The Bloodied Cravat

by Rosemary Stevens

  I stood tall and proud as if we were at Almack’s Assembly rooms, not like the uninvited guest in her bedchamber that I was. “I must speak with you. Privately.”

  Freddie rose. “Privately? We are as private as we can be, George.”

  Damn!

  “Freddie, there are some things better spoken without an audience—”

  She waved a hand. “Ulga is always with me, you know that. If you have come regarding Lord Kendrick and the letter, you may speak freely. Ulga already knows the situation. She was in the hall when I came indoors, and I had her attend me during my interview with the marquess. I trust her. Ulga is loyal to me. She does not keep letters that ought to be destroyed.”

  Again, she used a tone of voice which made me feel like I had been slapped.

  Still, I waited to speak until the maid retreated to the corner and pulled out her knitting. “Freddie, I know that keeping such a personal letter was wrong of me. But cannot you try to understand?”

  She said nothing.

  “My scrapbook is so treasured that I will not leave it at home. How was I to know it and your letter would be stolen? I ask for your forgiveness, Freddie. Pray believe me when I say that is only the great fondness I feel for you that prompted what I know was a selfish and stupidly careless action on my part.”

  “Fondness?” she asked coldly. “You are responsible for making me the object of blackmail, and you call this fondness?”

  I paused a moment. She had been the one to write the letter in the first place. How could she be so icy now? Where was her usual generous spirit? “I give you my vow that I shall retrieve the letter,” I said.

  Her posture remained frigid. “Ulga tells me the gossip in the servants’ hall is that you were in Lord Kendrick’s room tonight without his lordship’s permission. His man, Thompson, questioned the servants as to your identity. I do not see the letter in your hand, so I assume you failed to find it. Tell me how you intend to keep this vow you make me.”

  I closed my eyes. I could not bear to see the condemnation in hers. I could not bear the wall she had put between us, one greater than the wall of her marriage. And mostly, I could not bear to see this unforgiving side of Freddie.

  I opened my eyes and fixed my expression to one of determination. “He must have the letter on his person, or I expect there is a possibility that he took it, or had it taken, to his estate for safekeeping.” No need to tell her the marquess claimed he had a partner and cause her to worry more. “Freddie, I shall do whatever is necessary to get the letter back immediately. Even if I have to obtain a pistol, find the marquess and shoot him dead unless he gives me the letter. On my oath, I shall.”

  “You will do no such thing,” Freddie stated unequivocally. “There would lay the road to certain scandal. And, George, make no mistake, I shall not have scandal brought down on my head, for to do so would bring scandal to the royal families of which I am a part. My brother is the King of Prussia. My husband, lest you have forgotten, is the son of King George the Third.”

  Cut to the very core, I nodded stiffly. “It shall be as you say, your Royal Highness.”

  “Yes, it shall indeed. Do not forget it.” She pressed her fingers to her temples then, the only sign of the weight of distress she was under.

  Ever watchful, Ulga put her knitting aside to dip a cloth in water. She waited with it in hand by Freddie’s bed, worry written across her features.

  “Good evening, George,” Freddie said.

  I reached for her hand that I might place a kiss on it.

  Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides. She pressed them further into the folds of her robe.

  “Good night, your Royal Highness,” I said with dignity before leaving her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Robinson woke me at ten the next morning. We would need plenty of time to ready me for the excursion to the ruins at noon. Glancing into the mirror after bathing and dressing, I thought the company need look no further than my face if they wanted to view a ruin.

  Yes, as you must have suspected, I consumed the entire contents of the bottle of port when I returned from my frosty interview with Freddie. Now the signs of my recent excesses began to catch up with me. My breeches could barely be fastened, my eyes were shot with red, and dark circles had formed under them. I must remember to drink less if I lived through this current ordeal.

  Robinson seemed more dismayed than I was at my appearance. “Sir, if I might suggest a touch of a special tinted lotion I have procured. It would hide that darkness under your eyes—”

  I raised my right eyebrow severely, silencing him. “Do not be absurd. Hand me my dog’s head walking stick, my hat and my gloves.”

