The Bloodied Cravat (18 page)

“No, no, no, halfling,” I said, stretching out my hand to help him rise. “I am not the Prince of Wales. You must not bow and scrape to me.”

Lydia Lavender appeared at the door. I swept off my hat and made her a bow. “Good afternoon, Miss Lavender. Is this young man your butler?”

Standing once more, the boy beamed. “Naw, ain’t nothin’ so fine as that!”

“Mr. Brummell! What a surprise to see you, but a nice one to be sure. It’s been too long since we’ve met,” she said. “Please come in. This is Lionel. He came to live with us about a fortnight ago and helps with the heavy work around the shelter.”

The boy looked worshipfully at his saviour.

“Is that so? He does appear strong,” I said earning a bashful grin from the youth. I observed the scruffy, but clean, homespun brown breeches and neatly darned shirt which were both much too small for the boy. I wondered how he came to be a part of Miss Lavender’s household.

Suddenly, the youth’s blue eyes opened to their widest. “Are you
the
Beau Brummell?” he gasped with the large measure of awe managed only by persons of his age. Immediately he answered his own question. “O’ course it’s you, sir. I ‘ear tell the Prince is a fat man, and old too. He don’t dress as fine as you neither.”

I stifled a laugh at this assessment which, if he were to hear it, would propel Prinny to his bed for a week. I crossed the threshold into the house. “Delighted to meet you, Lionel,” I said, netting another shocked look from him.

“That’s enough, Lionel,” Miss Lavender said in firm tones, negated by the way her hand affectionately mussed the top of his hair. “Go back to the kitchens now and see if they need more water pumped.

“Yes, ma’am,” Lionel said. He stared at me a moment more, as if memorizing my appearance, then took to his heels and raced from the room at top speed.

“You are full of surprises, yourself, Miss Lavender. I did not know you housed boys,” I said, removing my hat.

Miss Lavender’s shelter is for women fallen on hard times, or as she is wont to say, “destitute and downtrodden females.” She had used an inheritance from her mother to open the house, but is always in need of funds to keep it running. Her father has informed me he would prefer to see her wed, and himself with a grandchild to bounce on his knee.

She closed the door behind me. “I don’t normally take in boys, you’re right. But Lionel is an exception.”

“Tell me about him.”

“Let’s go into the sitting room. Miss Ashton is teaching a class in mathematics in the front room.”

The Scottish woman led the way, while I availed myself of the view. Not of the contents of the small house, but of the appearance of Miss Lavender’s person. For the Bow Street investigator’s daughter is most attractive. Her hair, which I once had the privilege of seeing loose, is a dark red. If one observes closely, one can see flecks of gold in the strands. Today, she wore the pretty tresses in a careless knot set at the crown of her head. Several tendrils escaped their confinement, running freely down her neck to lie on her straw-coloured, sensible gown.

“Can I get you some tea?” she asked. I noted she wore the spectacle-glasses I had designed for her. Other than being gold-framed, they are simple and delicately feminine. The case I presented them to her in is a different matter. Black velvet, the top features two L’s embroidered in gold thread with two small emeralds—the exact shade of her eyes—after each letter.

“No tea, thank you. I will not stay long.”

We crossed into the sitting room. This is a tiny area cluttered with books. A few shabby upholstered chairs are placed around the fireplace. A dilapidated desk stands in one corner. Indicating I should sit, Miss Lavender closed the door behind her. She is not one to follow the proprieties which state an unmarried female must not be alone behind closed doors with a gentleman.

I waited for her to be seated before taking a seat close to her, observing that the stuffing was coming out on the arm of my chair. “Thank you for seeing me without prior notice. I would have sent you a note, but I have just returned from the country and did not have time.”

Miss Lavender gave me a saucy grin and removed her spectacles and put them in her lap. “Now, Mr. Brummell, when have I ever been one to stand on ceremony?”

I returned her smile. She can be strong-willed and is the most independent female I have ever known, yet I have occasionally felt a warmth for her that her father would not approve. Indeed, the Bow Street man does not wish me to associate with his daughter, so conscious is he of the difference in our stations in life. There is something else as well. I cannot put my finger on what it is, but Mr. Lavender is exceptionally protective of his daughter.

I sometimes wonder about my feelings for the Scottish girl. What would Freddie think of my associating with Miss Lavender?

