The Bloodied Cravat (5 page)

“Reow,” Chakkri said.

“Yes, she does look beautiful. How much longer, though, will I be able to enjoy the pleasure of her company? Not to mention my place in Society. If I lose that, what am I to do? Become a tailor in Jamaica? Who would patronise a broken Beau?”

Chakkri used a hind paw to scratch a spot behind his right ear.

My jaw clenched, and my brain struggled to function.

Freddie’s letter had been written, as had all her correspondence to me, in French. What were the odds a common highwayman would understand it? Was there a chance of avoiding a raging scandal after all? Dare I hope that neither Freddie nor I would not suffer the consequences of my folly in keeping the letter?

Robinson returned at that moment with footmen carrying my bath. Chakkri and I moved away from the window, he, to the centre of the bed, and I to bathe and begin what Robinson and I have dubbed The Dressing Hour. Of course, it never is
one
hour, you know.

Once clean, I surrendered myself to the valet’s ministrations. Soon my face was again free of stubble, my squared nails buffed to a shine, my light brown hair arranged to our mutual satisfaction.

After I donned my breeches, a pair of gleaming Hessian boots, and a spotless white shirt, I began the arduous process of tying my cravat. Wrapping the folds of snowy linen around my neck in just the right way, lowering my head so the starched material fell precisely as I wished, then tying the knot, could sometimes take several attempts. Fortunately, this morning we only had two failures before perfection was achieved.

Drawn as if by an invisible bond, I walked to the window and looked outside again while Robinson retrieved my coat. Freddie had moved away from the drive to speak with a strikingly handsome young man with black hair who stood next to a girl who looked to be the feminine equivalent of him. Roger and Cecily Cranworth, the quarrelling siblings? I wondered.

At that moment, an older, decrepit coach pulled into the drive. A man surely feeling the breath of his seventieth year on his neck moved slowly down the coach steps. A footman had to assist him. He wore a cheap brown coat with metal buttons, coarsely woven breeches, and a greasy periwig.

“That must be Squire Oxberry,” Robinson said over my shoulder.

“How do you know these things?” I asked, marvelling at the valet’s knowledge.

“Cook told me about the Squire. He is the district magistrate. Her Royal Highness will be speaking with him about the highwayman,” Robinson replied.

Just then, the Squire looked about furtively, then moved to stand behind the coach, away from where guests mingled. Thinking himself unobserved by anyone other than the footman who had assisted him, the Squire took the opportunity to relieve himself.

I turned from the window in disgust.

Robinson unpursed his lips long enough to mutter, “He cannot even find a chamber pot, how is he going to find the highwayman and our belongings?”

 Perhaps it would be better if he did not, I reflected.

“Has Viscount Petersham arrived?” I asked while Robinson helped me into my coat. The valet briskly straightened the material across my shoulders.

“He has, sir. I saw him last night while I was standing outside your room when you had cast me out.”

Mentally, I rolled my eyes. I judged I would not hear the end of my crimes for weeks to come. My next statement was guaranteed to further irritate him. “The sad truth is, Robinson, that thanks to the highwayman, neither of us has enough clothing here at Oatlands for our stay. You must return home as soon as can be arranged and bring back additional garments. Later today, Diggie will help me get dressed for the evening. Robinson! Steady, now!”

He was suddenly using what I felt to be excessive force in smoothing out the material of my costly coat across my back. He eased off, but I could sense his anger.

You see, another source of conflict between the valet and me had been raised. Diggie, Petersham’s valet, and Robinson are arch enemies. The roots of their feud go back to the undeniable fact that Mr. Digwood flaunts in Robinson’s face the fact that he, Diggie, serves a viscount. Robinson never refrains from reminding Diggie—and me—that Petersham has often extended the invitation to Robinson to come work for him.

 “Mr. Digwood, sir?” Robinson said, tugging the sleeves of my coat in place. “I should hardly think him qualified to attend you on such an important evening as the Royal Duchess’s birthday fete. You need
me
.”

Chakkri snorted and snuffled in his sleep. I tell you it sounded like a laugh.

