The Bloodied Cravat

by Rosemary Stevens

  Freddie’s face reflected contrition. “Oh, dear, George, I should have known better than to invite Lord Kendrick. I refused to listen to neighbourhood gossip though, feeling it churlish to hold a party and not invite him.”

  “What gossip?”

  Agitated, Freddie rose and began to slowly pace. I stood at once.

  “The previous Marquess was not a kind man. True, he offered his niece, Lady Ariana, a home about nine years ago, but that was because of some ghastly rumours that were circling about her father, the old marquess’s brother. The previous marquess wanted to stop the gossip at any cost. His brother was a widower living with his daughter, Lady Ariana, in Bath. I—I do not know quite how to say this, George. The gossip was that the man—the man had been using Lady Ariana in some abominable ways.”

  I put my hand on Freddie’s arm, noticing she was trembling. “You do not have to say any more. Unfortunately, I comprehend your meaning.”

  Freddie nodded. “At first, when the old marquess brought the girl to live with him I thought it an act of kindness on his part. But, over time when he did nothing for the girl, ignoring her existence in his household, I came to realize he merely took her from his brother—who died a few years ago, by the way—to squelch the rumours.”

  “Family honour, eh?”

  “Such as it were. Also, the old marquess was very tight-fisted with his money. He was single-minded and could think of nothing but getting the most out of his land.”

  “That is strange. His son does not seem the type interested in crop rotation.”

  “Oh, no, not the new marquess. His elder brother, who would have been marquess had he lived, was the one like his father. Maynard was his father’s pride and joy, sharing as he did the old marquess’s love of money and the land. Connell, as a second son, was left to find a way for himself in the world. His father gave him a miserly allowance and refused even to buy him a commission in the army.”

  Ah, I thought, and it was not unheard of for a younger son, eager for money, to take to the roads and rob coaches. Though, in my mind’s eye, I had trouble picturing Lord Kendrick possessing the courage to carry out such acts. However, he could have an accomplice. To Freddie I asked, “How did the heir—Maynard, did you say?—die?”

  “Yes, Maynard. A terrible tragedy. He was struck by lightning while riding out in the fields. The old Marquess was literally destroyed by his son’s death. He died himself of an apparent apoplexy less than a week later. That is how Connell came into the title about a year ago.”

  Coincidentally about the same time the robberies had all but ceased. That fit. Now that Connell had the title and money, his need to continue the robberies would have ended.

  “A small man with a small mind not up to the responsibilities of being a peer of the realm,” I mused. How lucky for Lord Kendrick, long kept on a tight allowance, to unexpectedly find himself a wealthy marquess.

  We fell silent for a moment, until Freddie said, “Perhaps I should not have told you all that, George. Repeating country gossip, or any gossip, is not normally my nature.”

  “I know that,” I assured her. “This is different.”

  “And, oh, great heavens, George, I promised to introduce Lord Kendrick to the Duke of Derehurst and his daughter. How can I do so now in good conscience knowing Lord Kendrick to be a man without honour?”

  “In a manner that lets the duke know you are merely performing the introductions out of a sense of duty as hostess.”

  “I expect that will have to be the way. I have no time to do otherwise.”

  “It will turn out all right, Freddie. Telling Lord Kendrick he is no longer welcome here—and believe me, I shall be at your side when you do so—can wait until tomorrow. As I said, we do not wish to spoil your birthday celebrations today.”

  Freddie retired to her room, leaving me to ponder what the Marquess of Kendrick would do when thrown out on his ear. His early departure was bound to cause repercussions among the guests. He would blame Lady Ariana for their banishment from Oatlands and his lost opportunity to court a duke’s daughter. I hoped this would not cause Lord Kendrick to follow through on his threat to have the girl thrown into a madhouse.

  What about Cecily Cranworth? Would she be forced by her brother to wed the aging Squire because she failed to wring a proposal from Lord Kendrick?

  Whatever the outcome, I had a feeling it would not be good.

  I did not know then just how bad it could be.

