The Bloodied Cravat
Rosemary Stevens
Chapter One
“I shall kill Robinson.”
A feminine laugh rippled across the drawing room. “George, dear, you will do no such thing.”
My hand released the green velvet drapery I had pushed aside at the open window. I turned from the country view where I had spent the past quarter of an hour willing a coach carrying my vain valet and my valises to appear down the Oatlands drive.
Fixing my expression to one of stern disapproval, I looked upon my most cherished female friend and said. “I assure you, Freddie, I shall throttle the man the moment I clap eyes on him.”
Her Royal Highness, Frederica, the Duchess of York, is the daughter of a Prussian king. I am privileged to call her “Freddie” in private.
She lifted her gaze from the overgrown puppy in her lap and favoured me with an amused tilt of her lips. “Dearest, you could not bear to lose Robinson’s care of your person and clothing.”
“Lose it? I do not have it!” I declared. “Where the devil can he be? We set out from London by coach at the same time this afternoon. At least I think Robinson was directly behind me. There was such a crush of carriages, I cannot be sure.”
“There is your answer, then,” Freddie said in a reasonable tone. “The Season has been in full swing for over four weeks now. I am certain the streets are crowded, and that is what has caused Robinson’s delay.” The furry black puppy looked up at her with adoring eyes as if approving the theory. She rubbed his head affectionately.
Lucky fellow.
Around the room, ample evidence of Freddie’s passion for canines abounded. Dogs forever frozen in time romped across embroidered chairs, were rendered immortal by Stubbs’s precise brush in several paintings, and had been meticulously cast and sculptured into bronze and marble statues and placed on pedestals.
Real dogs populated the room too. In all manner of shape and colour they lounged across chairs, sprawled on the Axminster carpet, and meandered in and out of the room at will.
Freddie is married to a dog as well—a deceitful dog—the unfaithful Duke of York.
Freddie’s delicate hand reached for a short length of rope at her feet. She dangled it above the puppy’s head. He took the end in his mouth and began a game of tug of war. Her Royal Highness’s brown hair, held back by a lilac bandeau which matched the violets trimming her ivory muslin dress, swayed as she gently wrestled with the little scamp.
Watching her—I am one to appreciate beauty—I forgot what she had just said until she looked up at me in expectation.
I called myself to order. “Very well. We have established the difficulty of travel during the height of the Season. Still, I arrived some two hours ago and there is no sign of the vexing valet. Two hours is a long delay. Robinson is up to something. Although he has tried to hide it, I think he has a formed an attachment to some female. He might have attempted to see her before leaving Town, since we are to be here in the Weybridge countryside for five days.”
“Oh my, Robinson and a lady friend. I wonder who she is,” Freddie mused. “But it may not be a woman after all who prevents Robinson from joining you. You must allow that the weather has been warm for the first week in May. Perhaps Robinson merely spied a place to stop for a drink along the road.”
I raised my right eyebrow. “At a common hedge tavern? Not likely. When travelling, Robinson carries his own liquid refreshment, as do I. One cannot depend on innkeepers to have quality wine on hand.”
Speaking of which, I paused in my complaining, suddenly thirsty. I wandered to a side table and poured myself a glass of the Chambertin burgundy Freddie keeps for me.
Not surprised, are you? If you have known me for any length of time at all, you know my motto: “When your spirits are low, get another bottle.”
I drank the first glass at a rate that would bring the condemnation of wine connoisseurs down upon my head, then poured another measure.
The puppy jumped from Freddie’s lap and bounded across the carpet with the rope in his mouth. He leapt upon one of the dogs who slept in the sunshine pouring in from another open window. The sad-eyed hound I know Freddie calls Humphrey declined the generous offer of a wet end of a rope, heaved a long-suffering sigh, and closed his eyes against the rude intrusion of his slumber.
