The Bloodied Cravat (2 page)

“Ah, playing matchmaker for Miss Cranworth?”

The Royal Duchess shot me a disapproving look. “Of course not. And Lord Wrayburn is to come as well, George.”

“Has he returned from abroad, then?”

Freddie nodded. “I thought it best to ask him, especially after the dreadful way his mother, the Countess of Wrayburn, died unexpectedly last autumn.”

“Er, yes, good idea.” Lady Wrayburn had been a horrid old tartar.

“The house will be full of people, but I was sure to include several of your friends. And we are to be honoured with the presence of the Duke of Derehurst and his daughter.”

I could not prevent my lips from twisting into a wry grin. “Stuffy” Derehurst? Freddie, I compliment you on the array of your guests. We are bound to be nothing if not entertained. What are the plans for your birthday tomorrow?”

“I thought a barge party down the Thames in the afternoon would be pleasant considering the warm weather. Then, in the evening, we shall have a feast and dancing.”

“Will you wear the lace dress I gave you last Christmas?”

Pink tinted Freddie’s face. “That was a very extravagant gift, George.”

“You did not answer the question,” I said, reaching out and stroking her smooth cheek with my finger.

She looked directly into my eyes. “You are too good to me, my dearest friend. I shall wear the dress if it will please you.”

“You always please me,” I replied.

“It grows late,” Freddie whispered. “I must see Cook about dinner.”

As if by an unspoken signal, Ulga struggled against her girth to rise and gather her knitting.

Faced with reality, I could do no more than bow. “I cannot join you for dinner unless Robinson arrives with my clothing. I refuse to appear at your table improperly dressed.”

Freddie nodded, but her disappointment showed. “I shall miss your company, dear.”

Damn Robinson! Where was he?

I may not have had any clothing other than what was on my back, but I did have my cat.

Chakkri, otherwise known as Master and Supreme Ruler of the Brummell Household, had travelled in the coach with me, snug in his luxurious lidded wicker basket, the new one that I had had lined in a dyed blue fleece that matches his eyes. Robinson cannot be trusted with the feline, wishing as he does for the cat and all his cat fur—so troublesome when attached to clothing—to be banished to his native land, Siam.

Entering the bedchamber Freddie always reserves for my use, I saw Chakkri standing upon his hind legs on a low side table underneath a window, his front paws resting on the window sill. He gazed outside, muttering to himself, or perhaps he was chattering to the birds. I have long given up trying to discern what goes on in his feline brain. For all I know, he might have been conversing in Siamese with the monkeys Freddie keeps outside.

At my entrance, Chakkri turned and jumped gracefully down to the floor. He sauntered halfway across the room, expecting me to cover the additional distance between us.

Because I have become a slave to his every cat wish since a Siamese emissary gifted me with the animal last autumn, I went along with his plan and strode to where he stood. “Good afternoon, old boy. You did not happen to spy Robinson coming up the drive, did you?”

“Reow,” he replied by way of a greeting. His brown tail swayed in anticipation of a good scratching and, more importantly, his evening meal. He has the most incredible dark blue eyes, which I feel hold deep secrets known only to Eastern mystics. They also hold the secrets of how to best torment Robinson, how to demand the finest of food, and how to commandeer the exact centre of the bed.

I bent and stroked the cat’s fawn-coloured body. Chakkri is the sole representative of the Siamese cat in England. His face, ears, tail, and paws are all of the deepest brown. He is smaller than most felines I have seen, his body lean and muscular, while his fur is incredibly soft.

Elegantly formed as he is, he still has a voice that could drown out an argument in Parliament, and an appetite he demands be sated by the talents of my French chef, Andre.

I settled myself in a comfortable chair by the empty fireplace, Chakkri close at hand. Stroking the cat from head to tail, an act which causes him to purr loudly, I reflected on how much I loved this room, done in dark, masculine woods with touches of burnt red. The chamber has been exclusively mine since I first started visiting Oatlands several years ago. A special anticipation comes over me when I am here, knowing that Freddie is near. I cannot imagine being unhappy within these four walls.

