The Bloodied Cravat (32 page)

I entered silently and scanned the room. Prior visits to the premises told me there was a small parlor, kitchen, and probably two bedrooms.

I moved in the direction of the nearest bedroom. All of a sudden Miss Lavender appeared in front of me, clad only in her shift, a pistol in her hand.

I could not have been more surprised if Prinny announced his intention of becoming a monk. “Good God, Miss Lavender! Are you going to shoot me?”

She tossed her dark red hair which hung down her back. “Should I? You’ve broken in here like a criminal.”

“I beg your pardon. I did knock first.”

She put the gun down on a table and rubbed her temples. “That’s your excuse? Oh, don’t bother to lie. I’ve had a terrible headache. Father came home in a rare temper last night, waving a letter and ranting about you. He gave me a severe set-down over my appearance at the Grand Masquerade and demanded that I never see you again.”

“Ah, as to that letter—”

She crossed her arms in front of her, seeming to realise for the first time the state of her undress. “Father didn’t let me see it, but I read it after he left for Bow Street this morning.”

“Of course you did.”

“Are you her Royal Highness’s lover?”

“You are an impertinent girl.”

“A girl waiting for an answer.”

“No, I am not. Nor have I ever been,” I added, anticipating her next question. “And that is all the explanation I shall give.”

She considered this. “Father doesn’t really believe that you or the Royal Duchess had anything to do with those killings.”

“I am gratified to hear it.”

“Why have you gone to the extreme measure of breaking into a Bow Street investigator’s house? To steal the Royal Duchess’s letter?”

“I prefer to think of it as retrieving stolen, personal property. In point of fact, I have another letter which will explain all. I plan on giving it to your father at the first opportunity.”

Miss Lavender glanced at the clock. “That should be any minute now. Father told me he’d be home between five and half past.”

“I do not think so—” I broke off, the sound of footsteps coming up the outside stairs reaching my ears. My gaze flew to Miss Lavender’s.

She said, “Is the Royal Duchess’s letter necessary to a criminal investigation?”

“No,” I stated flatly.

She bit her lip, then said, “I’ve been asleep all afternoon. I never heard an intruder. Her letter is in the left-hand drawer of the desk. Meet me at the Opera House tonight.”

With that, she hurried back to the bedroom.

I darted over to the desk and opened the drawer.

There was Freddie’s letter.

I grabbed it and dashed to the other entrance of the lodgings, the one that led to the stairway of Kint’s Chop House. Just as I heard a Scottish curse coming from the back door, I opened the front door and raced down the steps to the eating establishment. I had never been inside there. I looked to see only dark wooden tables and a long, empty bar. At the opposite end of the chop house, miracle of miracles, a small fire burned.

 I swept across the room, tossed the letter onto the fire and stood back watching the vellum become ash.

“I’ll thrash you for this, Mr. Brummell,” a voice with a Scottish burr came from behind me.

I turned with the hint of a smile on my face. “Why, Mr. Lavender, what a surprise. I was just going to step above stairs and ask you to join me for a drink. I have a letter I think you will find solves all your problems.”

Two hours later in Bruton Street, I wearily sat down at my desk to write a message for Freddie. I wondered how much to tell her.

I thought back over the confrontation with Mr. Lavender. If you could have observed my meeting with the Scotsman, you might have compared it to two jugglers at a county fair. The Bow Street man studied the suicide letter from Roger Cranworth, a dubious expression on his face. I sensed he was not in the least bit convinced that all had transpired as I would have him believe. Nevertheless, he had no evidence to the contrary now that Freddie’s letter was ashes. Ulga’s death had been ruled an accident. The museum guard had told of my trying to prevent the Prussian woman’s fall. There was no more for Mr. Lavender to do then read me a lecture on muddling Bow Street affairs.

But what to tell Freddie? Ulga had acted out of love and loyalty. I believe she was a good person, but something inside her mind was not altogether right. That something had been provoked when Freddie had been threatened with ruin.

After long consideration, I decided I would never tell Freddie that Ulga had been the killer. Like everyone else, she would believe Roger Cranworth’s “suicide” note. I put pen to paper and in a few short lines, explained Mr. Lavender’s discovery of a suicide note on Roger Cranworth’s body. The mystery of the murder at Oatlands was solved. I went on to say that Freddie’s lost item had been found and destroyed. I consoled her on the loss of Ulga, saying that I had been with the maid when the terrible accident had occurred. Freddie might be suspicious, but I doubted she would ever ask me for details. I closed by assuring Freddie that I knew she would return to Oatlands shortly, and that I hoped I might soon be invited to join her for a weekend.

I just had time to change into evening clothes and travel by sedan-chair to the Royal Italian Opera House.

Ned and Ted were not speaking to one another, their competition over Molly having overtaken common sense. I had to endure their miming instructions to one another.

Inside, I knocked on the door to Lady Salisbury’s box, finding the marchioness there alone.

“My lady,” I said, bowing low. “I hoped to see you here.”

“Hmpf,” barked the gruff-voiced marchioness. “You wanted to hear the opera and hoped my box would be empty.”

“You wrong me!” I sat down, scanning the crowd for Miss Lavender. There she was, seated below amongst the lower orders, striking in a strawberry-coloured gown. She sat transfixed by the music. Onstage, the singer worked herself into a fury of emotion, poured out in song.

