The Bloodied Cravat (17 page)

With that remark he was gone. I turned my attention to Tallarico. “I expect you will be leaving in the morning.”

“I had not decided.”

“Now you have,” I said.

He met my steady gaze and shrugged. “
Dio mio
, there’s no need to have an apoplexy. I’ll go tomorrow and prepare for her Royal Highness’s arrival in Town. She will need to be kept amused once she arrives.” With a wide smile, he strolled from the room.

Alone with Doctor Wendell, I poured myself a drink. “Wine, Doctor? I hear it is good for a man.”

The country doctor looked as if he needed something to console him.

“Thank you, no. I must return to my home. The county relies upon me for medical services. There might have been a note asking for my assistance left at my door.”

“Then I suppose you will not follow Miss Cranworth to London,” I said.

The doctor shook his head, looking miserable. “There is another doctor in the area, but he is miles away and his wife has been ill. Perhaps in a day or two when she improves ....”

“You may find that the Middlesex Hospital is holding a series of beneficial lectures you would like to hear,” I suggested.

He looked up at that, a light of hope in his eyes. “Indeed, Mr. Brummell, indeed I shall. In the meantime, if it’s not too much to ask of you, I must beg a favour.”

“Please do. I am at your service.”

“Can you look after Miss Cranworth in London?” he asked earnestly. “She is not used to Town ways as it is, not to mention the events of the past few days. With her brother the only one to offer her comfort and guidance, she might be unhappy.”

My plan was to watch both of the Cranworth siblings, in fact, to call on them, but for different reasons entirely. However, there was certainly no need to alarm Doctor Wendell. “You may be assured I shall. In the meantime, you have my card in case you wish to direct a letter to me.”

“I do, but I hope to be in London before long.”

We parted company on the best of terms. He could not know that the thought crossed my mind that his obvious love for Miss Cranworth might provoke him into doing away with the thorn in her side, that thorn being Lord Kendrick.

I made my way through the quiet house up to my bedchamber. “Robinson, we must leave tomorrow,” I said, as he helped me remove my coat.

“Sooner than expected, sir. What time shall I wake you?”

Was that a hint of a smile on Robinson’s face? Was he perhaps anxious to return to his mysterious lady friend in London? Or just happy to be leaving Oatlands dog hair behind?

“There is no need to rush. You can bring my tea around eleven.”

“I shall notify the stables to have your coach ready to depart at one o’clock. Am I to ride with you, sir?” he asked, clearly torn between wanting to do so and knowing he would have to share my company with that of the cat. He darted a look at Chakkri, who lay on his stomach, his paws tucked under his breast and his tailed curled into a “C.”

“Yes, you will come with me this time.” I replied, reminded of the highwayman and the letter. “By the way, did you have an opportunity to find out about Cook and her niece?”

“Yes, sir. We must eliminate them as suspects.”

“Oh?”

“Someone might have told me earlier, but it appears Cook’s niece, Susan, needed medical attention. Susan had been in shock after Lord Kendrick forced himself on her, then last night she took to uncontrollable crying. Cook sought Doctor Wendell, and the two of them stayed up watching over the girl all night and into this morning.”

“Good God.”

“Indeed, sir. One of the maids said that Doctor Wendell only left the room to change clothing in Mr. Dawe’s room just before everyone gathered for the trip to the ruins at noon. As for Cook, the maid said that she found her dozing in the bed with Susan. The girl’s hand clutched her aunt’s even in sleep.”

“That would explain both the difference in quality of the meals served and Doctor Wendell’s haggard looks today,” I mused.

“It appears so, sir,” Robinson agreed.

It also appeared that my last hope the killer was not one of the guests at Oatlands had vanished.

Ah, London at the height of the Season. Is there anything to compare to it? Provided one is wealthy or powerful, and not preoccupied with a murder investigation.

The grand balls, parties, assemblies. The theatre, the plays, the opera. Almack’s, the most fashionable of gathering places where so many matches between members of the cream of Society are made. Hyde Park where birds fly overhead while Birds of Paradise, Soiled Doves, Peacocks, Cocks of the Walk, and Pigeons Ripe for Plucking stroll the grounds or show themselves to advantage—in their new high-perched phaetons—alongside the members of the
Beau Monde
. One must be seen, admired, envied.