  “Yes, sir,” was the gloomy reply. Then, “While everyone is out, do you wish me to try to search Lord Kendrick’s room for your missing letter? Two sets of eyes can be better than one.”

  I smoothed the sleeve of my Persian-blue coat. “True. If you feel you can do so without Thompson knowing, go ahead.”

  “Sir,” Robinson said, his tone somber, “I know it is not my place to question you—”

  “Has that stopped you before?”

  “Perhaps not. But all this plotting and effort for one letter. Is it so very important, then?”

  I looked into his eyes. The genuine concern I saw there caused me to be more forthcoming. “The letter was written by the Duchess of York to me. She would be... flustered ... having her private thoughts made public.”

  Robinson nodded in comprehension. “Just so, sir. This makes all the difference in the world. I shall indeed do my best to help you recover her Royal Highness’s letter.”

  “Thank you. Now, I think the marquess either has the letter on his person, or he may have sent it to his estate for safekeeping. My plan, unless I kill the blackguard first, is to search his house. I gather that after a few hours outdoors in this heat, the guests will be drooping. Everyone will return to Oatlands. It will not be remarked upon if I retire to my room to rest before dinner. Then I shall slip out and ride to Lord Kendrick’s estate.”

  “Would you like me to come with you, sir? Surely the house will be large, and you will need help,” Robinson asked in a brisk tone I sensed he employed to lighten the serious tone of the conversation.

  “No, the absence of both of us would be remarked. I need you here in case anyone should come to my door. You can tell them I am sleeping and must not be disturbed. In addition, someone must look after Chakkri. I do not wish a maid coming in here to clean and leaving the door open where the cat could slip out.”

  Robinson looked thoughtful, sliding his gaze over to where Chakkri stood on a side table monitoring activities from the window. He had been unusually quiet this morning—Chakkri, not Robinson.

  I could almost see the devious plans forming in the valet’s brain. “Robinson,” I said casually, “you do know that if anything were to happen to Chakkri while under your care, you would find yourself wishing to accept Petersham’s frequent offer of employment.”

  Robinson adopted his Martyr Act. “So I have assumed. Your affection for the animal grows with the passage of time.”

  And Chakkri’s affection for me remained constant, unlike some people, whose affections were withdrawn if one made a mistake. I grasped the dog’s head walking stick Freddie had given me last year. Silver, with sapphires for the dog’s eyes, the cane contains a deadly swordstick that can be triggered by a twist of the dog’s head. I wondered if the walking stick was to be the last reminder of her attachment to me. I pocketed the gold-framed miniature of Freddie—yes, I do always carry it—and left the chamber.

  Downstairs in the drawing room, many guests had gathered waiting for the outing to begin. My gaze immediately scanned the room for Freddie. She was not there. Signor Tallarico, in his trademark pink waistcoat—today under a dark, greyish-brown coat—sauntered over to me.

  “That is a handsome-coloured coat, Tallarico,” I said grudgingly. I stood next to a pedestal with a bronze dog statue,
holding my hat, cane, and gloves in one hand. “It almost makes up for the pink waistcoat. What do you call the colour?”

  “Grazie. I do not know if the colour has a name. Stultz made the coat for me.”

  “Stultz? Ah, I imagine the man’s hands must shake while cutting material. That could account for the quality of his tailoring. Have you not been in London long enough to know that Weston is the best tailor?”

  “Stultz is the better man, Tallarico. Don’t listen to Brummell,” Sylvester Fairingdale said, mincing up to us. Today he sported a lime-green coat and canary-coloured waistcoat over forest-green breeches. I could not decide if he looked more like a parrot or an over-sized leprechaun.

  Tallarico grinned, showing off his gleaming set of teeth. “I am glad to know that. Stultz charges less, that is why I have been giving him my custom. I shall see your Mr. Weston immediately upon my return to London.”

  “You pay your tailor’s bills?” Fairingdale asked, amazed.