  Chapter Nine

  The ivory-painted square ballroom, seldom used at Oatlands, on this special evening blazed with candlelight. Old Dawe, bless him, had perhaps been overzealous in his desire to pay tribute to his beloved mistress on her birthday. Additional crystal chandeliers had been brought into the room, making the ivory walls glow and the numerous large, gilt-framed mirrors sparkle and glitter with light faceted by the crystals.

  Colourful flowers perfumed one’s senses, their number abundant as Freddie had endeavoured to bring nature indoors. The transition between nature and the indoors flowed smoothly, because the ballroom was on the ground floor. Four sets of double glass doors were open to the night air.

  Mellifluous tones filled my ears with the music from the quartet of musicians hired. The chatter of guests, whose number had swelled to close to one hundred, competed with the notes written by Bach. A royal guest arrived while we were enjoying drinks before dinner.

  The Prince of Wales, son of King George III, brother-in-law to Freddie, and one of my closest friends, descended upon us with a group of his cronies to wish Freddie the joys of the day. He presented her with a diamond and sapphire bracelet during the lavish dinner we spent above two hours savouring.

  The deep blue gems reminded me of a certain pair of accusing eyes. I made sure a servant took a plate upstairs to Chakkri. Lobster patties, his favourite and mine, had nestled among the delicacies. I imagined the cat pacing and muttering to himself until his dinner arrived. You know how particular the feline is about his food. He is even more discriminating than the Prince.

  As for the Prince’s decision to attend, I could only admire him for it. Someone had to represent the Royal Family on this occasion since the Duke of York chose to absent himself.

  The Prince also showed a sensitivity to feeling that I approved when he left his “wife,” Mrs. Fitzherbert, in London. While a good influence over Prinny, Mrs. Fitzherbert’s true status can only be questioned, since the Prince married Caroline of Brunswick eleven years ago. As a whole, the Royal Family does not acknowledge Mrs. Fitzherbert. To have brought her to Oatlands would have put Freddie in an uncomfortable position.

  In the ballroom with the assistance of Old Dawe, I presided over a table laden with a large bowl of a specially made liqueur. “Ladies and gentlemen, if I might interrupt the festivities for one moment.”

  Silence fell across the room. Guests moved closer to where I stood and waited expectantly. I smiled at Freddie and gestured for her to join me. She was a vision of regal beauty in the lace dress I had given her. I could hardly take my gaze from her. Yet, every time I did look at her, the situation regarding the missing letter niggled at the back of my brain, worrying me. I was beginning to feel like I was trapped at the bottom of a hill with a tremendous rock perched somewhere above me, ready to roll down the grass and crush me. Repeatedly, I had to push the matter of the letter from my thoughts.

  Freddie at my side, I spoke. “Earlier today I began the preparation of a liqueur I formulated especially in the Royal Duchess’s honour. Tonight we shall drink to her.”

  A murmur of expectation ran around the room. The Prince of Wales cleared his throat. “I say, Brummell, you’ve never made a particular concoction for me. I find I’m quite out of sorts with you.”

  I laughed and the rest of the company followed suit. Prinny loves food and drink, his excesses continually making themselves known in the form of his ever-increasing girth. The Prince joked, I knew, but nevertheless it would not do to give him even a hint of an insult. I
am his friend and have been for many years. Indeed, if not for him who knows if I would ever have reached the heights I have risen to in Society? But one must remember never to take a liberty with Prinny, however close the relationship.

  “Why, your Royal Highness,” I pronounced, “I am saving a secret recipe to prepare on your birthday in August. We shall call it Prince’s Punch, eh?”

  The Prince beamed at my words. “Capital idea. Mayhaps we won’t need to wait until my birthday. Another occasion might arise which would require a special celebration.”

  A tremor of uneasiness fluttered across the room. Everyone knows Prinny burns with the desire to be named Regent. King George III’s bouts with madness are common knowledge. However, every time Prinny tries to persuade Parliament to give him governing powers, his father’s mental condition makes a remarkable turn for the better, frustrating his son’s plans.

  The fact that the Prince has those two wives might also be a factor in delaying a regency.

  In any event, the Prince went on as if there had been no moment of awkwardness. “Meantime, tell us what you have prepared for Frederica.”

