The Bloodied Cravat

by Rosemary Stevens

  Lionel nodded. “Right. I’ll jest be puttin’ these flowers inside, washing the rest of the supper pots, then when the ladies be at their sewin”—this last was said in a tone of disgust—”I’ll slip out and be off. Remember, sir, I can run like the wind.”

  Once again, I stayed him with a hand. “You must give me your word of honour as a gentleman that you will take no unnecessary risks.”

  The boy glowed at being called a gentleman. “My word on it, sir,” he replied solemnly.

  I studied him a moment longer. He meant what he said. “Very well then. When you have the information, bring it to me at No.l8 Bruton Street.”

  Lionel grinned and backed into the house. Just before he closed the door he whispered, “And tomorrow mornin’ when I see Miss Lavender, I’ll be sure to give her the flowers and your very bestest admirations, ‘ffections and such.”

  I opened my mouth to contradict him, but he quietly closed the door in my face.

  Muttering a silent prayer for the boy’s safety, I returned to the waiting hackney and, eventually, to Bruton Street. The twins were ready with my sedan-chair. After paying off the hackney driver, I entered the elegant vehicle and gave orders for No.20 Arlington Street.

  During the short ride, I reasoned that I had done all I could about the missing letter for one night. Now I must concentrate my efforts on finding out what I could about Lady Ariana and Cecily and Roger Cranworth.

  Specifically, I wanted to know if one of them had driven the sharp length of jet into the Marquess of Kendrick’s neck.

  Chapter Twenty

  I entered Lady Salisbury’s elegant town mansion to find the festivities in full swing. Here, at the height of the London Season, was the cream of Society in all their finery. A press of at least five hundred people crowded the large ballroom and the adjoining ante-rooms.

  The frenzy of parties and entertainments during the Season are designed not only to entertain the bored members of the aristocracy, but also to bring young ladies to the attention of eligible gentlemen.

  Feminine figures draped in the finest and sheerist of muslins, the styles inspired by ancient Greece and Rome, were admired by the gentlemen, myself included. The ladies wore their hair in the Roman style of a top knot with loose curls falling from it. Most attractive. Long white gloves, fans with scenes from mythology painted on them, and, of course, a plethora of jewellry completed their apparel.

  I took in the opulent scene and allowed myself a moment of satisfaction at the attire of the gentlemen. With few exceptions my innovation of well-tailored dark coat and crisp, clean cravat was adopted by the gentlemen. True, some took my advice to the extreme and starched their shirt-points so high they could not turn their heads, but I could only lead by example.

  One whose shirtpoints threatened to cut off his ears thought he could lead fashionable Society. I gave him an austere look, in an attempt to ward him off. I had no desire to speak to him, but my efforts were to no avail. I waited in patient resignation for my certain fate.

  Sylvester Fairingdale, clad in a particularly vile shade of lobster-red, minced up to me. A large, brown enamelled pin in the shape of a horse’s head with tiny rubies for the eyes rested in the folds of his overdone cravat. His fingers, heavy with rings, sported one in the shape of a horseshoe. Toadying to the horse and hunt-loving Lady Salisbury, I thought. The milksop.

  “Brummell, I’m surprised to see you here,” oozed Fairingdale. “I’d have thought you’d still be enjoying the attractions of Oatlands. Never say you have arrived alone. Where is the Royal Duchess?”

  Since Fairingdale has a voice that tends to carry when he so desires, and the ballroom was crowded with people, several heads turned in our direction. I made a slight bow in Mrs. Creevey’s direction, aware that she is a woman who prides herself on knowing the latest on dits.

  “Why, I left the Royal Duchess at Oatlands, as did you,” I replied smoothly, then changed the subject. “Is Prinny here tonight? I did not have a chance to call on him at Carlton House today.”

  “No. Word is an excess of buttered crab at Lady Jersey’s yesterday brought on an attack of the gout. Our Prince does love his food.”

  “I hope he is improved tomorrow,” I said and made to move away, but Fairingdale continued.

  “Will the Royal Duchess be coming to London?” he asked, his voice rising. “I’d think after the shock of a murder at Oatlands she’d want to get away.”