Downing the second glass of wine impatiently, I put the crystal glass back on the table and returned to the window. Peering out, I saw nothing moving, at least, nothing that resembled a coach. Freddie keeps a menagerie of animals here at Oatlands. The kangaroos jumped about in their paddock alongside the ostriches; eagles and macaws flew about the aviary; and three dogs raced by barking with glee, their coats gleaming, ears flapping and tongues hanging out. But no coach appeared.
I began to pace. “I tell you, Freddie, this is the outside of enough. The moment Robinson sets foot in this house, I shall unwrap his cravat just enough to strangle him with his own dirty neckcloth.”
“Now, George, you know Robinson’s cravats are as clean as your own. The poor man would faint if he knew you had so abused his linen.” Freddie’s blue eyes twinkled.
“Corpses cannot faint,” I pointed out.
“Pray, stop your pacing.” She patted a place next to her on the sofa. “Come sit beside me, dear, and we can be comfortable.”
Comfortable beside her? How I would like to be. But there was yet another dog—this one an enormous, curly-haired thing with a face bigger than a dinner plate—and her marriage—between us. Not to mention Ulga, Freddie’s Prussian maid, watching over her charge as if Freddie were still five and ten, instead of a lady over thirty years of age known for her personal integrity and unassailable dignity.
I groaned inwardly and reminded myself that these impediments to any intimacy with the Royal Duchess would only help me maintain my status of an honourable gentleman. Which is what I want, I keep telling myself. Dash it.
“I shall sit down, but only to preserve my strength for when Robinson graces us with his presence,” I said, my voice thick with frustration.
Though I managed to dislodge the monstrous mutt, I did not stop to brush the dog hairs from the sofa before seating myself, knowing my leather breeches would soon be speckled with fur. That would keep Robinson busy once he arrived. Revenge on a small scale is not above me, I fear.
There now, that gave me an idea. Perhaps my fussy valet was late in protest. While he holds the Royal Duchess in affection and respect, he abhors the dogs and, more specifically, the dog hair at Oatlands that always manages to find its way onto our clothing.
Robinson cannot be considered someone who is fond of animals you know, a fact which could only be making his journey to Oatlands more miserable. He carries my birthday gift for Freddie. A gift I had gone through a great deal of trouble to obtain.
Her Royal Highness stretched her arm across the back of the sofa towards my shoulder, an act that immediately caught my attention. She is a tiny lady, and her fingertips fell short of touching my sleeve. I slid closer.
“I am happy you agreed to this house party, George,” she said solemnly, her sweet face inches from mine.
“How was I to refuse when tomorrow is your birthday?” I said in a low voice.
She smiled. “I did plan things rather well.”
“Wretched girl.”
“What was I to do with you moping about Town, refusing to participate in the round of social activities of the Season?”
I looked away. “The Duchess of Devonshire’s death was not a shock, coming as it did after her illness. Yet I was honoured to call Georgiana my friend. She was a wonderful creature, and I mourn her. We are losing England’s finest people, Freddie. First Nelson last October, Pitt in January, then G
eorgiana.”
Freddie leaned forward and patted my hand. “I know, dear. Shutting yourself away from the Season will not bring them back, though, will it? Five weeks have passed since Georgiana died. You must think of your position in Society.”
I looked at her, feeling the touch of her hand on the back of mine warm and soft. We were close enough on the sofa now for me to smell the rose scent Freddie wears. I breathed in the fragrance. As is always the case in Freddie’s company, I could not remain despondent for long. Her character, the very essence of her, fills me with a desire to ... to ...er, a desire to be the best sort of gentleman I can be, of course. Yes, that is what I mean to say. Some of her attributes also work against my maintaining my role of gentleman. Devil take the Duke of York.
Ulga cleared her throat.
I moved back a hair’s width and let out a short laugh. “My position in Society, Freddie? Yes, I expect you have the right of it. For who else is George Brummell but the Beau, the Arbiter of Fashion?”
“You say that disparagingly, George, but think of the elegance you have brought to the Beau Monde,” Freddie chided. “Because of your influence people are actually bathing, keeping their clothing clean, and you know the gentlemen follow your lead in dress. Why, if not for you, men would still be powdering their hair, painting their faces, covering themselves with perfume, and wearing garish coats.”