  “Obviously, Tallarico, with Fairingdale running around telling people Stultz is his tailor, the man is desperate for money,” I said mildly. I raised my quizzing glass to get a better look at Tallarico’s coat. “Still, an excellent colour. London smoke. That is what it will be known as. I shall see that Weston obtains the shade. By the way, what are we waiting for? It is past noon.”

  “La bella duchessa,” Tallarico said. “But you must know she has not come down yet, for you looked for her the moment you entered the room.”

  “Did he?” Fairingdale feigned shock.

  I swung my quizzing glass on its length of black velvet ribbon, ignoring the taunts. “Ah, there she is,” I said, indicating a window. “She has already been outdoors.”

  Freddie’s form, clad in an apricot-coloured muslin gown, could be seen passing by a window.

  Tallarico frowned. “Why is she not wearing the hair ornaments I gave her? The day is warm. She must show her neck.”

  Fairingdale reached and plucked something from the pedestal I leaned against. “What’s this?” he asked, holding up one of the jet hair ornaments about which Tallarico had just been speaking.

  With a cry of dismay, Tallarico snatched it from his hand. “What is this doing here?”

  Unfortunately, Freddie, pale and looking like she had not enjoyed a good night’s rest either, chose that moment to enter the room and approach us. She saw the hair ornament in the Italian’s hand.

  “Oh, there they are!” she cried. “Now I remember placing them there the other day. Victor, I was terribly afraid that I had mislaid your beautiful birthday gift. I am so glad to have them once again.”

  Victor?

  Fairingdale eyed the length of jet appraisingly. “There are two of those? I don’t see another.”

  Freddie furrowed her brow. “I know I put them both there. I shall have the footmen search for the other. Perhaps it fell to the carpet.” She appeared distracted. “In the meantime, I must address the company. There will be a delay in the morning’s outing, I am afraid.”

  Tallarico took one of Freddie’s hands. “The news was not good?”

  Freddie shook her head, tears forming in her eyes.

  Tallarico, Fairingdale, and myself all immediately offered her handkerchiefs. She accepted the one from the Italian. “What is the bad news?” I asked.

  Freddie wiped her eyes. “Fishe came to me this morning while Victor and I were breakfasting in the dining room. Phanor’s condition had worsened during the night. I went to him, but only in time to have him die in my arms.”

  “Mio bella duchessa,” murmured Tallarico. “Do not cry.”

  “Who was Phanor?” Fairingdale asked.

  “One of her dogs, you oaf,” I replied. “Your Royal Highness, may I offer my condolences? Perhaps it would be better to cancel the outing so that you may be private with a close friend or two in your grief.”

  Freddie dried her eyes. “Thank you, George, but we must carry on with the day. Phanor had been sick for a long time. He is not suffering any longer. I must take my comfort from that fact.” She took a moment to compose herself, then turned to the gathering.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she began. “I beg your pardon for this delay in visiting the ruins. We shall be underway within the hour, I assure you. One of my dogs has passed away this morning—”

  Expressions of sympathy ran through the room.

  Freddie held up a small hand. “Thank you. My trusted footman, Old Dawe, will select a special place in my dogs’ cemetery for Phanor to enjoy his eternal sleep. I beg you will forgive me, but I feel the desire to see Phanor laid to rest personally.”

  “We know how you love animals, your Royal Highness,” Doctor Wendell’s voice rang out in the room. “They are fortunate for your care.”

  Freddie’s eyes grew misty again. “Thank you, Doctor. Old Dawe should be preparing the grave as we speak. He will return to tell me when all is ready. I will be but a short while. In the meantime, I have rung for tea and sandwiches.”

  At these words, footmen filed into the room bearing trays laden with food. Conversation became general, with several guests coming up to Freddie to express their sympathy.

  I noted that Lord Kendrick was not amongst the company, but it was Tallarico who gave voice to the observation. He said, “I do not see Lady Ariana this morning. Or her cousin, Lord Kendrick, for that matter. I hope the two have not left the house party. Lady Ariana mentioned to me that they might have to do so.”