  A battery of eyes looked our way.

  “I am not certain of her Royal Highness’s intentions,” I told Fairingdale and everybody who was listening. “If you will excuse—”

  “Oh, come now, Brummell. You don’t expect me to believe you are ignorant of the Royal Duchess’s plans. What a fellow you are! Why, everyone knows you’re the closest of friends with the Royal Duchess. You acted as host at the Oatlands house party!” Fairingdale taunted.

  Aware of the hard faces, the hard eyes looking at me sideways, over the tops of fans, from under lowered lashes, I pretended an imperturbable poise I did not feel. “Whatever her Royal Highness does, I am certain it will be in line with the manner in which she always conducts herself; that of honour, principle, and kindness. Now, while I would not willingly lose an instant of your company, Fairingdale, I have just arrived and must see my hostess.”

  I walked away inwardly seething, outwardly calm. Friends hailed me, but I did not feel like chatting. Fairingdale was spreading rumours about me and Freddie. Just how widespread was the damage? If I knew anything about Society, by now everyone in the ballroom had heard the fop’s prattling.

  I wove my way through the crowd.

  “Brummell! Good to see you out and about. Care to join me at a prizefight Monday?”

  “Another time, eh, Yarmouth? I know you will enjoy yourself, though. Pick the winner.”

  “There’s a great horse race getting up this Thursday, how about it?” Scrope Davies asked.

  “I shall let you know,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder, but continuing on my way.

  The musicians began playing. The crowd moved back to allow couples room on the dance floor. I could see Lady Salisbury standing in conversation with her husband, James, Marquess of Salisbury.

  “Egad, Brummell, have you heard?” Lord Petersham called out.

  Nodding to several more of my acquaintances, I turned my steps toward the lazy viscount. He and Lord Munro were sipping claret.

  “What is the news?” I asked, wishing for some liquid refreshment myself.

  “We were at White’s earlier, and the word in the club was that Lady Perry’s confinement has come.”

  “Ready to deliver the heir,” Munro put in.

  I believe I told you that Lord Perry is a good friend of mine and is Signor Tallarico’s cousin. Unlike the Italian lady’s man, Perry is devoted to one lady only, his wife. “Is that so, by Jove? What good news, indeed. Perry is most likely beside himself with pride. I shall call on them tomorrow. I might even be able to see the babe.”

  “Has Lord Kendrick’s killer been identified?” Munro asked.

  “Not that I am aware,” I replied shortly and turned on my heel. I did not want to give Lord Munro, who has never been my friend, a chance to begin questioning me.

  Conscious that my movements were being watched by many, I finally reached Lady Salisbury. She is a small woman, over fifty years of age, with a strong-willed face and heavy black eyebrows.

  “Hmpf!” she barked as I made an elegant bow in front of her. “Just in time. James left me for the pleasures of the card room.”

  “Good evening, my lady,” I said. “How fortunate I am to find you with a few moments to spare for me.”

  “Where have you been?” asked the gruff marchioness. “Haven’t seen you at all this Season.”

  “I have been at Oatlands, and—”

  “Oh, I know about that! The whole world knows. I meant before then, but never mind. Come, the dance is ending. We can promenade around the room. Take my arm.”

&
nbsp; “It would be my honour, Lady Salisbury.” She linked her hand through the crook of my arm, and we began to stroll about the perimeter of the dance floor. The look on her ladyship’s face dared anyone to interrupt us.

  “You’d best tell me exactly what’s going on,” she said.

  “I did not feel like participating in Society after the Duchess of Devonshire died.”

  “Pity she’s gone. Too young to die. But that’s in the past. What’s going on between you and the Royal Duchess?”

  With an easy smile fixed on my face for the curious, I said, “I do not know what you are talking about. Her Royal Highness invited me, and several other guests, to Oatlands—”

  “You gave her an expensive lace dress for Christmas, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.” Fairingdale the Tattler.

  “And you’ve been out at Oatlands teaching the Duchess archery with your arms about her?”

  “Yes.” Fairingdale the Lout.

  “And you fixed up some special punch just for her, and gave her one of Blenheim’s spaniels?”