I took a step away and finished smoothing the coat myself. “Now, Robinson, you know I would prefer to have you here, but I need you even more to go to Bruton Street. Surely you would not want me to send a footman with word for Ned and Ted to gather our things, would you?” Ned and Ted are two Dorset country boys in my employ. They carry me in my sedan-chair when I am in Town. Robinson considers them bumpkins.

He leveled me with his most severe Martyr Look. “No, that would not do at all, sir,” he said through stiff lips. “I shall go directly and arrange for transportation back to London.”

“Good man,” I said, attempting a smile. “Hurry back.”

“Yes, sir,” the valet agreed. He made quick work of tidying the room—with a trifle more noise than might be warranted considering the fragile condition of my head—while I made the final adjustments to my cravat.

In truth the neckcloth was perfect. I was merely delaying having to appear downstairs as my usual mannered, charming self, when inside I felt like a trip to the gallows would provide more amusement.

I thought about what Robinson said regarding Squire Oxberry’s inability to find the highwayman. Taking in a deep breath, I clung to the idea of the highwayman never being caught with his contraband. My mind took the further leap to an image of the villain going through his illegally obtained goods, and coming upon the blue velvet book. Flipping through the pages and finding nothing more than drawings and words he likely could not read, he would toss the useless thing onto the fire. In my mind’s eye, I could see the flames engulfing Freddie’s letter, transforming it to harmless ashes. Then all would be well.

That thought gave me the courage to bid Robinson farewell, tuck the miniature of Freddie into my pocket and exit the chamber to join the company.

Had I known the true fate of Freddie’s letter, I might very well have made my own hangman’s noose, and put it to use around my fashionably clad neck rather than face what was soon to occur.

I had been correct in that the sapphire stones set in Freddie’s necklace precisely matched the colour of her eyes. The shade was darker than the sky above us, as we glided down the river Thames on a barge. Since Oatlands overlooks the Thames, the idea of an outing on the water was splendid, especially given the warm weather.

No simple flat-bottomed boat, the conveyance had been fitted out with every manner of luxury, from the Persian carpets under our feet, to the numerous, plump red pillows on which we sat, to the footmen to see to our every need, and the sumptuous food and drink. About thirty guests enjoyed the balmy air and relaxed atmosphere.

At one end of the barge, a lone musician played a haunting melody on the violin. At the other end, Freddie and I sat together under a crimson and gold striped canopy.

Sounds blissful, does it not? To tell the truth, half-reclining on a pillow next to Freddie did make my head cease its merciless throbbing. I was even able to partake of a bit of Russian caviar and a drop of claret. More than a drop, I suppose. After the first half hour, one might say I was once more full of good spirits.

Though I managed to push the matter of the missing letter to the back of my mind and regain my cool composure, the outing was not without unpleasant complications.

One of them sat on the other side of Freddie.

“
Mi bella Duchessa
, allow me to tempt you with a cherry or perhaps a slice of pear,” Victor Tallarico coaxed. He indicated a wigged footman standing nearby proffering a tray of fruit.

The Italian is my good friend Lord Perry’s cousin, a cousin at least one hundred times removed, Perry often says. An incurable flirt, Tallarico’s hidden—at least to me—charms are irresistible to ladies of any age. I glared at him over Freddie’s head. He is not above trying to lead the Royal Duchess into a flirtation, and indeed, seems to live for romance. The man’s trademark is a pink waistcoat. Need I say more?

Freddie smiled. “Signor Tallarico, you are everything considerate. I do favour cherries.”

The Italian snapped his trim fingers at the servant who lowered the tray to within Freddie’s reach. In an instant, I perceived that the rakehell meant to lift the fruit from the tray with the intention of placing the cherries to the Royal Duchess’s lips himself.

I elevated myself to a sitting position and raised my quizzing glass at the Italian. He paused, his hand over the tray. Then he smiled, showing off a set of magnificent white teeth, and gave an almost imperceptible nod of his handsome head. I allowed my quizzing glass to fall back to my chest.

Meanwhile, Freddie reached for a cherry and addressed me. “I did so dislike leaving Georgicus out of our party. But I could have no notion of how he would react to being on a boat. I did not want to upset the little darling’s stomach on his first full day in his new home.”

“Georgicus?” both Tallarico and I said at the same moment. I frowned at him. He shot me the very model of a sarcastic grin.

