The Tainted Snuff Box Read Online Free Page B

royal squabble, but I was not.  Bravo, Lady Perry!
    Presently, Yarmouth and Scrope engaged the Duke of Clarence in conversation.  No doubt they were going over every nuance and detail of the fight they had observed. 
    Near where I stood with Lord Perry, the Creeveys breathed a sigh of relief.  Mrs. Creevey, a friend of Mrs. Fitzherbert, and a woman who loved a good piece of gossip, resumed her scrutiny of the Prince and Lady Bessborough in order to report back any flirtation.
    On my other side stood a short gentleman unknown to me.  He was shovelling a piece of cake into his mouth.  I had observed him earlier at dinner, but averted my eyes lest I be put off my food.  Now he came to my notice once again.
    Perry saw the direction of my gaze.  “Brummell, pray look away lest your stomach become as delicate as my wife’s.”
    However, it was useless.  Like someone enthralled by a public hanging, I had to get a better look at the stranger’s manner of dress.  Without my permission, my right hand raised my quizzing glass.  
    The round magnifier that I wear suspended from my neck by a thin black velvet ribbon told me what I had already deduced.  Here was a man of late middle years, clinging to the fashions of his youth.
    His satin coat was of the old-fashioned cut that flared at the knees, and sported heavy silver braid trim and silver buttons.  A garishly bright sea-green in color, guaranteed to make one sea- sick , it hung open, revealing a long waistcoat in a lighter shade.  Froths of lace poured from his neckcloth.  His wrists were also covered with lace extending from under his cuffs.  Matching breeches ended in clocked stockings, and his feet were squeezed into red-heeled pumps.  Hideous!
    This sartorial orgy surpassed even the numerous fashion tragedies of my nemesis, Sylvester Fairingdale, whom you may recall me telling you about in a previous adventure.
    But there was worse.  Atop the man’s head, which was just about level with my shoulder, a towering white wig, complete with curls at the temples, sat over a highly painted and powdered face.  Next to bright red lips, a black patch in the shape of an animal’s head—I could not tell what kind—had been affixed.
    My valet, Robinson, would have fainted straightaway at the sight.
    I struggled to remain expressionless.  The man’s overuse of a jasmine scent, a practice invariably intended to compensate for infrequent bathing, assaulted my nostrils.
    He grabbed a glass of wine from a tray carried by a passing footman.  Guzzling the drink down greedily, he noticed my attention and addressed me in a condescending tone.  “You’re new to Brighton, aren’t you?  I’m Sir Simon, close personal friend and intimate confidant to the Prince of Wales.  I make it my business to know who associates with his Royal Highness.  You’ll do me the honour of introducing yourself.”
    Ah, Prinny’s food taster!  My right eyebrow shot to my hairline at the man’s presumption.  Lord Perry threw me a warning look.  “I am George Brummell,” I said in a quiet voice.  There was not a trace of smugness in my voice, I assure you.  But before you go admiring my self-control, permit me to tell you it was impossible to be smug in the face of all that powder, that paint, and those red lips.
    Sir Simon’s expression grew cold.  “Faugh!” he cried, as if he were the one smelling something gone bad.  “You’re the upstart trying to make gentlemen believe there’s something wrong with the way we’ve been dressing for a good many years.  You want us to dress like dullards!”
    “Dullards?” I replied, one hand across my heart.  “Never say you think me dull.  My life would be shattered.”  A few titters came from nearby guests.  Mrs. Creevey looked our way.
    Sir Simon knitted his brows, but my mockery went over his wigged head.  “Well, I do say it, and damn the consequences!  A man’s clothing bespeaks his station in life.  Your costume tells