The Bloodied Cravat (25 page)

“He is too young to be running about Seven Dials. Other, less dangerous commissions may be more appropriate for his age,” Miss Lavender said with an air of finality. “So what is this about a stolen letter of yours, Mr. Brummell? Is it important?”

I ran my gloved thumb across the top of the dog’s head cane Freddie had given me. “Nothing I cannot deal with. Here we are in Fetter Lane. Excuse me if I do not accompany you up the stairs to the private entrance of your home. I shall wait until you are safely inside before I leave.” Miss Lavender and her father live in lodgings above Kint’s Chop House. The rooms boast steps in the back of the building that lead directly to their door, a nice convenience, not having to go through the eating establishment every time they came or went.

Miss Lavender’s lips twitched. “Of course. I’m sure you don’t want to cross swords with my father at this hour. Good evening, Mr. Brummell.”

I rose to assist her from the vehicle, but she was before me. I waited until I saw her walk through her door before giving the coachman the order for Bruton Street.

Miss Lavender’s mention of the letter renewed my anger at Sylvester Fairingdale. May his valet singe the fop’s teased hair with the curling tongs.

Just how the devil had Fairingdale found out about the stolen letter? Roger would not have told him. The only people who knew about it were myself, Freddie, Ulga ... and Robinson!

Alighting from the hackney in Bruton Street, I paid the driver and climbed the steps to my house. Robinson swung open the door immediately, obviously having been on the alert for my return trying to make up for his sedated state earlier, no doubt.

“Good evening, sir. Did you have a pleasant night?”

I handed him my hat and stick and began ascending the stairs. “Lord and Lady Perry have a son. Lady Perry had a terrible time of it, but all is well.”

Robinson followed me. “I am glad to hear it, sir.”

The moment I was through the door to my bedchamber I swung around to face him. “Who is the girl you have been walking out with?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Robinson asked, taken aback.

“You are not lacking in auditory capabilities. Do me the honour of answering the question.”

Robinson raised his chin. “Her name is Fanny.” he replied in a tone that doubly annoyed me because it was so much like my own when he questioned me about private matters.

Distracted, the valet strode to tall wardrobe, clucking his tongue because the door to the wardrobe was slightly ajar. Robinson and I both like things to be neat and in their places.

But I was not to be put off my mission. “Robinson, did you tell your lady friend about the missing letter?”

Suddenly Robinson screamed and jumped away from the wardrobe. “There is a ghost, a monster in there!” 

I stepped past him and opened the door to the wardrobe wider to see what had frightened him.

Two eyes glinted gold in the darkness. Chakkri lay on a stack of nightclothes, his tail curled.

“Reow,” he said in a conversational tone.

“How did you get in there, you rogue?” I asked him, reaching in and gently extracting the cat. I stroked his fur, then placed him on the bed.

Meanwhile Robinson stood in high dudgeon, lips pursed, and arms crossed. “That animal has spread cat hairs all over your nightclothes, sir. I shall be forced to—”

“Oh, just shake them out and cease your complaints,” I said impatiently. “I asked you a question regarding your lady friend.”

“I do not see what my Fanny has to do with anything.”

I raised my right eyebrow severely. “Did you tell her about the missing letter?”

“I may have mentioned it in passing. She is very easy to talk with, sympathetic to my every concern.”

“Who is her employer?”

Robinson looked mulish.

“She works for Sylvester Fairingdale, does she not?” I demanded.

Robinson’s mouth dropped open. “How did you know?”

“Because Fairingdale tweaked me regarding the letter this afternoon. Because Fairingdale wishes to take my place as the Arbiter of Fashion. Because Fairingdale most likely paid the woman to befriend you so he could spy on me,” I said, beyond aggravation.

Robinson whimpered.

Chakkri remained blessedly silent. Well, other than just a slight coughing sound that a highly imaginative person might think sounded like the word “fool.” Naturally, I did not think so. Probably just some fur in his throat.

“Sir, I never told Fanny the letter was from her Royal Highness. I am sorry. Indeed, I am more sorry than I can say that I became involved with Fanny.”

He did look remorseful. And hurt. “If you feel I have betrayed you sir, I shall pack my things.”

