Death on a Silver Tray (4 page)

“I’m partial to all animals, as you are, Brummell. I might have to attend the exhibition tomorrow afternoon.”

“Are you sure, sir?” I inquired gently. “If I thought you would like it, I would have planned to purchase the painting for you.”

The Prince preened a bit at this evidence of subordination. “That’s good of you.”

I assumed a look of sorrow. “I would have, you see, had it not been for the fact I knew the cat would remind you of that unfortunate wager you made with Charles Fox a few years back. You lost thirteen to one as I recall.”

The Prince’s face clouded. “Yes. I remember it well. Fox boasted he could determine on which side of Bond Street the most cats would be seen. I accepted a bet on the subject, and damned if Fox didn’t win merely by picking the sunny side of the street.”

I nodded sympathetically.

“No, I would not care for the painting at all myself,” the Prince said petulantly. “And if you say there’s nothing else of interest, I might as well amuse myself with my guests at Carlton House for the rest of the week. After that, I’m leaving Town for an extended time. I’ve decided to go to my Pavilion in Brighton. Call on me before I go, Brummell.”

“I shall consider myself honored to do so, sir,” I assured him, and the Prince wandered away.

As I said, I can be determined and a trifle devious when it comes to getting what I want.

I looked about for a footman so I might obtain a fresh glass of wine. Lord Perry keeps a devilishly fine cellar. Also, I wished to satisfy my curiosity about Mr. Kiang, the emissary from Siam. I noted the arrival of the tenor and judged I did not have long before the entertainment began.

Scanning the elegant gathering, I saw the Siamese man toward the back of the room. I moved in his direction, just managing to exchange my empty glass for a full one before I reached him.

“An excellent wine, would you not say?” I asked by way of opening the conversation.

The emissary turned his slanted eyes in my direction. He gave a brief bow. “You are correct. I have purchased much wine and brandy in England to take home to my King.”

My knowledge of Siam was limited, but I was aware of its recent bloody history. “A distinguished ruler, your King Rama. He has succeeded in finally defeating the Burmese and uniting your country.”

A little knowledge goes a long way. Mr. Kiang appeared impressed by my comments and willing to take a stranger into his confidence. We chatted for a few moments about Siam.

“You are wise,” he said abruptly. “Perhaps you can help me. I am in England almost a year now obtaining many beautiful art pieces to take back to King Rama to adorn the new palace in our capital city of Bangkok.”

I cannot like English art treasures going overseas, but I held my tongue. For once. I picked up my quizzing glass, held the magnifier to my eye, and studied the man’s garish coat. My eyebrow must have soared to the upper reaches of my scalp, but he did not seem to notice.

Mr. Kiang went on speaking. “I want to bring back only the best for my King. I understand there is a Mr. Brummell in London who declares what is in good taste and what is not. Do you know him?”

I let my quizzing glass fall back to my chest. “Somewhat.”

Mr. Kiang lowered his voice. “It is said this

Mr. Brummell wishes a painting of a girl and her cat that will be auctioned the day after tomorrow.”

“Hmm. What you heard could be merely a rumor.”

“No, no. No rumor,” Mr. Kiang declared. “I have heard it said here in this very room by these people of high rank.”

“Who would never lie,” I murmured.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. Do go on.”

“A painting that a man of taste says he wants must be a painting for the King of Siam.” he insisted.

I felt a twinge of alarm. My desire to own the Perronneau had grown by the hour—and by the number of rivals for its ownership. I took a sip of wine, then assumed a benevolent expression. “I do not like to be a party to rumors, but you seem like a good man, eager to serve your country.”

Mr. Kiang agreed fervently.

I acted as though I had come to a decision. “Then I shall tell you. Just between you and me, I happen to know that Brummell is nothing but a foolish, idle dandy with no thought in his head other than his appearance. Pay no attention to anything he says.”

Mr. Kiang seemed startled. “Shh!” he admonished with a finger to his lips. “This Mr. Brummell is said to be a friend of your Prince. You would not like for him to hear you speak so rudely of his friend.”

“Calm yourself, sir,” I said, glancing around to see the Prince of Wales flirting with a woman a good twenty years his senior, exactly the sort Prinny liked. “The Prince is occupied with conversation.”

“Even so, I hear Mr. Brummell is a very powerful man. You would not want anyone to overhear what you say.”