  The air around us felt suddenly tense. Usually I consider my words before speaking, but this time, I am sorry to report, distress caused me to be careless. “I daresay that the marquess’s smirk would be something few of us would regret never seeing again.”

  Fairingdale’s gaze flew to me. “As I said last night, Brummell, it appears you don’t like the marquess—”

  But he got no further.

  The sounds of sharply indrawn breaths, shocked gasps, and cries of alarm went around the room. I turned to see what had happened.

  Old Dawe stood on the threshold of the drawing room, dirty, a sheen of perspiration on his forehead. His face was ashen. “Your Royal Highness!” he cried out in an unsteady voice, his hand to his chest. “In the cemetery. There is a fresh grave. Someone tried to conceal it with clumps of grass, but I saw. I did not know what to think, so I looked. There is a body. Not a dog, Duchess!” He took in a great gulp of air. “A human corpse, your Royal Highness!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Freddie rushed to her manservant, Doctor Wendell and I right behind her.

  But before any of us could reach Old Dawe, he collapsed. Freddie called for footmen to carry the elderly retainer to his room. “And get Ulga,” she instructed.

  Doctor Wendell supervised the men. “Yes, Ulga, and Mr. Fishe as well. They are both good assistants to me.”

  Tallarico, Fairingdale, and—appearing from nowhere—Roger Cranworth and I all watched as the footmen carried Old Dawe to the servants’ quarters. Ulga came running down the steps and joined them.

  As they seemed to have the situation in hand, I spoke to Freddie. “I shall go to the dog cemetery and see what has Old Dawe all worked up.”

  “I shall go with you,” Freddie said.

  “Do you think that best?”

  “Yes, I do,” she said shortly. “Victor, will you come as well?”

  Suppressing my irritation at Freddie’s marked attention to the Italian, I tossed my cane on a nearby chair and was the first out the front door. I strode in the direction of the ornamental pool, the place where I had observed the marquess and his cousin argue.

  Coming upon the scene, I observed a pile of dirt and grass under the shade of a pine tree. A shovel had been thrown down a few feet away.

  Freddie, Tallarico, Fairingdale, and Cranworth caught up with me just as I reached the spot. A length of bloodied linen could be seen unearthed from the dirt and grass. Old Dawe had evidently dug only a little deeper, uncovering the shallow grave. The merest sliver of a human shape was
visible.

  Ignoring Freddie’s muffled scream, I donned my gloves, crouched down and began pushing clumps of grass and dirt away from the victim’s face, head, and neck. Blood was mixed with the earth and was caked on the dead person’s skin and shirt. He had been laid in the grave on his side. I felt my heartbeat accelerate as his golden curls came into view.

  The remainder of the dead man’s cravat, heavy with wet blood, hung limply around his shirt, the ends of the length of white linen coming untied. This left his neck exposed, revealing the wound.

  And a square of black jet.

  “Well, there is your missing hair ornament, your Royal Highness,” Fairingdale said.

  The sharp length of jet had been plunged to the hilt into the Marquess of Kendrick’s neck.

  A moan escaped Freddie before she fainted into Victor Tallarico’s arms.

  I shot to my feet. “Give her to me.”

  “No!” the Italian denied me, lifting Freddie’s small form as if she weighed no more than one of his pink waistcoats. “Look at your hands. They are covered in dirt and blood. I’ll take her to the house and have Ulga attend her.”

  The sight of her in his arms unnerved me. “She has never fainted before to my knowledge.”

  “Perhaps your knowledge of her is incomplete,” Tallarico threw over his shoulder as he walked away.

  Sylvester Fairingdale raised a handkerchief—scented, no doubt—to his nose. “Someone certainly didn’t like the marquess.” He eyed me down his nose, his expression filled with meaning, then followed Tallarico.

  Damn Fairingdale. I wondered how long it would be before he started braying to whoever would listen about how much I disliked the marquess. I glanced back to the body.

  “My God, I never thought .... “Roger Cranworth looked to be the next candidate for swooning. He stood shaking, his gaze fixed on the body in the grave. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, making the dark locks of his hair cling to his skin.