A short time later, Old Dawe, Freddie’s ancient footman, house steward, butler, and major domo all in one, entered carrying a heavy tray. “Mr. Brummell, sir, may I say how nice it is to see you again. Oatlands hardly seems complete without your presence.” He placed the tray he held on the desk and motioned for the maid behind him to deposit on the floor the smaller tray she carried.

“Good to see you as well, Old Dawe. You are looking fit enough to keep up with the dogs’ antics. And they appear hideously spoiled as usual.”

A small man past his sixtieth year and fiercely loyal to Freddie, Old Dawe smiled. “One must love dogs to serve at Oatlands.” He turned to the maid, indicating she could leave.

“Tell me, has there been any word from Robinson?” I asked.

Old Dawe shook his head. “No, sir, but I shall send him to you immediately upon his arrival. Now that I have brought your dinner, is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Thank you, no.”

Old Dawe bowed his head and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

Chakkri had already begun his meal. He has a great fondness for roasted chicken in wine sauce, and thus relished the serving given him. He turned his nose up at the artichokes, but licked the olives and nibbled at the potatoes, which had been boiled, beaten with cream, butter, and salt, and placed into scallop shells.

Savouring my own meal, I smiled when I noted that Freddie had ordered Chakkri’s food served on floral-designed china rather than her regular service made by Flight and Barr. The latter is a deep yellow and white with gold trim, and sports panels of dogs painted in shades of brown by John Pennington, the artist famous for his canine figures. How like Freddie to be so considerate of Chakkri’s sensibilities.

After Chakkri and I finished our meals, he began the long, meticulous process of cleaning himself. He licked his right paw well, then used it to wash around his whisker pad. I approve of his fastidiousness.

I alternately paced, tried to settle down and read a copy of
The Gentleman’s Magazine
, and gazed out the window looking for Robinson until it grew too dark for me to see.

Feeling like a prisoner—my bars being the wrong set of clothing—I finally could not stand being away from Freddie any longer. Judging that dinner would be long over, I decided to see if the Royal Duchess had returned to her chamber. Well, actually, to her private sitting room. Not even I would dare hazarding Ulga’s wrath by attempting to visit her mistress’s bedchamber.

Leaving Chakkri, his belly full of chicken, comatose in the exact centre of my bed, I exited the room, closing the door firmly behind me. I did not want to risk the cat wandering the house and falling out of an open window, or embroiling himself in a skirmish with one of the dogs. He cannot abide dogs.

Standing outside my door, I peered down the long corridor. Not a soul was in sight. Freddie’s private sitting room and chamber are at the very opposite end of mine. In between are several other guest chambers. I expect you can imagine why the Royal Duchess feels the need to put so much distance between the two of us.

At any rate, I began walking down the dimly lit hall and was almost halfway to my goal when suddenly I had to throw out my hands and grasp the corner of a narrow table placed against the wall to keep from falling. Peering down to see what had tripped me, I saw Humphrey, stretched across the carpet looking up at me with a woeful expression. Now that the sun had set, he had abandoned his position near the drawing room window in favour of the corridor. I had disturbed his sleep. One thing you can always count upon at Oatlands is tripping over dogs in the most unlikely of places.

Concerned the toe of my boot might have hurt the canine, I bent and petted him, receiving a thumping of his tail on the floor as reassurance that he had not been offended. I rose, about to continue on my way before Humphrey could favour me with a bit of dog drool, when my attention was caught by the sounds of a heated argument coming from within the nearest guest bedchamber.

“ ... You will, Cecily, and that is my final word,” a male voice pronounced.

“Roger, only listen to me,” a quavering female voice pleaded. “There was an understanding between Connell and me once. I did think he would marry me, though there was never a formal betrothal. You know all that changed when the Marquess of Kendrick suffered a fatal heart seizure after his elder son’s tragic death, and Connell unexpectedly inherited the title. Connell has all but turned his back on me since then.”

“Then you must find a way to engage his attention! Damnation, sister, what’s the matter with you? You’re pretty enough in your own way, I suppose. Have you no feminine wiles? Oh, for God’s sake, stop twisting your hands that way. Put them to better use, on his lordship’s person for example.”

