The Bloodied Cravat (26 page)

“No, thank you. As I said, I’ve not much time.”

I dismissed Robinson, and he left us.

“I have my own celebration to arrange,” Miss Lavender continued excitedly. “I thought tonight my assistant, Miss Ashton, and I might have a special dinner for the girls and discuss how best to use the money.”

“That sounds very agreeable. They are bound to enjoy the treat. And Lion as well, I assume.”

“Yes, Lionel too,” Miss Lavender said. Her whole being radiated happiness. “Would you like to come?” she blurted.

“I am sorry. I have a prior engagement.”

She looked at her shoes, then back to me. “Faith, what could I have been thinking? Of course you already have a Society entertainment to attend. I must have been thinking of Lionel, that’s it. I didn’t want him to be the only male at the table. He might feel awkward, you know.”

Miss Lavender herself appeared ill at ease. So unlike her. “Actually it is not really a
Beau Monde
party, but rather the Grand Masquerade at the King’s Theatre. Hardly an exclusive affair. Anyone can attend if they have a guinea to purchase a ticket.”

“Really?” she asked. “I’ve never been to anything like that, a guinea being far too dear for my pocketbook. Fancy dress is it?”

“Yes.”

“What are you going as? A king? Or maybe a sorcerer?”

I chuckled. “Nothing so elaborate. I have a black domino, a mask, and a tall black hat with a red plume that I usually wear to masquerades.”

“Trust you to be elegantly plain.”

I tilted my head. “What would you go as, Miss Lavender?”

“Me? Oh, I don’t know, I’ve never considered. Girls without guineas to spare don’t dream of such things,” she said matter-of-factly.

“Allow me to point out that you do have a guinea to spare now. Perhaps one evening you shall go.”

She gave a little half-smile, then turned and walked to the door. “Enjoy yourself, Mr. Brummell.”

“And you do the same, Miss Lavender.”

She was through the door when I remembered something. “Oh, Miss Lavender ...”

She turned. “Yes?”

From a stand near the door, I picked up my old lion’s head walking stick. “Here. Please give this to Lion with my compliments.”

Miss Lavender looked at the elegant cane. “How fine it is. Why would you give such a beautiful thing away? Have you grown bored with it?”

“The Duchess of York gifted me with the dog’s head stick you may have seen me carry. I favour that one now.”

Miss Lavender accepted the cane, eyes downcast. “The Duchess of York. I see. You’re kind to give this one away. Lionel will be excited.”

“He earned a reward for helping me.”

When she left, I found myself staring at the closed door frowning. Had I hurt her feelings in some way? I gained the impression that I had. Hmmm.

Now this may come as a surprise to you, but I do not always comprehend the female mind. No, indeed, not always. Sometimes the ladies baffle me.

I did know the cause of Freddie’s chilly behaviour and her fears, so I put my mind to that problem and rang for Robinson. After I dined, I must ready myself for the important evening ahead. I could only hope that Neal would fulfill his part of our bargain, so I could end this matter of the letter which threatened to destroy my reputation and Freddie’s. Then I could bring my suspicions regarding Roger Cranworth’s involvement in Lord Kendrick’s murder to Mr. Lavender.

As it turned out, Chakkri caused a delay in my departure for the King’s Theatre.

The cat had slithered his lean body into one of the wardrobes again. This time, the result was a well-chewed ball of wet red feather which had formerly been the plume in my fancy-dress hat.

Robinson held the soggy mess between two fingers. “That animal has ruined your fine hat, sir. When will you decide to send him back to Siam?”

“When I decide to visit the country myself.” I held the hat. The brim showed teeth marks and the side held a long scratch where perhaps the cat had held the hat down while he did his damage. I glanced over to where Chakkri lay on the bed, his tail curled into the letter “C,” looking supremely unconcerned.

“What will you wear now, sir?” Robinson asked. “Do you wish me to hurry over to Fentum’s and bring home something suitable?”

“No, thank you. I shall stop there on my way to the Masquerade. Only find my black domino and mask.”

“Yes, sir,” Robinson said, casting a look of reproach at the cat. “I already have it freshly pressed.”

Chakkri rested his head on top of his front paws and closed his eyes.