Freddie dismissed the footman and looked into my eyes. “That is what I named the spaniel you gave me for my birthday, George.”

A rush of pleasure ran through me at this thoughtful sign of affection. Even if it was only a dog’s name, she had named him after me, would think of me every time she petted him ...

Tallarico let out an expressive snort. “
Dio mio
, the Beau gave you a canine for your birthday, Duchess? I myself have a unique offering I shall give you later,” he promised in silken tones, causing me to have some most disagreeable mental notions of what he would offer my Freddie. Then he looked at me. “What kind of gift is a dog, Brummell?”

“Exactly the sort her Royal Highness appreciates,” I ground out. “One that touches her heart, I hope.”

Freddie looked from one to the other of us with a smile playing about her lips, lips made even more pink from the juice of the cherries.

“Ah, I see. But of course that is what your Royal Highness would have told the Beau, gracious as she is,” Tallarico said,
winking
at Freddie. Madman!

With studied calm, I looked about me at the gentle movement of the river and the swaying of the trees along the banks. Then I deliberately pinned my gaze on the Italian. “For some reason, you have suddenly reminded me that one of the great marks of the spring season is the well-known song of the cuckoo. How does the old Norfolk proverb go?” I looked off into the distance and begin to recite:

In April the cuckoo shows his bill,

In May he sings, night and day,

In June he changes his tune,

In July away he fly,

In August away he must.”

I turned a bored expression on Tallarico. “June is not that far away, and August will follow eventually. What are your plans, Tallarico?”

The Italian shot me a murderous glance, but before he could challenge me to a duel, or something less civilised, we became aware of a lady and gentleman standing in front of us. Immediately we rose.

Freddie stood as well and performed the introductions. The gentleman was none other than the new Marquess of Kendrick, accompanied by his cousin, Lady Ariana.

While innocuous conversation flowed, I managed to say everything proper while observing his lordship. So this was “Connell,” whom Miss Cecily Cranworth had been charged by her brother to make her husband. Lord Kendrick was short in stature, with blond curls forming a halo about his head. This cherub-like endowment was negated by cold blue eyes set in a hard face. You know the sort of countenance I mean, where the person appears to wear a perpetual smirk. While dressed well enough, he looked as nasty as Roger Cranworth had sounded last evening.

In sharp contrast, his cousin, Lady Ariana, was a wan, wispy thing, thin and almost unbearably fragile-looking. Everything about her was pale, her skin, her hair escaping its knot, her light eyes, and colourless eyelashes.

My musings were interrupted when Lady Ariana artlessly asked, “Where is your husband, your Royal Highness? I have not met him, have I?”

A blush appeared on Freddie’s cheeks.

Lord Kendrick turned sharply and gave his cousin a poisonous look, one she actually cringed under.

“The Duke of York is the military Commander in Chief, Lady Ariana,” I replied smoothly. “He could not be here today.” Not exactly a lie. I did not have to mention
why
the Duke of York was absent, that he chose to spend his wife’s birthday abroad with his mistress.

“Lord Kendrick,” Tallarico said, also aware of Freddie’s embarrassment, “allow me to take a turn around the boat with your lovely cousin.” Freddie smiled gratefully at the Italian.

The marquess nodded his consent. Lady Ariana turned her vacant gaze to Tallarico. She accepted his arm without question and the two strolled away.

Lord Kendrick, far from appearing chagrined at his cousin’s social misstep now that she was gone, appealed to Freddie. “Your Royal Highness, may I, as your neighbour, beg the favour of an introduction to one of your guests?”

“Of course,” Freddie replied. Only someone who knew her well could detect the chill in her voice at the marquess’s boldness. “Whom do you wish to meet?”

“The lady seated next to the Duke of Derehurst, as well as the duke himself. I believe her to be his daughter,” the marquess said, indicating a stately brunette. A footman held an opened parasol above the beauty’s head, no doubt protecting her from the sun’s tendency to freckle a lady’s complexion.

“Indeed, Lord Kendrick, she is Lady Deidre, the duke’s daughter. I shall be sure to introduce you to them both this evening at the dinner party. In the meantime, Miss Cecily Cranworth would be glad of your company, I am sure.”