As her translucent skin glowed like the finest Sevres porcelain, I did not feel like complying with Mr. Lavender’s wish for me to stay away from his daughter. Besides, I needed her help.

“Never in the time I have known you have you been, let us say, overly concerned with the conventions,” I answered.

She laughed in her full-throated way. “Faith, I believe your man, Robinson, follows more of the rules of Society than I do.

I chuckled. “You may be right. What about Lionel? How did he come to live with you?”

Miss Lavender let out a sigh. “His father sold him to a chimney sweep when he was a tot. Lionel’s never seen him since. His mother died in childbirth.”

“Eventually his shoulders grew too wide for him to get up the chimneys, I expect,” I mused in a cheerless voice. “The rest of him is as thin as a peppermint stick.”

“Precisely. He ran away from the sweep when the man wanted to begin selling him for other services.” Miss Lavender’s hands balled into fists.

“Good for Lionel for running away,” I said trying to lighten the mood. Inside I felt enraged that anyone would so abuse a mere child. Though I know in London, many such atrocities take place. “The boy has spirit. What happened after he ran away?”

“Funny you should say ‘the boy’ for Lionel had no name. The sweep referred to him as Boy. Lionel and I decided on his name when I took him in. He’d been living in the streets for over a year. The little soul survived on his wits.”

“And a bit of thievery, perhaps?”

“What else?” Miss Lavender asked me, defiantly.

“And is that how he came to your attention?”

She nodded. “By chance, I happened to be at Bow Street bringing Father some of my special stew when the constable brought in the poor, frightened boy. Oh, he tried to be brave, as boys will when they are half scared to death, you know, Mr. Brummell.”

“Yes,” I replied, thinking of some of the behaviour I had witnessed while attending Eton.

“At any rate, there was something about Lionel that touched me. I see goodness in him, despite the life he’s been forced to lead. Lionel promised he could run like the wind and that he would practice running faster and faster every day so he might one day work for Bow Street. He begged for a chance to help out at the office, but Father said he was too young. That’s when I realised I could use the lad here. Later, as he grows older, he might very well become a runner or even a constable. Father argued with me at first—”

“I should wager he did,” I said.

“But I prevailed.”

“Naturally.”

We looked at one another for a long moment. Miss Lavender’s chance act of kindness in bringing her father a meal had resulted in nothing short of a miracle in a young boy’s life. I reflected that Miss Lavender probably never stopped to think of what might have become of the boy if not for her kindness.

Miss Lavender held my gaze, then pushed a stray lock of hair from her temple. “Now, Mr. Brummell, you did not come here to hear about Lionel. What has prompted your visit? You’ve been at a place called Oatlands, owned by the Duke of York, weren’t you? My father told me someone was murdered there, and that her Royal Highness has engaged his services.”

I was called back from my thoughts. “Yes, that is true.”

She cast me a mocking look. “Seems to me that one member of Society isn’t exactly adhering to good moral practice, are they? Unless murder is suddenly the fashion. But it comes as no wonder to me. As you know, Mr. Brummell, members of the nobility are most often the ones who cause the downfall of the girls here.”

“And I shall continue to drop a word in the ear of any gentleman who I think may feel his conscience eased by making a contribution to your shelter. Right now, though, I need your assistance.”

“Concerning the murder?” she asked warily. “You know I don’t get involved in Father’s business.”

“Oh, this is no concern of your father’s,” I dissembled. “While on route to Oatlands, the coach containing my valet and my things was set upon by a highwayman. The thief made off with several of my belongings.”

“Gracious heavens! Never say so! Who would commit such a heinous crime?” Miss Lavender exclaimed, those green eyes of hers sparkling with humour. She clutched her throat in a dramatic way.

“Sadly, I speak the truth. Ahem, I think it likely the thief took my clothes to a, to a ....” I raised a hand to my brow, unable to get the words out.

“A rag-merchant, Mr. Brummell?” Miss Lavender asked, a smile playing about her lips.

“Yes,” I said with a profound air of tragedy.

She laughed out loud. “As if any of your fine garments could be termed rags!”

“You see the pain I am in,” I said, helplessly.

“Impossible man. What can I do to help?”

“I am not familiar with the sort of person who would accept stolen goods and sell them. I do not know where to begin looking. I thought perhaps you—”

“Might know who the rag-merchants are and tell you?”