This last was said in a scornful tone, especially the words “his lordship’s” that, along with the rest of his speech, made me take an instant dislike of the man I could not see. I knew I should not linger and listen to any more of what was clearly a private conversation, but, alas, I am only human.

All right then, I am someone who has an insatiable need to know about my fellow members of Society. I am no gossip, as Gossip is a known Liar, but rather I am a gatherer of secrets, scandals, and salacious bits of information. Satisfied? Beyond my bon vivant exteriour, I do
care
about people, some more than others.

“Roger, my dear brother, if only you could see your way clear to giving me a Season, I shall try to find a proper husband. I know you frequent London yourself, so why cannot I—”

“Cecily, try not to be such a ninnyhammer! Crops have been bad. I’ve hardly had enough money to throw the dice with my friends. I’ve only been to the races at Newmarket twice so far this year. This coat I’m wearing was made last spring, for God’s sake. I can’t afford the cost of a Season in London for you. The rooms we would need to let, the gowns and fripperies you’d need. No, it’s out of the question.”

“If you are so anxious to align our families, why not marry Connell’s cousin, Lady Ariana? She loves you.”

“Marry that ghost of girl? I most certainly won’t,” he said with contempt. “No, Cecily, it is up to you. We’re lucky to be neighbours to the Royal Duchess and of good birth, else we wouldn’t have been invited to this party. And, listen to me closely, this party is your last chance to make Connell—
his lordship
—I should say, pop the question.”

“Wh-what do you mean my last chance?”

Roger’s voice turned sly. “I have received an offer for your hand from Squire Oxberry.”

Cecily gasped. “Squire Oxberry! Roger, you cannot be serious. That is like something out of a gothic novel!”

“The matter is in your hands, sister. I need the money marriage settlements would bring. The Squire has named a generous sum. Besides, when you marry, that bequest from Grandmama will finally be released. Face it, Cecily. You must wed, and you have two choices: Connell, Marquess of Kendrick or Squire Oxberry.”

“No, I don’t believe you would do this to me, Roger! Squire Oxberry is as old as the Royal Duchess’s elderly footman. His teeth are almost all blackened. Dear God, you
are
serious. Please, Roger .... “She dissolved into tears.

“Cease your crying,” her brother said coldly. “And make your decision. Bring the new marquess to the point of proposing, or marry the Squire. I’m going out for a walk.”

“Wait! Th-there might be someone else. A worthy gentleman. He has not declared himself, but I believe his affections are true. I find him most admirable.”

A burst of sarcastic laughter met my ears. Roger said, “The county doctor? Is that of whom you are speaking? Try not to be so stupid, Cecily. The man is beneath your station in life. No one but a fool marries beneath themselves.”

A fresh bout of tears followed this assertion.

Her brother paid no attention to the show of emotion though, as before I heard the slamming of a connecting door within the chamber, he said, “I’m warning you, Cecily. You must make the Marquess of Kendrick propose during this house party no matter what. You know the consequences if you don’t.”

More weeping, muffled now as if the young lady was crying into a pillow, was the only sound coming from the room.

I hesitated outside the door, my hands busy adjusting a painting that needed straightening. Roger Cranworth’s thinking needed straightening as well.

As I walked down the hall to Freddie’s sitting room, I could not help but feel a strong sense of outrage at Roger’s tyranny, followed by a rush of pity for Miss Cecily Cranworth. Gothic or not, her predicament echoed that of many a young lady in Society. Fathers, brothers, uncles, and guardians were in control of a female’s fate. Many abused the power.

 I made up my mind to closely observe the siblings during the house party, and if there was any way I could be of assistance to Miss Cranworth, it would give me pleasure to do so. Her bullying brother needed taking down a notch if what I had just heard was any indication.

I wondered too about the new Marquess of Kendrick. From what Miss Cecily Cranworth had said, it seemed that there had been an alliance between them before “Connell” became Lord Kendrick. Perhaps now that he had the title, his lordship wanted to cast his net out to see if he could land a titled wife rather than one of the
landed
gentry.

I heaved a sigh. Ah, the machinations of Society never fail to fascinate me. Freddie was right. I could not continue to sit in my house in Bruton Street grieving for lost friends. I needed to be amongst people again even if it meant meeting those of Roger Cranworth’s ilk.