While Robinson made sure there were no wayward creases in the black silk domino, I considered my predicament. Since I had told Neal specifically that I would be sporting such an accoutrement as a red plume in a tall black hat, I must obtain one.

Thus, a short time later, a hackney carried me No.78 Strand where Fentum’s Music and Masquerade Warehouse stands. A private door around the corner served as my entrance. The proprietor, a robust man with a white mustache that quite reminded me of Mr. Lavender’s chosen facial adornment, produced a black hat and red plume for me. Pleased, I took a moment to scan the items he had displayed in a case while he prepared my bill. One of them was a long silver instrument, some two feet in length, with an oval faux ruby at one end.

“A silver wand the sorcerer did sway,” the shop-owner declared.

“A sorcerer?” I asked, remembering that Miss Lavender had thought I might appear at the Masquerade as a sorcerer.

“Yes, sir. You’ll be able to conjure whatever spell you want with this,” he said half-seriously, pulling the wand from the case and handing it to me.

Or the heavy instrument might serve me well as a weapon. I had had to leave my dog’s head cane with its deadly swordstick at home for the sake of my costume.

“I shall take this as well,” I told him.

I donned the long black cape and fastened the new red plume into a tall black hat and placed it on my head. The garments completely covered my normal evening attire. With the black mask across my eyes, no one would know me unless I chose to reveal my identity.

No one, of course, except Neal.

I picked up the silver wand and left the shop. The night was fine, but patches of fog marred the view to the stars above. Paying the hackney driver, I paused outside the King’s Theatre, deliberately delaying my entrance in case Neal had already been successful, had the blue velvet book, and had come to find me. One could hope.

I bided my time and read a nearby placard: “No person will be admitted without a mask and either a domino, fancy, or character dress. Ice creams, tea, coffee, lemonade, orangeaid & c. will be abundantly supplied.”

A couple, the man dressed as a shepherd accompanied by a giggling bo-peep walked past me. The rules of behaviour at these entertainments state that one had to remain in character of the part one was playing all evening. Whispers often went around Town that high-born ladies would appear as flower girls or house-maids. I distracted myself imagining Sylvester Fairingdale forced to play the role of a peasant in peasant’s clothing all evening. Likely he would be dressed better than ever before.

Finally I checked my pocketwatch. After ten. Deciding I had lingered long enough, I followed a harlequin and two sailors inside the large theatre. The benches had been moved out of the pit, making the floor one large area, the scene of abandon. There is something, you know, about putting a mask over one’s face and assuming another identity that makes people ignore the conventions of Society.

An orchestra played a bawdy tune to the delight of pilgrims, and priests. Bears danced, devils and Quakers cavorted together, and a red-haired goddess from mythology struggled to free herself from the grip of a clown.

“Take your pulse, sir!” a man dressed as a doctor yelled at me, grabbing my wrist. I raised the silver wand and, I give you my word, he disappeared.

My gaze swung back to the lady with the dark red hair, a notion growing in my mind. When the enraged female swung the torch with its paper flames she carried at the clown’s head, I moved forward.

“Begone from this lady,” I said in a theatrical voice, raising the length of silver high. The clown stumbled drunkenly away, leaving me looking into a pair of emerald-green eyes behind a purple mask. “Er, Miss Lavender?”

“Mr. Brummell, it is you, isn’t it? I’d recognise that cool grey gaze anywhere,” she cried, adjusting the folds of her purple pleated robe around her. But not before I had a delightful glimpse of her bare arms.

Too late, I questioned the wisdom of approaching her. The Bow Street man’s daughter was the last woman I needed on my hands when I was expecting a thief to deliver stolen goods. Yet, what was I to do, leave her to that bully? She can take good care of herself, true, but this was different, I told myself. It had nothing whatsoever to do with that expanse of milk-white flesh on view.

I bowed in front of her, lifting my tall hat. “I am at your service. Only tell me, which of the goddesses are you here representing?”

“Aurora, for she announces the beginning of a new day.”

“I see.” And I also saw the sparkling dots on the white muslin that formed Miss Lavender’s clinging gown.

“I’d no idea a Masquerade could be so depraved, else I never would have wasted my guinea,” Miss Lavender said, overwrought.

I tore my eyes from her curves. The dress was tied at the waist, you understand, giving me the opportunity to study Miss Lavender’s figure. I fully believe one should seize opportunities thrown one’s way in life.