I smiled. “One can never accuse you of being slow, Miss Lavender.”

A line appeared on her ivory forehead. “But whatever would you want with the clothes now, even if you were to find them? Surely you couldn’t wish to wear them again.”

I assumed an air of haughty disdain. “Of course not. I shall never wear the garments if I find them. Rather, I wish to see if the rag-merchant remembers the person who sold him my things. If he does, I might be able to trace the highwayman.”

Miss Lavender slanted a look at me. “That’s very clever. But why put yourself to the trouble? Surely there is a local magistrate in Weybridge who will find the thief?”

“There is indeed. But the highwayman has been preying on travellers near Oatlands, the home of her Royal Highness, the Duchess of York. She is my friend. I cannot allow the thief to continue lest she be put in danger.”

“Oh.” Miss Lavender straightened her shoulders. “I see. The Royal Duchess. Of course you would be concerned for her.”

“So you will help me?”

“I’ll tell you what I know,” she said, rising and crossing to the desk.

I admired her, er, posture as she walked. She seated herself behind the desk and drew out paper and pencil.

“Most of the cast-off shops are in Monmouth Street. You could try the scavengers, but I think no barker would have one of your fine coats. Here are the names of the merchants who carry more valuable items.”

I stood next to the desk as she continued to write names and directions. Her slender hands worked efficiently. At last she put the pencil down and handed me the slip of paper. With luck, one of these people would lead me to Lord Kendrick’s accomplice.

“If you don’t find anything at those places, come back and tell me. But unless the items have already been sold, you should find at least one of your things.”

“Thank you. I am in your debt, Miss Lavender. By the way, before I go, I wanted to tell you that I think my chairmen, Ned and Ted, are enamoured of one of your residents. Molly?” I raised an inquiring brow.

Miss Lavender let out an exasperated sigh. “That girl! Are your men the twins I’ve seen hanging about?” She smiled suddenly and answered her own question. “But of course
you’d
have
matching
chairmen.”

“Yes. If they have caused any trouble—”

“No, no, Molly brings it on herself, I’m afraid. She’s an incorrigible flirt, though there’s no harm in her. The agencies I work with trying to find positions for the girls have each told me the same story. They send Molly out for an interview and either the prospective employer will not hire her because of her beauty, or she is hired and then subjected to advances by the men in the household. Invariably, she returns here.”

“And you take her back?”

“I can’t leave her to the fate of the streets,” Miss Lavender said, her amusement fading and her voice rising a bit. “You’ve no idea the horrors awaiting an unprotected woman who finds herself at the mercy of a man—” she broke off abruptly, then drew in a deep breath. “This shelter exists to help those in need, which Molly is.”

I tilted my head and studied her. “You know, Miss Lavender, I do not believe I have ever met anyone with as much concern and caring towards unfortunate girls as you show. Your charity is remarkable.”

“Thank you,” she said, her attention suddenly on putting paper away in her desk.

“I confess I wonder what drives your plans and ambitions for the shelter and your protective nature towards its occupants. Do you somehow feel a sort of kindred spirit with the girls?”

Miss Lavender shut the desk drawer with a trifle more force than was necessary. When she looked up at me, there was a closed expression on her face I had never seen. Clearly she did not want to discuss her past nor her motivations.

Of course, this attitude only made me want to know more. Miss Lavender is so unlike the females of my acquaintance, you see.

“That’s a long list I’ve given you, Mr. Brummell. You’d best start now if you hope to find your fine clothes before the shops close.”

“Just so,” I said, donning my hat and turning to leave.

“Mr. Brummell,” she said, making me pause. “Good luck to you. Let me know if you find your clothes and the highwayman.”

I inclined my head. “I shall.”

A short time later, a hackney coach dropped me in Monmouth Street. I travelled on foot from there, my dog’s head cane with the concealed swordstick in hand, to each of the establishments on Miss Lavender’s list. My presence in this part of London was met with a clamour of attention. While I was forced to endure the calls of the peddlers, “What do you buy?” whom I ignored, the cries of “Please, sir!” from the street urchins I could not brush aside until I ran out of shillings. I was approached by prostitutes smelling of gin, stared at insolently by most of the grubby men, and eyed by slithering pickpockets at every turn.