“Dressing is an art,” I pronounced. “Men of culture cannot ignore my creation of a pleasing, neat, unobtrusive appearance. To do so marks them as dull and insensitive and clashes with the idea of civilised living.”
Freddie nodded encouragingly. “Do not forget, dear, that your gracious manners and good taste in all things, not just in clothing, serves as a fine example for others. Besides which, though you have kept it a secret, I know you have assisted in bringing two murderers to justice. You are far from the useless dandy.”
“My princess,” I said, reaching out to touch one of her curls, “you are too good, teasing me out of the doldrums. But you had best cease your compliments lest I grow egotistical.”
Freddie squeezed her lips together, her eyes lit with laughter. I did not have to be a reader of minds to know she was thinking me egotistical enough already.
“You minx!” I exclaimed. We both succumbed to a fit of laughter.
In the corner of the room, Ulga glanced up from her endless knitting to make certain we were not too happy.
“Just remember our bargain, Freddie,” I cautioned. “I agreed to rejoin Society’s amusements only after you agreed to come to London once the house party is over.”
The smile faded a bit from her lips. Freddie avoids London because of her husband. He lives in Town, and she lives at Oatlands, a long-standing arrangement. “I shall keep my promise and remove to my apartment at St. James’s Palace next Monday. I honour all my promises, as you know, George.”
A quiet overcame us then. Blast! Again I silently cursed Freddie’s husband. Husband? Hah! What kind of husband breaks his marital vows and flaunts his mistress in his wife’s face? Last reports had Mary Anne Clarke, a bricklayer’s daughter, no less, living in lavish style, overseeing at least twenty servants, three cooks, and piles of gold plate. She could frequently be seen tooling about Town in one of her innumerable carriages, comporting herself as if she were the Duke’s Duchess instead of his decadent doxy. Meanwhile, Freddie occupies herself with country activities and charities year after year.
At least the Duke had taken an absence from his duties as Commander In Chief of all England’s land forces to take his paramour on a trip to Geneva. Freddie could come to Town without fear of an embarrassing encounter.
Seeking to change the somber atmosphere, I said, “Who has arrived here at Oatlands so far?”
Freddie rose and wandered to a marble sculpture of a dog with long, silky hair. The gold plaque identified the dog as Diogenes. “Not too many people. Most of the guests will arrive around mid-day tomorrow. Mr. Roger Cranworth and his sister, Cecily, are here. Do you know them?”
“No.” I stood as well and traversed the room to where she had moved next to another statue, this of a dog with shaggy hair. The plate had the name Sundial written on it.
“They live in the neighbourhood and do not go to London frequently. Both their parents are dead.” Freddie stopped and considered the matter. “That is to say, I think Roger Cranworth visits Town, but Cecily Cranworth, though twenty, has yet to have been presented at Court and enjoy a Season. I feel rather sorry for her. She is an anxious thing.”
“Why is she not on the social scene?”
“The Cranworths are landed gentry. They have a pretty house in the neighborhood south of here. Even though they live close by, I suggested they stay here so we could spend time together. I believe Roger Cranworth has hopes his sister will make a match with someone in the county.”
Translation: Roger Cranworth could not—or would not—pay the enormous expense involved in bringing a young girl out into Society.
We strolled to the window, careful not to disturb the slumbering Humphrey.
“I invited another neighbourhood friend, the Marquess of Kendrick,” Freddie said casually. “Actually, I do not know him well, but rather, I knew his father. Having recently come into the title, the new marquess is having alterations made at his county seat. He will stay here for the party so we get to know one another.”
“Ah, playing matchmaker for Miss Cranworth?”
The Royal Duchess shot me a disapproving look. “Of course not. And Lord Wrayburn is to come as well, George.”
“Has he returned from abroad, then?”
Freddie nodded. “I thought it best to ask him, especially after the dreadful way his mother, the Countess of Wrayburn, died unexpectedly last autumn.”
