The Bloodied Cravat (11 page)

Lord Kendrick smiled—meaning his smirk twisted a bit—at the company.

The others seemed to accept this explanation and returned to their own pursuits. All except Fairingdale.

“Is that so?” the fop said, clearly not believing a word I had spoken.

“Yes, it most certainly is,” Lord Kendrick answered. “Brummell and I have become the best of friends. In fact, he will be putting my name up for membership at White’s Club for gentlemen when we return to London.”

I should sooner put his severed head up on a stake at the crossroads, but with every ounce of control I could muster I held my tongue and my temper in check.

“We will talk again later,” I told Lord Kendrick.

“Indeed we shall,” he replied in a superiour tone.

I walked back towards the refreshment table, my mind racing. A plan to search Lord Kendrick’s room for the letter immediately presented itself in my brain. Now would be an excellent time, while he was outside. Although his valet might be in his master’s chamber.

First I wanted to say a few words to Freddie, namely words of abject apology, and give her my strongest assurance that I would get the letter back.

However, when I reached the long end of the refreshment table where we had been standing, she was gone. A wigged footman behind the table caught my attention. “I beg your pardon, sir, but her Royal Highness asked me to deliver a message to you.”

“Yes, go on.”

“Mr. Fishe came to her, asking for her assistance with the Royal Duchess’s dog, Phanor.” The footman shifted, looking uncomfortable. “Her Royal Highness instructed me to tell you that she would be unavailable to see you until dinner this evening, sir. She asked that you respect her wishes.”

“Thank you,” I said, feeling as if I had been handed a one- way ticket on the Royal Mail-Coach to Hell. “Would you be good enough to pour me a glass of that Chambertin wine?”

* * * *

Intent on searching Lord Kendrick’s room, I went into the house and sent a footman for Old Dawe. The elderly retainer appeared in the hall and bowed. “What can I do for you,

Mr. Brummell?”

I ran a hand through my hair, not caring about its perfect arrangement. “Which is Lord Kendrick’s bedchamber?”

Old Dawe appeared undisturbed by the question. “His is three doors down on the left from yours, sir.”

“Has he a valet with him?”

“Yes, sir. Thompson, who served the old marquess, now serves Lord Kendrick.”

“Is Thompson, mayhaps, in the kitchens or the pantry just now?”

Old Dawe shook his head. “No, sir. I do not believe he has left the marquess’s room since he helped him change his coat earlier.”

“Did Thompson come down to supper with the servants last evening?”

“No, sir. A maid brought him his meal on a tray.”

“Thank you.”

Climbing the stairs, I decided there was no easy way I could search the marquess’s room while his valet was about. I would have to find a way to divert the man. Quickly.

I reached my bedchamber, flung open the door, and found a possible co-conspirator; Robinson had returned from London.

Robinson dropped the towel he was about to drape over the washstand. “Sir! What has happened to your hair?”

“What? Oh, I think I must have run a hand through it. This has been a trying day.” Good God, was that an understatement.

“No, sir, I mean, I knew it should have been trimmed before I left, but there was no time. Now you have got it in an entirely different style.” Robinson’s eyes narrowed. “Did

Mr. Digwood do that?”

I closed my eyes for a moment.
You have allowed your hair to grow. I like it this way.

Freddie. Freddie was angry with me with very good reason. Both our reputations were in jeopardy.

In that case, I shall keep the style. For you.

 I must get that letter back. I passed a hand over my brow. “Sir?” Robinson said, coming to stand next to me. “Are you quite well?”

Two chairs stood near the empty fireplace. I angled one toward the other. “Sit down, Robinson.”

The valet did as he was told, his eyes bright with curiosity and, I think, concern for my well-being.

His expression changed when I lowered myself to the chair and a bundle of cat fur named Chakkri jumped into my lap. “Reow,” the feline said, reaching up a paw to my chin.

“Good afternoon, old boy. Well, that is not precisely true, by God.” The cat settled down, content to have me stroke his fawn-coloured back as was only his due in life.

Robinson sat, his lips pursed. He was no doubt gauging the number of cat hairs he would be forced to remove from my clothing.

“Look here, Robinson, I am in a bit of a fix. When the highwayman stole our valises, he got away with my blue velvet book. You know the one I mean?”

“Yes, I do sir,” Robinson replied, distracted from Chakkri by the question. “I have seen you placing sketches and such in it.”

