Free The Tainted Snuff Box by Rosemary Stevens Page B

returning to London?” Robinson inquired while laying out thin black shoes for my inspection.
    “We only arrived yesterday,” I said, giving a nod of approval to the shine on the shoes.
    “Yes, sir,” the valet replied with a wistful sigh.
    “You and Chakkri share the same sentiments on being in Brighton.  He does not care for it either.  Have you noticed that he has been sleeping almost continuously since we got here?”
    We both glanced at the cat, though I think the action was involuntary on Robinson’s part.  The valet gave a pleased smile. “Indeed, I have.  Stray cat hairs have been confined to your bed.  Fifteen of them this afternoon.  That makes my job of seeing that you appear in public without the ornamentation of cat hair on your clothing much easier.”
    Chakkri opened one blue eye, stared at me, then snapped it shut without a murmur.
    Perhaps I had been sentenced to thirty hours of feline indifference for petting Humphrey, unless Chakkri extended my term for the offense of bringing him to Brighton.  In that case, it could be days before he spoke to me again.   
    “Sir,” Robinson said, moving to the dressing table to retrieve a bottle of Eau de Melisse des Carmes lotion.  “I inquired discreetly as to Mr. Arthur Ainsley’s character.  In particular, I tried to ascertain his sentiments regarding the Prince of Wales.”
    “And what did you find?” I asked, holding out my hands.
    Robinson poured a bit of the lightly scented lotion onto my left hand and began vigorously massaging it in.  Have I mentioned that my hands are beautifully pampered?  One would not wish for them to appear anything less than their best while raising my quizzing glass or delicately taking a pinch of snuff. 
    Robinson examined my nails which are neatly squared in shape.  “Mr. Ainsley has frequently made cutting remarks about the Prince in the presence of his valet.  He called the Prince ‘double-tongued’ and said he was capable of playing false with a man’s dreams.”
    The Prince was double-wived and double-chinned, too, but that was beside the point.  I thought of him and Ainsley in the library, poring over sketches of the Pavilion.  “And to look at him with the Prince, one would think them boon companions.” 
    “That may be, sir, but Mr. Ainsley does speak in an uncomplimentary way behind the royal back.”
    “Interesting.”  My mind went back to the previous evening.  I recalled the way Ainsley had looked, and the bitter way he had bemoaned the Prince’s lack of compassion for the “ambitions of others,” I believe was how he put it.
    “The younger son of an earl, Mr. Ainsley resents his brother, the heir to the title,” Robinson continued.  He reached for a small scissors and snipped a wayward cuticle.  “Above anything, Mr. Ainsley wishes to be powerful.  He fancies himself an intellectual and wants to display his knowledge in Parliament.” 
    “Has he money?” I asked, dropping my left hand and extending my right.
    Robinson briskly repeated his ministrations.  “As to that, although he did recently receive an inheritance from his maternal grandmother, I fear it is not enough for one with Mr. Ainsley’s  goals.”
    “Yes, he would need a tidy sum to rise to power in the government,” I reflected, wondering how Ainsley planned to increase his wealth. 
    Content with my grooming, and satisfied my clothes were quiet perfection, I left Robinson to tidy the chamber.  I descended the stairs to find people assembled in the Long Gallery, drinking wine and exchanging gossip. 
    The Long Gallery is precisely that being over one hundred fifty feet in length.  Thanks to the abundance of enormous mirrors framed in beechwood carved to resemble bamboo on the walls, the area looks much wider than it is.  Real and imitation bamboo furniture, including twelve black-and-gold lacquered hall chairs, reflect the Prince’s preoccupation with Chinese design.
    The walls are covered in a deep