“Er, yes, good idea.” Lady Wrayburn had been a horrid old tartar.
“The house will be full of people, but I was sure to include several of your friends. And we are to be honoured with the presence of the Duke of Derehurst and his daughter.”
I could not prevent my lips from twisting into a wry grin. “Stuffy” Derehurst? Freddie, I compliment you on the array of your guests. We are bound to be nothing if not entertained. What are the plans for your birthday tomorrow?”
“I thought a barge party down the Thames in the afternoon would be pleasant considering the warm weather. Then, in the evening, we shall have a feast and dancing.”
“Will you wear the lace dress I gave you last Christmas?”
Pink tinted Freddie’s face. “That was a very extravagant gift, George.”
“You did not answer the question,” I said, reaching out and stroking her smooth cheek with my finger.
She looked directly into my eyes. “You are too good to me, my dearest friend. I shall wear the dress if it will please you.”
“You always please me,” I replied.
“It grows late,” Freddie whispered. “I must see Cook about dinner.”
As if by an unspoken signal, Ulga struggled against her girth to rise and gather her knitting.
Faced with reality, I could do no more than bow. “I cannot join you for dinner unless Robinson arrives with my clothing. I refuse to appear at your table improperly dressed.”
Freddie nodded, but her disappointment showed. “I shall miss your company, dear.”
Damn Robinson! Where was he?
Chapter Two
I may not have had any clothing other than what was on my back, but I did have my cat.
Chakkri, otherwise known as Master and Supreme Ruler of the Brummell Household, had travelled in the coach with me, snug in his luxurious lidded wicker basket, the new one that I had had lined in a dyed blue fleece that matches his eyes. Robinson cannot be trusted with the feline, wishing as he does for the cat and all his cat fur—so troublesome when attached to clothing—to be banished to his native land, Siam.
Entering the bedchamber Freddie always reserves for my use, I saw Chakkri standing upon his hind legs on a low side table
underneath a window, his front paws resting on the window sill. He gazed outside, muttering to himself, or perhaps he was chattering to the birds. I have long given up trying to discern what goes on in his feline brain. For all I know, he might have been conversing in Siamese with the monkeys Freddie keeps outside.
At my entrance, Chakkri turned and jumped gracefully down to the floor. He sauntered halfway across the room, expecting me to cover the additional distance between us.
Because I have become a slave to his every cat wish since a Siamese emissary gifted me with the animal last autumn, I went along with his plan and strode to where he stood. “Good afternoon, old boy. You did not happen to spy Robinson coming up the drive, did you?”
“Reow,” he replied by way of a greeting. His brown tail swayed in anticipation of a good scratching and, more importantly, his evening meal. He has the most incredible dark blue eyes, which I feel hold deep secrets known only to Eastern mystics. They also hold the secrets of how to best torment Robinson, how to demand the finest of food, and how to commandeer the exact centre of the bed.
I bent and stroked the cat’s fawn-coloured body. Chakkri is the sole representative of the Siamese cat in England. His face, ears, tail, and paws are all of the deepest brown. He is smaller than most felines I have seen, his body lean and muscular, while his fur is incredibly soft.
Elegantly formed as he is, he still has a voice that could drown out an argument in Parliament, and an appetite he demands be sated by the talents of my French chef, Andre.
I settled myself in a comfortable chair by the empty fireplace, Chakkri close at hand. Stroking the cat from head to tail, an act which causes him to purr loudly, I reflected on how much I loved this room, done in dark, masculine woods with touches of burnt red. The chamber has been exclusively mine since I first started visiting Oatlands several years ago. A special anticipation comes over me when I am here, knowing that Freddie is near. I cannot imagine being unhappy within these four walls.
A short time later, Old Dawe, Freddie’s ancient footman, house steward, butler, and major domo all in one, entered carrying a heavy tray. “Mr. Brummell, sir, may I say how nice it is to see you again. Oatlands hardly seems complete without your presence.” He placed the tray he held on the desk and motioned for the maid behind him to deposit on the floor the smaller tray she carried.
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