Oh, God. Here was Robinson’s Royalty On The Way To The Guillotine expression.

“Perhaps I might find a position as valet to a banker or a mill owner,” the valet mused sadly.

Chakkri rolled over on the bed onto his back. He stretched his fawn-coloured body to its full length and writhed as if one in the throes of ecstasy. Then he stood up and looked at me expectantly.

“There is no need for such dramatics, Robinson. Only keep your tongue between your teeth in the future,” I said in a tired voice.

But this was a prime opportunity for Robinson to play his Martyr Act, and he was never one to miss an opportunity. “I should be punished for my disloyalty. I—I shall,” he could barely get the words out. “I shall brush the cat for you, sir.”

Chakkri jumped down from the bed and exited the room, hopping over the threshold as is his odd way.

“That will not be necessary, Robinson.”

“Thank you, sir. Thank you very much indeed.”

Long after the valet had departed for his own quarters, I sat drinking brandy by the empty fireplace. My thoughts centered on Roger Cranworth. If Neal did not bring me the blue velvet book, I would be forced to break into Roger Cranworth’s rooms myself.

I would have a long wait until then, but in the meantime, I expected to be able to see Freddie and tell her that I hoped to have the letter that very night.

And that I knew who the Marquess of Kendrick’s killer was.

Monday morning—well, two hours past noon I should say—I procured a dozen yellow roses and set out for Grosvenor Square. I walked, leaving the quarrelling twins and my sedan-chair at home. The day was very fine, and I have often found that exercise increases my ability to think clearly.

Lady Perry was in no condition to receive company after her ordeal, even in her upstairs sitting room, but Perry came down to meet me. He was a different man than yesterday. Beaming with pride, he entered the drawing room, the picture of the proud papa.

 “Brummell, I wish you could see him, but Mrs. Hoffman has forbidden any visitors. He is the most handsome baby you have ever clapped eyes on. Has my nose.”

I smiled. How on earth did Perry see his Roman nose on a mite of a baby? “What are you calling him?”

“Thomas.”

“A good name. Here, these are for Lady Perry. How is she?”

“Thank you.” He accepted the flowers and passed them to a footman. “Weak, but there is no sign of childbed fever. Mrs. Hoffman is a marvel. I am forever grateful to you and to Miss Lavender.”

“Miss Lavender is good.”

“She is. If she were in Society, she would be married in a trice. I do not know what is wrong with the men of the middle classes.”

“Miss Lavender is very independent. Perhaps she does not wish to wed.” The new silk waistcoat I wore suddenly felt tight.

Perry laughed. “I thought all women wished to be wed. At any rate, earlier this morning I sent Miss Lavender a large draft on my bank to show my gratitude. She can use it as a dowry if she wishes.”

A few minutes later when I took my leave of Perry, I reflected on the Bow Street man’s daughter. Miss Lavender would be more likely to use the windfall for the benefit of the Haven of Hope than as a lure to entice a man to matrimony.

For some reason, the waistcoat did not feel constricting after all.

* * * *

St. James’s Palace, with its flanking octagonal turrets, was built in the time of Henry VIII. The red brick building can be approached by a gatehouse that stands at the southern end of St. James’s Street. This was the entrance I chose to use after learning Freddie was in residence.

The guards permitted me to enter after checking a register. A series of white-wigged footmen led me through the palace where Prinny had married Princess Caroline eleven years ago. Not a happy union, you know, to put it mildly.

Freddie was the victim of another unhappy union. I felt my spirits lift a bit at the thought of seeing her, though I must say I feel a pinch uncomfortable meeting her at the Palace. I prefer the informality of Oatlands.

We reached a very tall set of double doors. One footman went inside, while the other waited with me. A few minutes passed before I was motioned within.

“Leave us,” Freddie commanded the footmen who bowed low.

The Royal Duchess looked tiny in the huge gold and white room. She sat on a long white sofa, Hero and Georgicus lying on either side of her. At least Georgicus was still in favour.

Ulga sat on a chair close by her mistress rather than her usual position in the corner of the room. Was this Freddie’s way of keeping the wall between us? The Prussian maid did not appear any happier to be in London then Freddie did. The lines on Ulga’s face were pronounced. She looked tired, and her usual look of competence had been replaced by one of strain.

