as a paid companion. But, although her beauty might have enticed me to set her up as my mistress, it is not enough to convince me to disregard the fact that she murdered my aunt.”

I felt myself tense at this public pronouncement by a family member, no less, of Miss Ashton’s guilt. And public it was. For while Mr. Fairingdale did not exactly shout his words from a rooftop, his voice had grown louder throughout his speech. The music had ceased, and much of the gathering were listening to us while trying to appear as if they were not.

I called upon every ounce of my ability to remain outwardly tranquil, though inside I seethed with anger at the fop’s impudence in purposefully degrading a young lady’s character. “I have met Miss Ashton. She is, as you say, a beauty. She is also Lord Kirgo’s daughter and not one to dirty her gloves in
any
manner.”

This time, the barb hit its target, and this time

Mr. Fairingdale did bellow.

“What the devil do you mean by that, Brummell? The chit would have gladly laid on her back for me, had I asked. But I didn’t. And then, after some argument with Lady Wrayburn, when she and that scheming lady’s maid were about to be tossed onto the street, she murdered the old harridan.”

We had everyone’s attention now. Not a soul pretended they were not listening. Petersham touched my sleeve and whispered for me to come away and ignore the jinglebrained idiot. But I could not. Miss Ashton must have a champion lest her name be irretrievably blackened.

“Miss Ashton would not be taken in by the dubious rewards of low behavior. She is a lady of gentle birth,” I stated firmly.

Mr. Fairingdale sneered. “Perhaps you only say so because a certain ‘lady of the Blood Royal’ everyone knows you admire recommended the chit to my aunt.”

Sharply indrawn breaths met this comment. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Lord and Lady Perry had arrived and had come to stand behind me. Lady Salisbury joined them.

But I could not appreciate their support just now. Fury almost choked me at the foolish Mr. Fairingdale’s reference to my dear Freddie.

“Of your galaxy of stupidities, Fairingdale, that statement must be a shining star.
Everyone
,” I said in a deceptively light tone, motioning to the gathering, “knows I am my own man and form my own judgments. Unlike others—” here I nonchalantly raised my quizzing glass and stared through it at Mr. Fairingdale’s costume with a mocking eye—”I seek neither the attention nor the approval of anyone.”

Mr. Fairingdale began to look uncomfortable. He must have realized the enormity of what he was doing by challenging me in public. His social credit did not extend this far, and he knew it. But pride forced him to take a parting shot.

“You say Miss Ashton is innocent of Lady Wrayburn’s murder, Brummell. Well, I say Society will see just how valuable your opinions
really
are when Bow Street leads the chit off to Newgate.”

At that moment, a loud crash resounded throughout the room. One of the pieces of Chinese porcelain lay shattered on the floor, a fragile victim of a reckless move.

Chapter Eleven

Having successfully thrown down the gauntlet,

Mr. Fairingdale stalked away looking like celery on legs.

Lady Crecy, in high alt because now her ball was sure to be talked about all over London, signaled to the orchestra to resume the music.

“Fairingdale’s an impudent dog, Brummell. Pay him no heed,” Lord Perry said.

I raised an eyebrow. “You malign the species.”

“The man’s clothes are uncivilized,” Petersham pronounced. “How can you take him seriously? Look here, Munro and I are going to White’s. Care to join us, Brummell?”

“No, thank you. I have promised a lady a dance.”

The two wandered away and Lady Perry turned to me.

She smiled and placed a gloved hand on my arm. “It has often been my observation that a gentleman who is a model of masculine perfection is frequently subjected to unconscionable behavior by those who feel inferior. Anthony is correct. Pay Mr. Fairingdale no mind.”

I grasped her hand and raised it to my lips.

Perry looked at his wife in mock outrage. “So, you think Brummell, and not your own husband, is the ‘model of masculine perfection,’ do you? I shall just have to whisk you off to the dance floor and twirl you around until you change your mind.”

Laughing softly, Lady Perry allowed herself to be whisked.

Perry winked at me over her shoulder.

A gruff female voice said, “I’ve been standing here virtually ignored for long enough, Brummell. James is in the card room and no one has claimed me for this dance. You may have it,” Lady Salisbury declared.

“It is my honor, my lady.”

“Hmpf,” was the reply.

The dance was an old-fashioned minuet; one of my favorites. I led the marchioness out to the dance floor. “Lady Salisbury, may I say you are looking exceedingly fine this evening? Not many women can wear Tyrian purple, but you do so with élan.”

“You can compliment me until all the cows in Green Park jump into the Thames, but that is not what is uppermost in your mind.”