“That is correct,” I agreed, wondering how much to tell him. I did not want to widen the number of people who were aware of the nature of the letter by even one. And that included my trusted valet, who liked to imbibe spirits and chatter at The Butler’s Tankard in London. “Recollect that I was very upset when our things were stolen. The true reason was that I had placed a certain letter in the book for safekeeping. A letter which could prove, er, embarrassing if it fell into the wrong hands.”

“Reow!” Chakkri shrieked. The cat stood up in my lap, his tail bristling. I stroked him from neck to tail, and after a moment, he settled down.

I, on the other hand, felt a sudden chill at the tone of the cat’s cry. You may think me fanciful, but that feline understands every word I say. 

Robinson leaned forward in his chair. “Was the letter from a young lady, sir?”

He is always trying to discover the details of my amours, and, as you might imagine, I thwart him at every turn. I raised my right eyebrow by way of censure. “I need your help, and I wish you would ask as few questions as possible.”

“Very well, sir,” Robinson said on a sigh. “Have they caught the highwayman? Does he have the book?”

“No, they have not caught him, but I have reason to believe his identity is Lord Kendrick.”

“Lord Kendrick!” Robinson exclaimed, gripping the arms of his chair. “Sir, that was no member of the Nobility holding a pistol on me, I assure you.”

“I believe you. The marquess has a partner or an accomplice, if you will, a paid ruffian most likely. Before you ask me why Lord Kendrick would stoop to robbing people on the road, let me say that the reasons people do evil things are numerous. To speculate at present would only cost us precious time. Let us just say that, as usual, money is the root of most evil.”

Robinson thought this over. “Already there has been talk of his lordship in the servant’s hall.”

“Oh? What kind of talk?”

“When I returned from London this afternoon, I went to the kitchen to get a bite to eat. Everyone was angry and upset, especially Cook. It seems Lord Kendrick forced his attentions on one of the maids last night, Cook’s niece.”

Robinson and I looked at one another, a silent message of contempt for Lord Kendrick’s behaviour passing between us. Housemaids are routinely accosted, make no mistake, but the frequency of a wicked activity cannot make it the slightest bit more acceptable.

“Look here, Robinson, what I must do is search Lord Kendrick’s bedchamber. I would like to go straightaway, but I cannot see how at present. I must cool my heels until after dinner. I need your help.”

“How can I serve you, sir?”

“Find Thompson, Lord Kendrick’s valet, strike up a conversation, a friendship. Convince him to take a drink with you downstairs, go for a walk in the cooler evening air, whatever comes to mind. That way, while Lord Kendrick is gathered with the guests after dinner, I can search his room. Send word to me when the way is clear. If Thompson questions you as to why you must apprise me of your whereabouts, tell him I keep you on a very short leash.”

Robinson nodded. “I shall do it. After dinner, when the servants are clearing the table and washing up, I should be able to distract him then.”

“Good man.”

A sound like a snort came from Chakkri.

Robinson narrowed his eyes at the cat.

“Pour me a drink before we begin the Dressing Hour, Robinson.”

I possess a good appetite, thankfully one yet to show itself on my lean frame. Little causes me to neglect my food. Tonight proved an exception. Somehow when one is placed
down the table
, well away from the object of one’s affections, the result modifies the consumption of food. Not drink, only food, you understand.

As is the custom, after the covers were removed, the gentlemen were left to their port while the ladies retired to the drawing room. The Prince of Wales had departed Oatlands before the picnic, leaving the Duke of Derehurst the highest-ranking gentleman present. He would be the one to give the signal to rejoin the ladies.

He could, that is, if he would ever stop droning on about the pack of hounds he had carefully bred into the best fox-hunters in the south of England. Evidently he viewed sporting subjects the only suitable topic for conversation. The Duke had not earned the sobriquet “Stuffy” for nothing. I sat, resigned to adding boredom to my current list of frustrations. Fox-hunting is one of the few popular gentlemanly pastimes I eschew, judging it only one better than shooting helpless birds out of the sky.

I had all I could do to keep from drumming my well-manicured fingers on the table, though I noted Lord Kendrick listened intently to every word the Duke said. Smirking sycophant.

