The Bloodied Cravat (4 page)

“Step along to the kitchen, Robinson, and get something to eat. Cook will likely have a salve for your hand. If not, then ask Fishe. That reminds me, in all the excitement, I have quite forgotten poor Phanor’s illness.”

I nodded at Robinson, and he bowed from the room. An unprecedented urgency spurred me to action. “Freddie, perhaps you could leave the new spaniel here with Ulga for a few minutes while you look in on Phanor. I shall go to my chamber and see what remains of my clothes.”

Freddie smiled. “Very well. I can see you are in dire need to view the damage.”

“A brand new pair of breeches could be among the casualties,” I lied. “I must know if they have been spared.”

Stopping short on her way to hand the dog to Ulga, Freddie turned and eyed me curiously for a moment.

I cannot trick her by playing the foolish dandy. She must have been wondering what was wrong with me, though neither of us spoke.

Then she crossed the room and handed an admiring Ulga the dog, bending and kissing the white lozenge of fur between his eyes before letting him go. From the look in the dog’s brown eyes, I could tell he was already in love with his new mistress. Who could blame him? Not I. Freddie has always been my Ideal of the perfect lady. None can compare to her.

She turned and looked at me again, a question in her eyes.

“I bid you good evening, Freddie,” I said. I felt a strong urge to touch her before leaving the room. Walking swiftly to where she stood next to the disapproving Ulga, I reached for Freddie’s hand and bowed over it, kissing it tenderly. God, if anything were to happen to her because of my stupidity ...

Without looking at her again, I turned and walked with seeming calm from the room. Once in the corridor, I strode quickly towards my room, deftly avoiding the still sleeping Humphrey.

 Flinging open the door to my chamber, I saw my valise on a small, backless sofa positioned at the end of my bed. Closing the door behind me, I rushed to the bag.

This simply had to be the valise containing the blue velvet book. The scrapbook in which I keep poems I have written, drawings sketched by me and by my friends, mementoes, and letters.

Including the one letter I never should have kept.

The letter which would ruin Freddie’s reputation if it fell into the wrong hands.

The letter which would destroy the life in Society I had worked so hard to make for myself, and leave me with no choice but to flee England and all I loved forever.

Was it just earlier this evening that I told you I could not fathom being unhappy in this room? How matters can change in a short span of time. For now I felt that every ounce of pleasure had evaporated from my life. The only thing left was a sharp pain I tried to ease with bottle after bottle of wine.

My Dearest George, You cannot know the disorder of my thoughts as I pen these lines. Friends have written me about my husband’s behaviour of late, though their words can only confirm what I already know. The Duke has formed a strong attachment this time.

I knew by heart every word of the letter Freddie had written. Words put to paper at the very height of her distress over two years ago, when the Duke had made his relationship with Mary Anne Clarke public. I could recite the lines backwards if I tried, which makes me even more of a jackanapes, guilty of an excess of sentimentality, for having kept the letter.

Worse, much worse, I am no gentleman for having kept it. A gentleman would have thrown the crested vellum on the fire at once upon having read it, discerning its potential for scandal.

I had not done so.

All these years, I have thought of myself as a gentleman if nothing else in this world. This predicament proves I have deluded myself.

Taking another long swallow of wine, I surveyed the bed where the scattered contents of my valise lay. My burning, bleary eyes told me what they had told me each of the four times I had gone through the bag, tossing its contents across the bed: that the blue velvet book was not there. Missing. No, stolen.

Perhaps, George, a more charitable wife than I could wish him the joy of Mary Anne Clarke. I fear I am not so generous. Ours was once a tolerable marriage, if not one of passion, but even that little peace has been destroyed.

I sat sprawled in a chair I had turned to face the bed, my cravat tossed on the floor, my white linen shirt unbuttoned to my waist, my hand reaching for the third bottle of wine. Perhaps if I drank another glassful, the book would suddenly appear, having played a game of least in sight with me all along. There it would be, tucked into the folds of a pair of breeches, safe from a stranger’s eyes.