“Powerful, yes. But power does not equal taste, does it? No, of course not. Take my advice and contact Christie’s auction house. They would be a much better source for you than a small gallery like Talbot’s.”

Feeling smug, I sauntered away from a frowning Mr. Kiang. I was sure I had put a spoke in the emissary’s wheel. I prepared to enjoy the music and selected a seat next to a lady who blushed furiously.

Petersham, seated a few rows away, caught my attention and shrugged an apology. I graciously smiled my acceptance.

No, I had absolutely nothing to fear. Tomorrow afternoon I would attend the exhibition to dampen any other burgeoning interests. By the following evening the Perronneau would grace one of the walls of my home. The only question was which one?

A few minutes later, I lost myself in the tenor’s rich voice.

I would not have been so sanguine had I any inkling of what would transpire at the exhibition and the events that would soon follow.

Chapter Three

The next afternoon, I hired a coach to take me to Talbot’s Art Gallery. However, I did not leave my rooms before writing a scathing message to Mr. Griffin, the sedan-chair maker. This was the last time I wished to travel about Town without the comfort of my own conveyance.

The exhibition began at three o’clock; thus I knew that Petersham, the slug-a-bed, would not be on the scene. Nonetheless, I did not anticipate how many members of Society would be there. Entering the gallery, I groaned when I saw the crowd gathering around the Perronneau painting.

Lord Perry stood contemplating a lute. I joined him. “Good afternoon, Perry.”

“Oh, hello, Brummell. Would you look at the workmanship on this lute? South Indian if I am not mistaken.”

I raised my quizzing glass and examined the instrument. “A lovely piece. Ivory inlay.”

“Indeed. And mark the delicacy of the paintings of the deities on either side of the strings. You know, Brummell, they say you can tell a lot about a person by the art he collects. I never knew Sidwell had such a whimsical side. I thought the only music he appreciated was the music of the dice-box.”

“You must bid on the lute, Perry. Someone with your passion for music should own it.”

Lord Perry glanced around the room, then indicated

Mr. Kiang with a slight nod of his head. “I wonder if the rest of us are wasting our time here. The emissary from Siam seems determined to make off with the lot.”

I turned in the direction of Mr. Kiang and received a mocking salute.

I puzzled over this briefly, until a commotion coming from the front door captured the attention of the room.

Lord Perry said, “What the deuce? Here is the dowager Countess Wrayburn. I have not laid eyes on the old harridan in years. Probably since the Season of ‘03 when she proclaimed the future Duchess of Wiltenshire ‘trollopy-looking.’ ”

“I remember,” I said, recalling that the Countess never had a kind word for anyone. “Fortunately, she does not go about much anymore.”

In the loud voice often adopted by the near-deaf, Lady Wrayburn shouted at her companion, a frightened, but rather pretty, young lady about twenty years of age. “You stupid child! I told you I didn’t need this heavy cloak! I’m sweating like a farmer’s wife! One of my shawls would have served! Here,” she yelled, reaching claw-like hands up and pulling off the offending garment. She heaved it at the younger woman. “You lug it about for the next hour, you ninnyhammer!”

“I am sorry, my lady,” the companion replied quietly. She then held up her hands as if to ward off a blow. The cloak fell to the floor.

“Damn you, girl, pick that up!” the dowager screeched.

The command was instantly obeyed.

Lady Wrayburn and her trembling companion moved into the room to study a drawing. Now that the ugly scene appeared to be over, the gaping onlookers turned their attention back to the art pieces on display.

“A thoroughly unpleasant woman,” Perry remarked in an undertone.

“Her comment comparing herself to a farmer’s wife is not that far off the mark,” I ventured. “Though I would be willing to wager many farmers’ wives have better manners.”

“You would wager on most anything, though, would you not, Brummell?” Lord Perry asked with a mocking smile.

Before I could deliver a rebuke to this cocky observation, the front door swung open, and to my astonishment, Viscount Petersham, looking exceptionally pale and with dark circles beneath his eyes, entered the room. “Good God, Petersham, is that you? I cannot remember when I have seen you out so early.”

“And there’s a valid reason for it,” the viscount moaned. “I’m not myself until the evening. It’ll be a deuced miracle if I don’t bring on one of my asthma attacks. But I had to come see that snuff box you described, despite the ungodly hour.”

