The Tainted Snuff Box Read Free

his brandy and turned a tortured face on me.  “How should I know?  All that is clear is that someone wants me dead!  Think of it.  My father is mad as a March hare.  A regency will be established at some point in time, mark my words.  If I die, my daughter, Princess Charlotte, will be next in line to rule.  She’s only nine years old, Brummell.  And speaking of youth, I’m too young to shuffle off to the grave!”
    “Calm yourself, sir,” I said soothingly.  “Nothing of the sort will happen, I assure you.  I shall look into this Ainsley fellow.  Have you thought of sending him away?”
    “No,” the Prince said in some surprise.  “I told you he’s helping me with plans for the renovation of the Pavilion.”
    Now, pray, do not think from this last statement that the Prince is dull-witted.  Remember I told you he is passionate, and I expect I must also say single-minded when it comes to the Pavilion.  He is dramatic and self-indulgent, but not a stupid man.  Granted, I draw back at some of his wilder amusements, but overall he is a good fellow and my friend.  Indeed, where would I be now without his friendship?
    Those nasty letters had wounded his pride and made him irritable in addition to frightening him.  “Are there many other guests, sir?  I only arrived this afternoon and have not had a chance to look about.”  My thoughts strayed to one person, a certain Royal Duchess I particularly hoped might have arrived.
    “I don’t know,” the Prince said miserably.  “The usual crowd of my court, I suppose.  We are to go to the Johnstones’ house for dinner tonight.  You’ll have a chance to meet Ainsley there.  Not that I am saying he is the scoundrel, Brummell.”
    “I understand, sir.”
    “A masked villain could jump out at me at any moment,” the Prince said, rising.
    Immediately a hellish shriek rent the air. 
    I vaulted to my feet, only to encounter two large footmen as they burst through the chamber door, brandishing their guns directly at my person.
     

Chapter Two
     
    Confusion reigned.  The Prince looked wildly about for the source of the cry.  He fumbled for the gun in his pocket.  More armed guards crowded into the room, looking fierce and aiming their weapons at random. 
    Only I knew what masked villain had jumped out at the Prince.
    “Sir,” I said, “I forgot to tell you I brought my cat with me.  He has been sleeping under your chair, and you must have inadvertently stepped on his tail when you rose.”
    All eyes turned downward to where I gestured.  Chakkri stood regally by the Prince’s chair, disapproval at this interruption of his slumber bristling in every whisker.
    Remember I told you there was a certain withering look only royalty could achieve?  Evidently, Chakkri’s ancestral origins in the palaces of Siam enabled him to accomplish the expression quite well.  He directed his displeasure at the Prince, who put his gun away and stared back at the animal in surprise.
    “What a fellow he is!  That cry sounded human,” the Prince exclaimed.  He raised his quizzing glass to better examine the feline.
    Chakkri holds the distinction of being the only Siamese cat in England.  His face, ears, paws, and long slim tail are of the deepest velvety brown.  His lean, muscular, fawn-coloured body is more compact and limber than any other cat I have seen.  But the feature that intrigues me the most is Chakkri’s expressive deep blue eyes that hold the secrets to the mysteries of the East.  Or perhaps just the clues to what he wants for dinner. 
    I suppose it would be remiss of me not to mention he possesses the palate of a gourmet and a rather loud, demanding voice.  But he has a sensitivity to beauty and a fastidiousness in regards to the grooming of his person I can only approve. 
    A snicker at the source of the commotion, quickly stifled, escaped one of the men.  I noticed with some relief that the guards had lowered their weapons.
    One of them,