Alas, I had other things on my mind.

Saturday near the hour of three o’clock, I arrived home at No.l8 Bruton Street. Crossing the black-and-white tiled hall, I ascended the stairs to my bedchamber, lidded basket in hand. Robinson trailed behind lugging my valises.

The occupant of the basket, heretofore silent, commenced a shuffling, murmuring and finally a loud “reow!” sensing he was home at last. The supreme happiness of his feline heart knew no bounds.

No longer would Chakkri be disturbed by the disagreeable sounds of dogs barking, whimpering, howling, woofing, or growling. No clicking of dog paws on the hallway outside where the Prince of Fur slept would interrupt his slumber. No stray dog hairs would float through cracks into His Catly Highness’s realm to cause a delicate sneeze or ten. No barbaric canine sniffing at the bottom of the door to his chamber would cause Lord Feline to lift his dark nose into the air and his mouth to open an inch, the whisker pads curled back a bit in haughty disdain. A cause for celebration indeed.

“Here we are, Chakkri,” I said, opening the door to my bedchamber and releasing the cat. He hopped out of the basket with the agility of an opera dancer. After a quick, satisfied survey of the room, he disappeared behind a black lacquered screen set up in one corner. This area contains his sand-tray.

The selection of the tray where Chakkri conducts his private business had been left to Robinson when the cat first joined our household last autumn. The valet had chosen a particular porcelain container given to me by a member of the merchant class who hoped to gain my favour. The thing is ivory-coloured with gold trim. In the exact centre, the artist has painted a detailed likeness of yours truly complete with tall hat, perfectly tied cravat, and raised quizzing glass. Robinson’s idea of revenge.

I stripped off my gloves, and laid my dog’s head walking stick on a table between two high-backed chairs angled toward the cold fireplace. My chamber contains every luxury a gentleman of fashion could want: a spacious, tented bed with ivory silk hangings, a handsome dressing table, a set of mahogany wardrobes marching in a row down one wall, a fine floral-patterned Oriental carpet, engravings and paintings upon which to gaze, as well as my superb collection of prized Sevres porcelain resting on a crescent-shaped console table.

Furthermore, the chamber runs the length of the house, with large windows on either end from which Chakkri can monitor the activities of passersby both human and avian.

Speaking of the devil, Chakkri emerged from behind the screen, stretching his fawn-coloured body to its utmost length. He walked on elegant legs to the bed, elevated himself to the top of the coverlet, and rolled around on his back enjoying the smooth feel of the satin. At one point during this performance, he looked at me upside down. I could not resist reaching out and stroking his incredibly soft fur. This seemed to relax him enough to shed his inhibitions, curl into a ball, and, after a sigh of deep contentment, drift into sleep.

While Chakkri might loll about, there was no time for me to enjoy the comforts of home. I had some investigating to do. All during the ride back to London from Oatlands, I had concentrated on the matter of the missing letter and Lord Kendrick’s murder. Questions formed in my mind, some of which I hoped to have answers for today. I had thought of a plan which might lead me to the identity of Lord Kendrick’s accomplice in his highwayman scheme. If I could find that ruffian, I might find the letter.

When Robinson entered the room carrying a second set of valises, I was already extracting an Egyptian-blue coat out of the wardrobe. “Robinson, after you have put those down, bring me some water so I might wash before changing clothes.”

“Very well, sir. You are going out?”

“Yes.”

“Then my services will not be required for the next few hours?”

I glanced pointedly at the valises. “After everything is unpacked, I daresay you will be free. Why?”

“I wish to take a walk, sir,” the valet replied stiffly.

Going to see his lady friend, I surmised. I wondered who she was. “All right. Just return in time to help me dress for the evening. That reminds me. While you are downstairs getting the water, examine my invitations and see who is holding entertainments tonight. I need to know what gossip is flying.”

“Very good, sir.”

“Oh, and Robinson?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I also need to know where Roger and Cecily Cranworth are staying in London. Should you by chance happen upon any other domestic staff while out on your walk, please inquire.”

Robinson picked up a Chinese bowl from the washstand, nodded his agreement, then exited the room.