That was understandable.

Lord Perry exchanged greetings with him, then moved away to view a stunning painting by Raphael.

Petersham, who had glanced around and determined who was in attendance, spoke to me in a low voice. “I thought by now one of Lady Wrayburn’s enemies would have choked her to death with her own ghastly tongue. What’s she doing here kicking up a dust?”

“Defying death and making life hell for those around her,” I replied. “Come on, I know you want to see the snuff box.”

We moved past a display of Chinese drawings to where the snuff box sat on a tall pedestal enclosed with glass. A card next to it indicated it had been made only a year before by Messrs. Rundell and Bridges, jewelers.

Lord Petersham gasped in ecstasy. “It is exactly as you described, Brummell. Venus as a mermaid. It would make some men want to join the Royal Navy.”

From across the room, the shrill voice of the dowager countess intruded. “What’s everyone making a fuss over that Perronneau for? It belongs in the dustbin! Cats! I can’t abide them! I want that painting by Raphael!”

Her remark about cats came as no surprise to me. Does it not stand to reason someone like Lady Wrayburn would not appreciate the gentle beauty and fine intelligence of felines?

About to turn my attention back to the snuff box, I noticed Mr. Kiang approach. When he was a few feet away, he stood in a posture that indicated he was waiting to speak to me.

“Excuse me a moment, Petersham,” I said, though I doubted the spellbound viscount, who had not taken his eyes from the snuff box, heard me.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Kiang,” I said. My gaze immediately focused on the buttons of the Siamese man’s coat. They were fastened incorrectly.

What was going on? I thought irritably.

 First the buttons on my new breeches were not matched properly. Now the buttons on this man’s coat refused to align themselves in an orderly fashion. Had the world of buttons gone mad?

I struggled to ignore the imperfection. Mr. Kiang’s next words helped.

“So we know each other’s name,
Mr. Brummell
. You are a very clever man. But not clever enough in this instance.”

“How is that?” I inquired politely.

“After our conversation, I felt remiss in not knowing the identity of the gentleman who had advised me not to pay attention to what
Mr. Brummell
said.” He fixed me with an unyielding glare.

“I did warn you.”

The Siamese man’s eyes narrowed. Then his face cleared. “I admit I was angry at first. Then I found I admired your tactics. You are a man who knows what he wants and goes after it.”

I made a slight bow.

Mr. Kiang continued. “Because you desire the painting so greatly, I have decided it is truly special.”

I felt like kicking myself.

Mr. Kiang took a step forward. “Nothing can stop me from acquiring that painting for my King Rama. Nothing and no one.”

“We shall see.” My voice was controlled, but I fought a mounting irritation. I returned to Petersham’s side, fighting to maintain my well-known reserve.

Petersham tore his gaze away from the snuff box. “Who was that fellow with the dreadful coat?”

I quickly described what I knew of Mr. Kiang.

“Egad. I hope he doesn’t want this snuff box.”

“Never fear,” I said coming to an impulsive decision. “I shall take matters into my own hands. I have it on good authority that Sidwell is rusticating at his country house. I shall hire a coach and drive out there tomorrow. I will buy the painting and the snuff box from him outright. Then I shall return to Town before the auction to claim our prizes. Perhaps I will let Mr. Kiang see what a gracious winner I am.”

“I say! There’s a plan,” Petersham approved with a happy grin. “I’d go with you, I assure you, but since you’re going during the day—”

“My lady’s maid has got herself with child! What? I’ll kill the harlot!” The now familiar piercing voice of Lady Wrayburn exploded into the room and arrested everyone’s attention.

 A shocked silence fell.

The dowager countess and her companion stood before a small sculpture by Donatello, called “Madonna and Child.”

The companion, I perceived, was in tears, though trying valiantly to hide the fact. “Please, my lady. I did not mean to say anything. Lizzie has known for several weeks now, and we ... we were frightened to tell you. Just now, when I saw this sculpture, I spoke without thinking.”

“Without
thinking
? You are not able to think, Miss Ashton! Thinking requires a brain, an organ of which you are not in possession!” Lady Wrayburn struck her cane on the floor for emphasis. “How dare she? And how dare
you
keep this from me? I shall have you both turned off without references!”