Death on a Silver Tray (12 page)

That is, if Robinson was still in my employ after spending the last hour with Chakkri.

Chapter Nine

“Eleven, sir,” Robinson stated.

I had just come in my front door from Wrayburn House and handed the valet my hat, greatcoat, and gloves. We headed for the stairs. “Eleven what?”

“Cat hairs on your bed. I picked them off, but the feline has taken possession of your bedchamber, and even though I tried my best, I cannot remove the hairs as fast as they rub off the creature and onto the coverlet.”

I hid a smile. “Surely you know I do not expect you to remove every cat hair from the furnishings, Robinson.”

“But, sir,” Robinson protested, his voice urgent, “it is not so much the furniture as it is your clothing I am distressed about. If you sit on a chair with cat hairs on it, some are bound to attach themselves to you. I cannot have you leave my care with animal hairs clinging to your person! My reputation as a valet is at stake.”

“Hmmm, quite right. Well, I suppose the thing to do is brush any hairs off my clothes before I leave the house.”

Robinson gave me a sour look before opening the door to my bedchamber.

I entered cautiously, uncertain of the reception I would receive from Chakkri. Even though he had shown evidence of being a feline who appreciated the finer things in life, I experienced a moment of concern for my Sèvres and my ivory silk bed hangings.

I need not have worried. There he was, reclining like a head of state in the exact center of my bed. Chakkri yawned, rose on his long legs, stretched, and hopped down. He walked over to meet me, but stopped at a distance of about three feet from my Hessian boots, requiring me to meet him halfway.

He let out a faint, “Reow.” I bent and he allowed me to stroke his incredibly soft fur before strolling over to the blazing fireplace to warm himself.

Robinson watched this scene with pursed lips. I transferred my attention to him, and The Dressing Hour began.

When I finished bathing, Robinson imparted some happy news. “Andre has prepared his matelote shrimp as you requested.”

“Andre is no end of a good fellow. Was he able to obtain fishheads from the market for Chakkri?”

Another pursing of the lips preceded Robinson’s reply. He handed me a pair of black breeches. “As to that, sir, I am afraid the feline has earned Andre’s wrath. The cook had the boy from the market deliver the animal’s dinner, but the cat refused to eat the fishhead provided.”

I darted a glance at Chakkri while buttoning my white waistcoat. He had turned around and was now warming the other side of his body. His air of nonchalance was remarkable. I pushed aside thoughts of concern over his lack of appetite. Perhaps the cat had simply not felt hungry the first day in his new home.

“Andre was angry, was he?”

“Yes, sir,” Robinson reported triumphantly, eager for a compatriot in his war against Chakkri.

“I shall speak to him after dinner. By the way, I desire to know someone’s destination this evening. Sylvester Fairingdale.”

“He lives at Wrayburn House, does he not, sir?” Robinson paused in the act of drawing a Turkish-blue coat out of the wardrobe. His curious expression told me I had best tread carefully if I wished to keep my investigation of the inhabitants of Wrayburn House secret.

I assumed a perplexed look and adjusted my watch chain. “Does he? I believe you have the right of it. At any rate, I had planned to spend the evening playing hazard at White’s, but with my luck devilishly low of late, I thought I would amuse myself by beholding Mr. Fairingdale’s latest idea of a coat.”

Robinson relaxed. “Fancies himself a fashion-plate, doesn’t he? But in truth he is more a figure of fun. His valet’s taste runs to extremes too. I daresay he encourages

Mr. Fairingdale. Now that Lady Wrayburn has died, I expect

Mr. Fairingdale will have more blunt available to spend on garish clothes.”

“No doubt,” I agreed. Robinson helped me into my perfectly fitted coat, and I slipped on a pair of glossy black evening shoes.

Once faultlessly attired, I crossed into the dining room and seated myself at the table. Robinson poured me a glass of claret before leaving to alert Andre I was ready for my meal.