At last the Duke rose. I swallowed the remainder of my port and was the first to exit the room. Crossing into the drawing room moments later, I saw that card tables had been set up. A pair of doors were opened, revealing a large gallery. A trio of musicians enticed couples to dance.

There had been no word from Robinson yet, so it was not time to search Lord Kendrick’s chamber.

My gaze swept the drawing room until I found Freddie. I suppressed a groan. She sat on a small sofa with the garrulous Lady Crecy, Humphrey snoring away at their feet. Smart dog.

Though Lady Crecy’s tongue ran on, I approached. I wanted to tell Freddie I would have the letter back that very night—I hoped—and I would most humbly beg her forgiveness for having kept it and propelled us into this mess.

I bowed before the two. “Ladies, I am pleased to see we have the privilege of dancing again this evening. May I solicit each of you for a dance?”

Yes, I was prepared to lead Lady Crecy onto the dance floor. No sacrifice was too great just now for a few minutes with Freddie. And I could not walk up and ask only one of them to dance.

“Oh, Mr. Brummell!” Lady Crecy simpered. “I should like to dance with you above all things. I remember how gracefully you danced with my Penelope. Such ease of movement, such dignity, such refinement.”

Such ridiculous toadying.

Freddie’s gaze turned to me for the briefest of moments. She was clad in an elegant royal blue silk gown. Sapphires sparkled at her wrists and neck. “I am afraid I must refuse you,” she told me, while motioning to a footman. “I think I twisted my ankle this afternoon walking in the grass. I shall not be dancing this evening.”

I stood amazed. What poppycock! Freddie loves the outdoors and is as sure-footed as a doe. I looked at her, willing her to meet my eyes, but she occupied herself with one of her dogs. Sparkles, named for his bright personality, took the opportunity to have his mistress pick him up and place him in her lap. Where was Georgicus? I wondered. Exiled as I seemed to be?

“Oh, dear Duchess, your poor little ankle!” Lady Crecy cried. “We must cancel our plans to visit the ruins tomorrow. We cannot have you traipsing about with an injured ankle.”

Freddie asked the servant who appeared at her elbow for a footstool. “Do not fuss, Lady Crecy, I shall be fine by morning. We shall gather at noon and make the short journey to view the ancient crumbling stones on the other side of Weybridge, never fear.”

“Well, if you are certain,” Lady Crecy said doubtfully.

“Quite certain. You go ahead and dance with Mr. Brummell.”

The footman returned with an embroidered stool. Freddie busied herself with the placement of her foot and arranged her skirts, avoiding my gaze. Lady Crecy rose, curtseyed to the Royal Duchess, and offered me her arm. I could do nothing other than make Freddie a bow and lead Lady Crecy into the gallery. I did not escape without hearing Lord Munro titter at my predicament from where he and Petersham sat at a card table.

Fortunately a spirited country dance was just starting up. The dance would be one which separated its partners frequently. I observed a bored-looking Roger Cranworth lead Lady Ariana to the floor. The pale girl actually had a glimmer of happiness in her eyes as she took the dashing Mr. Cranworth’s arm.

Cecily Cranworth sat alone, biting her fingernails in the corner of the room. Where, I thought, was Doctor Wendell? Thankfully, it was past the Squire’s bedtime so Miss Cranworth would not have to suffer his attentions.

Lady Crecy proved to be a lively dancer. Her exertions did not prevent her from a steady stream of conversation. “Oh, look. Dear Signor Tallarico has joined the Royal Duchess on the sofa. He is the most engaging man, do you not think so, Mr. Brummell?”

“I doubt he will ever allow himself to be trapped into an engagement,” I muttered. Lady Crecy did not hear me and smiled adoringly in the Italian’s direction. Another conquest for Tallarico! Apparently age was no barrier to his achievements. When it came to the females, Victor Tallarico brought a whole new meaning to the word
victor
.  Devil take the man, I thought, watching him hold Freddie’s hand to his lips.

“What is that you say?” Lady Crecy eventually asked.

The steps of the dance parted us. When we were in front of one another again, I said, “I saw Signor Tallarico helping Lady Penelope with her archery.”

Lady Crecy’s lips spread into a wide smile. She edged closer and snapped her fan open. Behind it she stage-whispered to me: “I think the dear man helped Penelope with more than her archery! Only look how marked Lord Wrayburn’s attention is to my little dove. By the end of the Season, I expect my gel to be preparing to become a countess.”