  Freddie smiled. About to name the ingredients of the liqueur, I heard the voice I least wanted to hear in all the world ring out over the gathering.

  “Do explain in great detail, Brummell, in case we must give a report to our physicians later.” Sylvester Fairingdale laughed at his own joke, but not many joined him. This spurred him on to say, “Go on, then, you are acting as host here tonight, it seems.”

  Freddie coloured at the insinuation that I took her husband’s place.

  This sly remark is typical of Fairingdale. The fop considers his own taste in clothing far superiour to mine. He envies my position in Society and never misses an opportunity to try to discredit me in any way possible. The barb about my acting as host was particularly inflammatory.

  I chose to ignore him, though I noticed to my chagrin that whispering began. I spoke to the gathering at large.

  “I shall only give you an idea of the contents, as the exact ingredients will only be given to her Royal Highness. Brandy, lemons, currants, cloves, and a little cinnamon make it up,” I said, while Old Dawe filled crystal glasses and passed them around. I waited until I caught Victor Tallarico’s gaze. I looked at him deliberately and said, “I call it Perfetto Amore, because the Royal Duchess is such a gracious and generous lady. She is loved by all who know her.”

  “Here! Here!”

  Tallarico’s eyes burned with what I thought was a grudging admiration, but there was a hint of fury in their depths that I had chosen to name the drink in his language. He wore a dress sword, and I would wager at the moment he wished he could employ it on me.

  I accepted two glasses from Old Dawe and handed one to Freddie. In ringing tones, I said, “To her Royal Highness, the Duchess of York, on her birthday. May there be many more birthdays to come so we might continue to enjoy the honour of her company.”

  “To her Royal Highness!” the company exclaimed.

  “Thank you,” Freddie said modestly.

  Gloved hands held crystal glasses high in the air before the guests sipped the drink and then offered their compliments. But then, thoughts of the missing letter—and the Duke of York—intruded on my happiness. I took a large swallow of the liqueur.

  “Delicious,” the Prince declared. “I’ll have another glass, then lead Frederica out for the first dance.”

  Curious glances slid my way. My face remained impassive while I sipped my drink. Mentally I prayed a sudden, ferocious attack of the gout would strike Prinny.

  Yes, I wanted to be the first to dance with her. You probably suspected that. But, you are correct. It is not my place to do so. The Prince is the highest-ranking gentleman in the room, and Freddie’s brother-in-law. He holds the right to the first dance.

  I extended my glass to Old Dawe who refilled it with what I interpreted as a sympathetic look.

  The music began and Prinny took Freddie from my side. I was about to look for a partner when I was distracted.

  “This liqueur is superb, Brummell.” Lord Petersham, whom I have known for ages, sauntered up with his constant companion, Lord Munro. Petersham is tall, dark-haired and angular. Munro is smaller, with thin blonde hair. The two frequently quarrel, but cannot remain apart. Last autumn, when Bow Street suspected Lord Petersham of murder and Lord Munro appeared to have supplied Bow Street with damaging evidence against the viscount, their break seemed permanent. However, their bond is strong, and they resolved their differences last Christmas.

  “Good evening, Petersham, Munro,” I said.

  Lord Munro gave me a curt nod. He does not like me. Too bad of him, really.

  I addressed the viscount. “Petersham, I must thank you for the use of Diggie this evening. His assistance in helping me dress is appreciated.”

  Petersham favoured me with his winning smile. “Robinson won’t be happy. Say, your hair looks different. Diggie responsible for that?”

  “Yes, I have let it grow, and Diggie suggested the Apollo style.”

  “Are you going to continue wearing it like that?” Petersham asked.

  “I might.”

  “O-ho, you’re risking Robinson’s wrath!”

  “I cannot see this concerns us, Charles,” Lord Munro said to Petersham, his gaze frosty.

  Petersham looked uncomfortable, but quickly rallied. He is too lazy to remain upset for long. “By the way, what’s the news on this highwayman everyone’s talking about? Stole your things, did he?”

  “Yes. Apparently he has struck in the county several times over the past years,” I informed him.