I bowed to Freddie. “I trust your journey to London was satisfactory.” She did not offer me her hand to kiss. I settled for petting Georgicus and shaking Hero’s paw.

Freddie’s demeanor was reserved. “I am afraid I cannot deem anything satisfactory until the threat hanging over my head is removed. What news have you, George?”

“May I sit down?”

She indicated the matching sofa across from her. “I am unable to give you much time. My arrival in Town is no secret. Many will be calling on me today. Do you have the letter?”

I sat and looked at her, unhappy about the closed expression on her face. “Not yet, but I know who has it.”

“Who?” She leaned forward eagerly.

“Roger Cranworth.”

“What?” she cried.

“Roger Cranworth was Lord Kendrick’s partner in the highwayman scheme. They employed a local ruffian named Neal to carry out the actual robberies.”

“This is disgraceful. Poor Miss Cranworth.”

“She may not even know of her brother’s nefarious activities. If she does, she is powerless to stop him.”

“How are we to get the letter from Roger?” Freddie asked. Then, before I could answer, she said, “He will be communicating with me, wanting something. Money, I assume.”

“That thought has occurred to me. I have a plan to retrieve the letter.”

“How?”

“There is no honour amongst thieves, you know. I am paying Neal to retrieve it tonight. Then all will be as it was before, Freddie.”

“And if this Neal fails?”

I held her gaze. “I shall keep working at it until the letter is in my hands.”

“What of Lord Kendrick’s murder?”

“It seems logical that Roger Cranworth is responsible. The two men argued over the marquess marrying Roger’s sister, remember. That and a disagreement over their criminal activities would be motive enough for murder.”

“Dreadful, this is all quite dreadful. You will send word to me first thing in the morning, telling me if you have the letter.” She rose, and I immediately came to my feet. “You cannot come here again, George. It would be remarked upon.”

Was she forgetting all the times in the past I had called on her at the Palace? “As you wish, your Royal Highness.”

“I shall be attending the Duchess of Northumberland’s ball tomorrow evening at Syon House. Her Grace, Frances Julia, is a most kind woman. She cares about animals and children and is responsible for several charity schools.”

“I received an invitation to the ball myself.”

“All the world will be there. Her Grace rarely entertains on such a grand scale what with the Duke of Northumberland being so involved in military concerns.”

“May I escort you?” I asked without much hope.

“Victor Tallarico has already offered, and I have accepted, but thank you.”

Victor the Victorious.

“Until tomorrow. I hope you will do me the honour of saving me a dance,” I said, then bowed and left the room.

With footmen to escort me, I made my way out of the Palace. I dearly missed the closeness between Freddie and me that seemed to have been extinguished like a bedside candle. Things might never be the same between us.

The knowledge twisted and turned inside me as I made my way through the streets of Mayfair.

* * * *

Arriving home in Bruton Street, I was surprised to see Miss Lavender turning away from my door and walking down the steps, about to move in the other direction.

“Miss Lavender!” I hailed.

She glanced around and saw me, her lips tilting into a wide smile. The manner of her stride was almost a skip as she reached me. “Oh, Mr. Brummell, you’ll never believe what’s happened!”

“Lord Perry has given you a large draft on his bank as thanks for all you have done for his family.”

Her mouth dropped open. Then she laughed. “You awful man. How did you know?”

Curious looks from passersby caused me to edge Miss Lavender to my door. “Here, come inside.”

“I can only stay a few minutes,” she told me, her green eyes shining underneath her chip straw bonnet. “I’ve so many ambitions for the shelter. With the money Lord Perry has given me, I can do so much.”

We entered the hall. Robinson came hurrying from the kitchen. “Good afternoon, Miss Lavender. May I be of any service?” he asked in a humble tone.

Robinson
was
trying to make amends. He does not approve of Miss Lavender, thinking her a woman of too much learning, a bluestocking. Not to mention that here she was, an unattached female, at a bachelor’s house. Most improper.

“Will you have a glass of wine to celebrate?” I asked the Scottish girl.