About an hour later, I hailed a hackney coach to take me to my destination in Covent Garden, outside Mayfair. Ned and Ted, my chairmen, were away from the house, so I could not ride in the extravagant comfort of my sedan-chair. Their absence was understandable. They did not expect my return until Monday, and were probably off enjoying themselves. I chuckled to think of what the two farm boys—identical twins of muscular build nearing their twentieth year—would be doing. Viewing the Menagerie at the Tower? Attending a balloon ascension? They had only arrived in London last autumn, seeking employment and money to send home to their “Mum,” who worked a pig farm.

As it turned out, Ned and Ted were indulging in neither of these treats. They were, in fact, loitering outside my very destination, Miss Lydia Lavender’s shelter, Haven of Hope, with a pretty girl. The two blond-haired boys flanked the dark-haired girl like bookends.

Ted was the first to perceive my arrival. “Mr. Brummell, sir!” he cried in astonishment. He adjusted the sleeves and collar of his blue and gold livery. He knows how particular I am in regards to their appearance. “We thought you’d be away ‘til Monday night.”

His brother, Ned, swung in my direction and gaped at me as if he were all of seven years old and had been caught pilfering blackberry tarts from the larder.

The girl who had been flirting with the twins giggled. Then, holding her skirts up a good two inches higher than necessary, she hastened down the street.

Ned gazed after her longingly. Then he looked at me, a frown between his eyes. “I don’t mean to be rude or nothin’, Mr. Brummell, ‘cause you’ve been awful good to Ted and me since we come up to Town. But it don’t seem fair that just when I was goin’ to get Miss Molly to walk out with me, you come along and spoil my chance. It feels like the time back home at the county fair when I thought I’d won the prize for holding the most pickled eggs in my mouth—”

“You never had a chance with Miss Molly, Ned,” Ted interrupted before his brother could begin one of his long-winded stories. I was surprised at the tone in which he spoke, a manner quite unlike any I had heard either of the good-natured brothers employ.

Ned glared at Ted. “You’re wrong about that, you are! Miss Molly slipped me one of them fancy candied violets the girls make at the shelter and sell to the grocer. She likes
me
, I tell you.”

Ted snorted. “She gave
me
one of them violets too, so what do you say to that, Ned?”

“Knave!” Ned shouted.

Before the two could resort to fisticuffs and possibly damage their well-tailored livery, not to mention their persons, I intervened. “In my experience, girls of about six and ten years, as Molly appears to be, rarely know their own minds in regards to men. Add to that the fact the pair of you look exactly alike, and well ....” I spread my hands in a helpless gesture.

The twins scowled at each other.

I sighed. “Knock on the shelter door, Ted. I have business inside. The two of you need to return to Bruton Street and be ready to take me about in my sedan-chair this evening.”

Ted followed my order, then he and his brother walked away into the crowded streets. I could hear their argument over the girl begin again.

“You always think girls like you better than me,” Ned complained.

“I’m smarter than you,” Ted boasted. “Females like that in a man.”

“You aren’t smarter than me! We’re wearin’ the very same livery!”

Ted gave his brother’s arm a punch. “Half-wit! I meant what’s in my brain-box.”

Ned shoved him back.

Meanwhile the shelter door swung open. Expecting to see Miss Lavender, or one of the females inhabiting the house, I was taken aback when my gaze travelled down to a young boy, about eleven years old, standing in the portal. Exceedingly thin and gawky-looking, the lad had a thick mane of light brown hair, blond on the top layers where the sun had faded it. A cowlick made the hair above the centre of his forehead stand straight up. Since this was directly above his nose, it only called attention to that unfortunate appendage which was short and turned up at the end.

   My surprise was nothing, though, compared to the shock writ across the boy’s face as his gaze ranged slowly from my shiny Hessian boots to my snowy white cravat. His mouth hung open, but no words came out.     

“Lionel, who’s come to see us?” Miss Lavender’s Scottish lilt sounded from the hall behind the boy. “I told you that if you open the door to anyone, you must collect me or Miss Ashton.”

“Must be the Prince ‘isself,” breathed the boy. He dropped down and knelt on one knee, head bowed.