“You will be happy to know Lord Kendrick’s killer has been revealed,” I said to the marchioness. I knew I could count on Lady Salisbury to tell her friends what I was about to pass on to her. That way, the story I wanted told would be heard. I proceeded to whisper all about Roger and Lord Kendrick’s highwayman scheme, how they had fallen out, and how Roger had killed the marquess, then how he had killed himself in a fit of remorse.

Lady Salisbury listened while keeping her gaze on the stage.

“Roger Cranworth hardly seemed the type to take his own life,” she said when I was done.

“Yes, well, we never know what goes on in the minds of others, do we?” I replied casually, my gaze on Miss Lavender.

At that moment the Scottish girl turned her head, and made a sweep of the theatre. Her gaze met mine. With a little motion, she indicated I should meet her in the hall.

I looked back at Lady Salisbury, only to find her watching me closely. “You’re right, George, we never do know.”

“May I get you some champagne, my lady?”

“You may,” she nodded.

The idea that she had seen the exchange between Miss Lavender and me crossed my mind, but I dismissed it as fanciful.

Outside in the hall, few people milled about. I obtained Lady Salisbury’s champagne, then lingered, waiting for Miss Lavender to come upstairs.

All at once she was at my side. We moved towards the velvet draperies of an empty box which would afford us some privacy. “You are looking beautiful this evening, Miss Lavender,” I said. “No sign of any headache.”

“Thank you. I do feel better and am enjoying the music.”

I softened my voice. “I trust everything went well with your father this afternoon.”

She smiled. “He had to believe that I slept through your burglary. The alternative was too horrendous for him to consider. And since you provided him with evidence that helped him close a murder case and collect his fee from the Royal Duchess, he must be content.”

“Yes, well, I, er, must thank you for helping me with that letter. I am in your debt. I say, are you listening to me, Miss Lavender? You seem distracted.”

Suddenly, without any provocation on my part, the Scottish girl reached up, placed a hand on the back of my neck and tugged me towards her. She pressed her lips to mine, leaning her body into me. I held Lady Salisbury’s champagne to one side.

Now, when a beautiful woman wants to kiss a man, a gentleman should give in and let her have her way. Some might call it wrong, but I am against that way of thinking.

I decided all this in the two seconds following my first taste of Miss Lavender’s mouth.

After I recovered from being stunned into inaction, I wrapped my free arm about her slim waist and puller her close to me, returning the pressure of her mouth with energy.

Then, just as abruptly as she had begun the kiss, Miss Lavender ended it. Just as surprised as I was when it started, I now stood looking down at her in the dim light.

Her breathing was a bit strained. “That should give Sylvester Fairingdale something to think about and squelch the nasty gossip about you and the Royal Duchess.”

“Eh, what?” I said, more than a little baffled.

I followed her gaze to a box directly opposite, only to see my nemesis gaping at the scene of my kissing Miss Lavender! The expression on Fairingdale’s face was priceless. I daresay Miss Lavender’s ploy had worked.

I turned to congratulate her, only to see the swirl of her long skirts as she hurried down the steps to rejoin the lower orders listening to the music.

I downed Lady Salisbury’s champagne.

* * * *

Though I entered the house in Bruton Street quietly enough, Robinson came hurrying from his rooms. “Sir, where have you been? I thought you said you were going to the opera and would be home after a visit to White’s. Here it is going on five in the morning. You have not been gambling all night, have you?”

“Robinson, I thought by now you would have learned not to ask me where I have been when I choose to stay out all night.”

And, no, I shall not tell you either.

Following me up the stairs, I could hear the valet clucking his disapproval.

To mollify him, while undressing I told him the whole sordid story—minus the exact contents of Freddie’s letter—about Lord Kendrick and Roger Cranworth and finally, about the true nature of Ulga’s demise.

“I cannot believe I never thought of Ulga when considering who might have murdered Lord Kendrick,” I reflected while Robinson went to turn back the bedclothes.

“No one ever notices servants,” Robinson opined. Evidently some of Fanny’s ideas had stayed with him.

Hampering his abilities to prepare the bed for me was Chakkri. The cat slept in the centre of the bed as was his custom, but this time he had his head on one of my pillows!

I stepped forward to nudge him to the side. Awakened from his slumber, the feline rose and stretched, searing me with a look of disdain. “Come, Chakkri, no need to be offended. Lie down here. Let me see you curl your tail into a ‘C’ for Chakkri.”

But the cat jumped from the bed, paused only to shake his hind leg in a gesture of disgust, then hopped onto the chair to sleep.

“Now that was too bad of you, Chakkri,” I said and climbed into bed. “Have you seen him curl his tail into the letter ‘C’ Robinson? He is quite clever.”

The valet’s lips pursed. Then he said, “Yes, I have, sir, but it looked more like a ‘U’ to me. For Unspeakable, or perhaps Unconscionable, or Unsavoury, or—”

“That will be all, Robinson.”

?For my son, Tommy, with love

I wish to thank Steven Lovegrove of Syon House for making it possible for me to have a personal tour of this magnificent building owned by the Duke of Northumberland. Shirley Guest was a charming and informative companion as we explored the wonder of Robert Adam’s creation. Syon House is open to the public from March to October annually. Anyone visiting the London area should not miss this gem of a house.

I also appreciate the kindness of the Oatlands Park Hotel staff while I poked around what was formerly Oatlands, the country residence of the Duke and Duchess of York.

Thank you to my editor, Gail Fortune, for her guidance and patience.

Last, but never least, I want to thank Tommy. You have my love.

Copyright © 2002 by Rosemary Stevens

Originally published by Berkley [9780425185391]

Electronically published in 2012 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads and Rosemary Stevens

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.