Then, for the first time, I became aware that the Scottish girl was trembling. I reached out and adjusted the purple cape, which had slipped behind her exposed shoulder again. “You should not have come here alone.”

“You’re right about that. Will you escort me to Croft’s Masquerade Warehouse in Fleet Street where I obtained this costume? I can change clothes there and go home.”

I hesitated. Here was a coil. How could I leave the theatre before Neal sent word? I looked around wildly, searching for an excuse to remain a short time longer. I must be certain no harm would come to Miss Lavender. “Would you not care to view the shrouded corpse in its coffin on view? Or what about Jack Horner over in his corner?”

“No, I wish to leave. If you are indeed a conjurer, pray conjure a hackney for me,” she replied. “I can’t like what’s going on here.”

At that moment, the orchestra broke into Carlo Vernet’s
La Folie du Jour
, and people began performing the daring new
valse
from Germany. Miss Lavender looked about as couples held each other and turned round and round, gliding about the room.

Without my permission, my mouth opened and I said, “Would you not like to try the new dance? Even the Prince has done so, just last year in Brighton.”

“You want to dance with me?” Green eyes sparkled with sudden interest. “I shouldn’t with someone that I wasn’t acquainted with, but since it’s only you, Mr. Brummell, I’ll feel quite safe.” Miss Lavender held out her arms.

This artless remark had the most astonishing effect upon me.

I reached for the torch she carried and tossed it and my sorcerer’s stick into the coffin with the corpse.

I then placed the palms of my hands against Miss Lavender’s sides and pulled her close to me. Safe indeed! Her lips parted in surprise, yet she clung to me as I guided her into the mass of swaying couples. I held her even closer.

We carried on this way for some minutes.

You know, I find I quite like this new
valse
. And did someone say that red hair was not the fashion? Not I. On the contrary, I find that red hair is the loveliest of all the shades.

I must also report that so pleasant was this new dance, that I had quite forgotten about Neal, the blue velvet book, and possibly even my own name, until a wigged footman with a highly painted face tapped me on the shoulder. I brought Miss Lavender and myself to a halt, noting the rise and fall of her chest. The dance had left her breathless.

 “Your property has been recovered, sir. It awaits you outside the theatre,” the footman told me. Then he, like the doctor earlier, disappeared into the crowd.

“What did he mean, Mr. Brummell?” Miss Lavender queried.

I looked back at her, still in the circle of my arms. I released my hold. “Nothing. He was playing his role as footman, I expect.”

I must get away from her. Now. I must meet Neal.

Just then a cry of alarm sounded from the area of the entryway. People began swarming out of the theatre. “Murder!” shouted a voice.

With Miss Lavender’s hand in mine, I hastened toward the exit and out into the cobblestone street. An odd picture it presented, with all manner of cupids, gypsies, even kings and queens standing outside the King’s Theatre, gaping at a spot on the dewy stone street. A thin fog hung over the area, but the lamps from a coach made the outline of the body on the pavement easy to see. Two constables guarded it.

Miss Lavender drew in her breath sharply, her hand clutched mine tightly.

Minus the slightest of doubts, I knew in an instant the deceased could only be Neal. I saw the grotesque way the body had fallen on the cobblestones on its stomach, the side of his face with the red birthmark a splash of colour against the pavement. A small hole, for one so deadly, tore the back of his coat.

Roger. It could only have been Roger that had committed such a cowardly act as shooting a man in the back. He had caught Neal in the act of pilfering the blue velvet book, perhaps topped my offer of a roll of guineas as reward for the return of the book, pried the information as to where he was to meet me out of him, then shot the thief and sent that “footman” to tell me.

All these thoughts went through my head at lightning speed. As everyone stared and pointed at the body, the sounds of another carriage coming down the street, the link boy guiding the way and yelling “Bow Street!” reached us.

Too late I remembered Miss Lavender at my side. I suppressed a groan thinking of the depth of Mr. Lavender’s disapproval of any sort of contact between myself and his daughter. Should I ease her away before any confrontation? I went to withdraw my hand from hers, but she tightened her grip. I moved my fingers back into place. Perhaps we would escape Mr. Lavender’s notice.