  “Guilty on all counts.” Fairingdale the Soon-To-Be-Newly Deceased.

  Lady Salisbury guided me through to a corner in the refreshment room and looked at me frankly. “You know I’m fond of you, George,” she said in a low voice.

  “My lady,” I said, placing a hand across my heart.

  “Stop that at once! I am serious. My ballroom is teeming with gossip about you and Frederica.”

  “Put about by that horse’s ass—he is wearing his head in the form of a pin in his cravat—Fairingdale. You cannot credit anything he says, my lady.”

  “Everyone else is! Lud, you’re a gentleman, George, and you’ve risen high in the world despite your lack of title or great fortune. Don’t ruin it now with this type of scandal. For, mark my words, you’re sure to be the greatest loser. Frederica might be banished to Oatlands, but she wouldn’t care two straws for that. Loves the country and all her dogs. She’d care about the shame of it, though. Got a great bunch of morals, you know, more than the Duke of York deserves in a wife the way he parades that Clarke woman up and down the streets of London.”

  “You are correct. The Royal Duchess is more than her husband merits.”

  “But that won’t make a shilling’s difference, and you know it,” she insisted. “Men can do as they please, dally with married women, set up as many mistresses as they want and go about Town with them. But it’s different for a lady. She can take a lover only after she has provided her husband with an heir and only if she is discreet. For a lady, to be found out is the biggest crime of all.”

  A mental image of that lethal letter came into my mind. Everything Lady Salisbury was telling me was true, though nothing had happened between Freddie and me. All right, that one

  kiss. But I ask you, was that really so bad? Quite the contrary, it felt—er, in any event, the truth would not matter in the judgmental eyes of Society. They would think the worst and act accordingly. Even Prinny could not continue our friendship if it were thought I had cuckolded his brother. And if I lost his favour, I might as well pack Chakkri up and head for Siam.

  Unconsciously, my hand reached inside my coat to touch the pocket where my miniature of Freddie rested. “Lady Salisbury, you know I hold you in the highest respect.”

  “You have a reputation as a man of impeccable taste,” the marchioness said with a wry little smile.

  I smiled back, then looked into her eyes. “I am most fond of Her Royal Highness and would never wish scandal attached to her name. Our relationship is not unseemly.”

  Lady Salisbury nodded. “Good. What about Lord Kendrick’s murder right there at Oatlands? Why would someone kill him?”

  “I want the answer to that question myself.”

  “Fairingdale says you didn’t like Kendrick. He thinks the nature of your aversion to his lordship has something to do with the Royal Duchess.”

  “Fairingdale wants to discredit me.”

  “That he does. He’s a fool and a boor, but dangerous, George. His tongue wags more than all of Frederica’s dogs’ tails combined. Watch yourself. This is a bad business. The quicker they find out who killed Lord Kendrick, the better. In the meantime, you need to stay away from Frederica.”

  “I cannot promise you—”

  “There you are, Lady Salisbury! I have looked everywhere,” trilled Lady Crecy, dropping a curtsey. “Oh, and dear Mr. Brummell, too!”

  I bowed. “Good evening, Lady Crecy.”

  “Indeed it is a wonderful evening, Mr. Brummell,” Lady Crecy whispered dramatically. “And a special one. Very special. Now, my dear Lady Salisbury, you said I might make the announcement at your ball?”

  “Yes, yes, go ahead,” Lady Salisbury answered impatiently. “I’ll instruct the butler to have the footmen bring out additional glasses of champagne.”

  Both ladies hastened away before I could say another word. I regretted the chance to speak to Lady Crecy about Lady Ariana. I would seek her out later.

  In the meantime, I watched as Lady Crecy got everyone’s attention from her position on the raised platform where the musicians played. “Ladies and gentlemen, Lord Wrayburn has an announcement to make.”

  A murmur went through the crowd. I made my way towards the front in time to hear his lordship announce his engagement to Lady Crecy’s daughter, Lady Penelope. Everyone clapped politely. Lady Crecy beamed with triumph. I imagined several mothers with marriageable daughters, mentally crossing Lord Wrayburn off their list of eligible bachelors with an angry slash of their mental pencils.