The wine slid down my throat, dulling my senses a little more. I immediately poured another glass, then tried to focus on the mess of clothing on the bed. An evening coat and silk breeches, buff-coloured leather breeches, shirts, a pair of blue eyes in a dark brown face.

The latter, attached to a cat, looked at me accusingly. Why, they seemed to ask, have you not cleared these things away and come to bed? Why are the candles still burning in the middle of the night? Why are you drunk?

“Because,” I said to Chakkri, pausing to consume the contents of the glass, “because I hung onto that letter like a moonling of seven and ten years, a letter which any
gentleman
would have destroyed
immediately
upon having read the words. Not kept it selfishly in order to see the lines written in her handwriting whenever the need to know without any uncertainty the depth of our ... our friendship ... overcame me.”

The situation is made worse by the guilt I feel. Yes, George, I know I have done nothing to dishonour my marriage vows. But is the thought as bad as the deed after all? If so, my dearest, dearest companion, my own conduct is shabby indeed.

Chakkri’s tail snapped up and down like a whip.

“Of course,” I went on, pouring myself yet another glass with an unsteady hand, “we have known all along I am not really a gentleman, have we not, Chakkri? Certainly not a
titled
gentleman. I have never had a title except the one of Arbiter of Fashion, despite all of Father’s plans for me, sending me to Eton and Oxford, demanding that I make aristocratic friends in the hope that one day a real title would be bestowed upon me.

“Still, I have always told myself that the code of honour that makes a man a gentleman has been mine all along, title or no. Members of the royal family trust me. The rules I live by are part of what enabled me to rise to the level of power and authority in Society that I currently enjoy. My identity in the world depends upon my being a gentleman of style, of grace, of manners and ethics.

“I believed I had succeeded in elevating myself in life. That I had earned the respect of men
I
hold in respect. I truly believed it, old boy. But this folly proves me wrong. I am, in fact, the worst of men.”

The next glass of wine went down almost without my awareness. The room around me began to blur. My body felt blessedly numb.

I thrust a shaky hand into my pocket and pulled out the gold-framed miniature of herself Freddie had given me last Christmas.

For how I long to come to you despite the conventions of Society, to flee from the vows that bind me to the Duke. Never mind the certain peril to my honour. I would cast aside the beliefs I have forever held
...

“Freddie.” My head slumped to one side. I held the miniature tightly.

...
to render myself yours completely.

“I did not let you,” I muttered to no one but the cat. “And would never let you. I know the result of such immoral conduct would cause you even greater pain than your husband’s behaviour. Not just from Society’s censure, which would be scandalous enough, but from the censure of your own heart.”

My punishment for these desires is the deepest of torment.

                 
Yours in truth, Frederica, Duchess of York

The glass slipped from my hand. I slipped into darkness.

I woke slowly. The dryness of my mouth made it almost impossible to swallow. My head felt thick and heavy, and the effort of raising it from my pillow would be agony, I knew.

I was still in yesterday’s clothing. How did I get in bed? I wondered, feeling the clean sheets beneath my palms.

“Good morning, sir,” Robinson intoned from beside the bed.

I turned towards him slowly and squinted. “Is that tea?” I asked, indicating the tray he held.

“Yes, sir.” Robinson set the tray on a table and poured hot liquid into a porcelain cup. “I thought you would be thirsty when you regained consciousness this morning.”

The events of the evening before came rushing back to me. The letter. Hell and damnation, the letter. No one must know. I shut my eyes.

“Shall I ask Cook to prepare a tisane? Some laudanum to ease the pain?” Robinson asked with a mite of compassion. “Or do you just want breakfast?”

“No, thank you, on both accounts,” I answered in a scratchy voice. I would have to face the world, face the problem of the letter with a clear head, not a laudanum-induced fog.

Last night’s overindulgence could not be repeated either. This is an age of hard drinkers, and normally I can hold my own. But my present situation had caused me to go far beyond my usual consumption, evidenced by the fact that I could not even think of eating anything. Usually nothing deters my appetite.

I opened my eyes, carefully pulled myself into a sitting position, and accepted the cup from Robinson. Cautiously, I took a sip. “I do not remember getting into bed.”

