The Bloodied Cravat (8 page)

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.

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 Dragoons. 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?”

Before Lady Penelope could answer, her mother’s tongue ran on wheels. “Have you met dear Lord Wrayburn, Mr. Brummell? Of course you remember all that unpleasantness surrounding his mother’s death last year.
Such
a scandalous crime. But here he is today quite recovered,” Lady Crecy pronounced with a fond smile.

I bowed and then addressed Lady Penelope. “I am happy to see you looking well, my lady. Are you enjoying the Season?” This would be Lady Penelope’s third Season. Her first two had been marred by her propensity to sniffle. I had passed along the name of a good doctor, and evidently her ailment had been brought under control for she appeared in fine health.

“I am indeed, Mr. Brummell,” she answered, smiling at me with a new confidence. With her expressive grey eyes and enticing dowry, I felt sure that this would be the Season she would find a mate.

I made Lord Wrayburn a bow. “Your lordship, may I offer my condolences on the death of your mother?”

“Thank you, Mr. Brummell. It is a pleasure to meet you. As you might be aware, I have spent most of my life away from England,” he said.

His mother, you know.

“But he is home to stay now,” Lady Crecy crooned.

As I exchanged pleasantries—when I could, since Lady Crecy dominated the conversation—I noticed the admiration in Lord Wrayburn’s eyes when he looked at Lady Penelope. His regard seemed returned. As the next dance began, the couple headed for the floor under the shining approval of Lady Crecy.

While she watched them, I was able to make my escape. I strolled around the perimeter of the room, watching the dancers and making observations. I wished to keep an eye on Lord Kendrick and his nimble-fingered cousin, Lady Ariana. He bothered me. She saddened me.

Again that one particular snippet of the conversation I had overheard between the two played in my mind. Lady Ariana had questioned her cousin as to how what
she
did—meaning her taking things—was different from what
he
was doing.

After seeing Freddie dancing with the Duke of Derehurst, I finally located Lord Kendrick at the edge of a group of admirers surrounding the Duke of Derehurst’s stately daughter, Lady Deidre. She held court amongst her swains with great ease, flirting with each one equally so that no one would think himself ahead. I presumed that Freddie had been forced into giving the introduction she had wanted to avoid. Worse, I could see no way to talk to him privately while he was busy pursuing his prey, Lady Deidre.

Speaking of introductions, I had been presented to Cecily and Roger Cranworth just before dinner. To meet the people whose voices I had overheard the night before was intriguing.

To my regret, I have known men of Roger Cranworth’s type in the past. A dashing, reckless sort, he would not be above using his dark good looks to connive and scheme. Always on the watch for a way to gain money without much effort, he was a gamester. And he bullied his sister mercilessly.

 Cecily Cranworth had rich dark hair like her brother’s, but unlike him she was attractive in a pretty, wholesome way. Her big brown eyes nervously watched for her brother’s signals. His duty was to provide her with a way to find a suitable husband, but his refusal to give her a Season in London spoke volumes about his character.

Roger saw his sister smiling shyly at a plainly dressed man who approached her where she sat on a chair against the wall. Roger broke from a group of young gentlemen and quickly made his way to his sister’s side. The plainly dressed man saw him coming and reversed his direction. The smile faded from Miss Cranworth’s face to be replaced by a look of apprehension. Roger Cranworth spoke in his sister’s ear. A moment later, she got up and moved towards Lord Kendrick, no doubt on her brother’s orders.

Toying with my watch chain, I wondered again what was going to happen when Roger finally realised his sister had no chance with the puffed-up Marquess of Kendrick.