  Just as I accepted a very pleasing glass of champagne and drank the contents, I was surprised to see Cecily and Roger Cranworth amongst those wishing a radiant Lady Penelope the best in her forthcoming marriage.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The siblings turned after toasting the bride-to-be and walked directly into my path. I heard Cecily Cranworth say to her brother, “Why not tell everyone your own good news?”

  “Miss Cranworth, Mr. Cranworth, what a pleasant surprise to see you in Town,” I greeted the pair. “I was not aware you planned a visit to London.” Or that they could travel in such exalted circles as Lady Salisbury’s ball.

  Cecily Cranworth looked out of place in her country-made dress. Roger Cranworth, on the other hand, wore a fine coat and seemed at his ease.

  “Good evening, Mr. Brummell. How convenient to find you here. Has her Royal Highness the Duchess of York come to London as well?” Roger asked with a smile.

  “No,” I said.

  “But she will,” Roger stated.

  “Good!” I responded cheerfully, within an ames ace of throttling the next person who spoke to me in that familiar way regarding Freddie.

  “I am happy to see you again, Mr. Brummell,” Cecily Cranworth told me.

  “And I you, Miss Cranworth. You do not often come to Town,” I remarked.

  “Things are different now,” she said quietly.

  Roger looked at me. “After Connell’s death, I wanted to leave the countryside and enjoy London. It’s a way of easing my sorrow.”

  Odd, he did not appear grief-stricken. Just the opposite. In truth, he had an air about him of renewed confidence. Almost like one who has a delicious secret they are just bursting to share. And was it not his custom to leave his sister languishing in the country while he tried to cut a dash in Town?

  “Did I hear Miss Cranworth say you had something to tell everyone? Good news, I believe?” I exchanged my empty glass of champagne for that of a fresh one and raised it. “If so, I stand ready to drink to your success, whatever it may be.”

  Cecily’s brown eyes sparkled. “Roger is to wed Lady Ariana.”

  I trust I kept my expression bland. Roger to marry Lady Ariana? That very first night at Oatlands I had overheard Roger declare he would never marry the girl. Why the change of heart?

  “Cecily,” Roger hissed at his sister, causing her to shrink from him. But when he turned his gaze to me, her chi
n came up in a little rebellious gesture. She had somehow changed, too.

  Roger said, “As the arbiter of good taste, Mr. Brummell, I’m sure you will agree, that it can hardly be appropriate to announce the betrothal at this time. After all, Lady Ariana is in mourning for her cousin.”

  Again, I felt as though Roger spoke as one newly elevated in life. He was engaged to Lady Ariana, but that could not be what was giving him his newfound superior air. Could it?

  I focused my attention on Cecily Cranworth, perceiving I would get the most information out of her. “Perhaps Miss Cranworth would favour me with the next dance.”

  Roger darted a glance toward the card-room. Ever the gamester, he longed to join the players. “Go ahead, Cecily. I’ll find you later. Oh, and Mr. Brummell, we’ll have to get together someday very soon. I’ll send word to you. What is your direction?”

  Little puts me off faster than presumption. The words rude and encroaching crept to my tongue, but I held them at bay. I had my own reasons for furthering our acquaintance.

  For that reason, I gave him the information. He flashed me a grin, then swaggered off.

  I held out my arm for Miss Cranworth. “Would you rather get something to eat than dance? I confess to being rather thirsty,” I said, glancing ruefully down at the newly empty glass in my hand.

  “Yes, please, Mr. Brummell.”

  I retraced the steps I had made with Lady Salisbury, leading Miss Cranworth into the room where refreshments were spread on long tables. Small, round tables with chairs had been set out for couples to sit and enjoy a light repast. With the aid of a liveried footman, I obtained plates of food. Miss Cranworth and I then settled down at one of the tables.

  Adopting an air of tranquility, I talked lightly of this and that until I was certain Miss Cranworth was thoroughly comfortable.

  “I am glad your brother brought you to London at last. What changed his mind?” I asked, then popped a tiny timballe of meat and pastry into my mouth.