  “Egad, what if the highwayman had attacked our coach, Harold,” Petersham said to Munro. “Why, I’ve got a dozen of my best snuff boxes with me. What if the blackguard had taken them?”

  Lord Munro made soothing noises, then looked at me as if I were responsible for upsetting Petersham.

  “I am certain the person responsible will be caught in time,” I said reassuringly, though I felt far from certain that Squire Oxberry would help. What had he done so far?

  Sylvester Fairingdale strode up. “Tsk tsk, Brummell. Had some of your clothing pilfered, did you? How will you go on without your additional garments—No, no, I’ve got the answer! It won’t matter one whit that some of your things were stolen. All of your costumes look the same. You can wear the same one every day and no one will be the wiser.”

  I raised my quizzing glass and slowly studied Fairingdale’s attire through it. Tonight he was all puce and chartreuse. Ugh! If Fairingdale were a good man, I would feel compelled to offer some discreet advice. Since he is a scheming care-for-nobody, altruistic thoughts did not enter my head. “Ah, but Fairingdale, I do not wear costumes, as some do. I wear simple clothing, cut to perfection.”

  Fairingdale possesses an elongated neck. That combined with the height of his neckcloth causes him to look down his nose at those around him, me in particular. “Simple?” He drawled the word. “That lace dress you gave the Duke of York’s wife is anything but simple, I should say. Even you must agree.”

  Damn and blast! Tallarico had been talking. How else did Fairingdale know I had given Freddie that dress? Who knew what rumours about the Royal Duchess and me were, at this very moment, flying about the room?

  And if the gossipmongers were hard at work over the dress, what would happen if they learned the contents of the missing letter? I looked at Freddie, dancing with the Prince, and felt a wave of dread.

  Chapter Ten

  Munro drew in a sharp breath. “You gave the Royal Duchess that dress, Brummell?”

  Petersham pulled a gold initialled snuff box from his pocket and took a pinch, appearing bored.

  Fairingdale looked smug.

  I leveled the fop with a pitying expression. “When one is the Arbiter of Fashion, one’s talent for design is often appreciated by royalty. Such was also the case when I helped the Prince of Wales plan uniforms for the l0th Light Dragoo
ns. But, do not worry, you could not be expected to know that, Fairingdale.”

  “Fie! People do look to me for style!” His face turned the colour of his puce coat. His eyes blazed with anger. “I’ll take you down from your exalted post, wait and see. You are nothing more than the son of a secretary.”

  “Secretary and confidential advisor to the late Lord North, a former Prime Minister of England, to be precise,” I replied in a blasé tone. “A highly respected and coveted position.”

  “Mushroom,” Fairingdale spat.

  Mushroom, you know, is slang for an upstart, someone above his station in life.

  I frowned. “Were there? I do not recall seeing any on the dinner table, and I do delight in them, especially in wine sauce.”

  Petersham snickered. Munro looked thoughtful.

  Fairingdale glared down his nose, then turned on his heel and minced away.

  “I cannot think why the Royal Duchess invited him,” I remarked.

  “I don’t think she could have, Brummell,” Petersham said. “He came along with Lord Wrayburn. Fairingdale’s still living at Wrayburn House, don’t you know.”

  “No, I did not. I have not met Lord Wrayburn. Which is he?”

  Petersham indicated a tall, thin, man, the epitome of an Englishman, a bit pinched-looking. He was past his fortieth year with dark blond hair. He stood conversing with Lady Crecy, a woman anxious to marry off her daughter, Lady Penelope.

  My mistake was looking their way. Lady Crecy immediately perceived my gaze and waved a pudgy hand in the air, commanding me to join her. “Excuse me, Petersham, Munro,” I said.

  Arriving at her side, I bowed and was greeted with much enthusiasm and a bouncing of Lady Crecy’s too-tight grey curls. “Oh, Mr. Brummell, how delightful to see you! Here, Penelope, make a curtsey to Mr. Brummell, what can you be thinking? Do not mind her, my dear man, she is awed at seeing you again! She remembers well when you danced with her last autumn at my little party, do you not, Penelope?”