Robinson’s lips pursed, a sure sign of his disapproval. “I expect you do not. The first time I entered the bedchamber, you told me to—I believe your exact words were, ‘Go to the devil.’“

“Sorry.”

“Since my sleeping quarters are in the dressing room accessible only through this room, I waited in the hall for an hour.”

“Sorry.”

“The second time I entered, you were out of your senses in that chair over there. I cleared the bed of your clothing and,” here Robinson’s lip curled, “your cat. I now have a cat scratch on my left hand in addition to a dog bite on my right hand.”

“Did you obtain a salve from Cook?”

“Oh, do not concern yourself with me, sir,” Robinson said.

 I pressed the fingers of my left hand to my temple and wondered why Robinson had not yet authored a pamphlet entitled
How To Inflict Guilt Upon Your Employer
.

Without the sympathy that goes so well with tea, Robinson poured more hot liquid into my empty cup. “I set aside articles to be cleaned for this morning, then helped you into bed.”

“Thank you.”

“I have your leather breeches, your shirt, and your new cyanous-blue coat ready for after you have bathed.”

“Perfect.”

“Four and ten cat hairs were on the breeches, three and twenty on the shirt, and the coat had too many to count. I used a special cloth to rid the garment of the blight.” Robinson glared past me to the opposite side of the bed.

Chakkri sat tall on the other bedside table, staring at me and twitching his tail back and forth. The look in his eyes rebuked me for my actions the night before. Good God, was the cat to be my conscience now as well? He need not be. My own conscience screamed inside my pounding head.

Robinson spoke. “Sir, if you are angry with me for losing your clothing, may I remind you that I, too, lost favourite garments in this disgraceful crime?”

I swallowed more tea and raised a hand. “No, you did nothing wrong, and your things will be replaced.”

“Then what, if I may ask, was the reason you threw your clothing all about the bed where that animal could lay upon them, then imbibe enough wine for three men?”

“A whim,” I answered nonchalantly. You do not think I am going to tell him the real reason, do you? I handed him the empty teacup. “What time is it? Have you ordered my bath?”

Robinson heaved a sigh. He picked up the tray containing the teacup and teapot and held it in a manner that mocked the consummate servant. Staring at a point above my head, he recited, “The time is eleven of the clock, the day is Wednesday, the seventh day of May in the year l806. Today is her Royal Highness, the Duchess of York’s birthday. I shall return with your bath.”

So saying, he turned on his heel and left the chamber, shutting the door behind him with a
very
sharp click, deuce take him.

I eased myself out of bed delicately. With great care, I found I could walk with the room tilting only slightly. I stripped off my shirt and tossed it onto the chair. A glint of gold caught my eye. The miniature of Freddie lay in the corner of the upholstery. I picked it up, stared at her face for a moment, then placed the likeness on my dressing table.

Chakkri watched me walk to the window.

“I assume you have had your breakfast, else I would be hearing about it,” I said to the cat.

He raised a brown paw, licked it, and gave his mouth a swipe.

“Good answer. Upon my oath you understand every word I say.”

Chakkri leapt down and scrambled past me to get to the window first, hopping up on a table to better enable him to look out. He nudged the coffee-coloured draperies aside and stuck his head through the opening. Making sure the window was shut so he could not fall out, I stood behind him, not wishing to be seen by anyone outside.

The sun shone brightly. I nodded in approval even though the light hurt my eyes. Rain would not dare fall on Freddie’s special day. Several people known to me, as well as others I did not recognize, strolled about the grounds. Standing near the drive, with another of her dogs, Hero—a black and tan little scamp—frollicking nearby, Freddie held a lead attached to the spaniel I had given her. She greeted and conversed with her guests.

I drew in a deep breath at the sight of her. She wore a pale blue dress made of light muslin, crossed in front in the popular Grecian style. Her curly brown hair was covered by a straw bonnet with a matching blue ribbon. The distance from the window made it difficult to be certain, but I believe her necklace was of sapphires set in gold. I would wager the shade of the stones matched her eyes exactly.