I sat enjoying my wine and admiring a pair of Sèvres vases which reposed on the sideboard. They are green with flowers and fruit depicted on their smooth surfaces. They have gold trim, and a matching cup and cover sit next to them. Ah, the comforts of home. Is there anything to equal it?

I frowned suddenly. Was the vase on the left slightly farther away from the cup centered between them than the one on the right? I rose from my chair, repositioned the wayward vase, and sat down once more, pleased.

Robinson returned carrying a heavy tray. He placed a plate in front of me, and I breathed in the aroma appreciatively. Plump shrimp, accompanied by onions, mushrooms, and oysters, nestled lovingly in a white wine sauce. Delectable!

“Enjoy your meal, sir. You have only to ring if you require anything,” Robinson assured me, indicating a small silver bell next to my plate. “I’ll just go downstairs and see about finding out Mr. Fairingdale’s plans for the evening. I’ve sent round to the Porter & Pole for two men to carry your sedan-chair wherever you go.”

I nodded in silent agreement to all these plans, a forkful of shrimp already on its way to my mouth.

A few minutes later, the sound of raised voices coming from below interrupted my culinary bliss. I tried to ignore the intrusion as I had barely begun to savor my meal, but my curiosity got the better of me and I rose from the table, napkin in hand.

I strode to the landing and looked down upon an amazing scene. Robinson stood militantly in the hall confronted by a pair of tall, ruddy-cheeked, muscular young men.

“You are not the usual two Mr. Conte sends. Also you are not clean enough to serve Mr. Brummell. Now off with you!” Robinson held the door open.

“Wait just a minute here,” one of the boys said, twisting a worn hat around in his hands. I noted it was the sort of wide-brimmed, round black hats favored by farmers. “Ned and me are good country lads, fit enough to serve his lordship. And that there smell you mentioned is only what makes crops grow. We come from Dorchester by boat up the Thames.”

I could bear to be a silent witness no more. For while there was nothing amazing about the Porter & Pole having employed two boys fresh from the country, what was amazing was their appearance.

They looked to be identical twins.

What, I ask you, could be more aesthetically pleasing than
matching
servants to carry my sedan-chair?

“You are mistaken,” I said, coming down the stairs. “I am not a lord.”

“Sir—” Robinson began, but I held up a forestalling hand. Gaining close proximity to the twins, whom I judged to be about nineteen years old, I thought of holding my napkin to my nose. They did, indeed, reek of fertilizer. They were dressed alike in collarless smock-frocks that sported puffy sleeves and came down to their knees. Their breeches were of a coarse fabric in a brownish color and they wore short boots, caked in mud. At least, I hoped it was mud.

But I envisioned them in matching livery, perhaps blue and a gold that would not clash with their blond hair. Oh, joyous rapture! The scene they would present carrying me about in my sedan-chair! Prinny would be prostrate with envy!

“I am George Brummell. Did I hear you say you came up from the country this morning?”

“Yes, sir,” one twin said respectfully. “Me and Ned heard we could earn a good livin’ in Lunnon.”

Ned, whom I thought might be incapable of speech, proved me wrong. Very wrong.

“I says to Mum that we could earn her money for her calves foot jelly—she swears by that stuff—now that she’s got the arthur-itis real bad after she got caught out in that snow storm last winter tryin’ to round up the pigs. Mum’s got a taste for bacon like nothin’ you’ve ever seen, and for a woman with only four teeth she does real good. You know, Mum lost most of her teeth defendin’ us ten years back when the Widow Freyne accused her o’ sleepin’ with the devil to get two boys that look the same and—” Ned broke off abruptly and looked to Ted. “What was I sayin’?”

Robinson turned a horrified look on me.

“Er, your mother did not come to London with you, did she?” I asked warily, ignoring Robinson.

“Oh, no, your lordship—I mean, sir,” Ted replied. “Nobody could convince Mum to leave her pigs.”

“Naturally not,” I said. “It so happens I have been considering hiring two servants to carry me in my sedan-chair. I grow weary of forever having to send round for men from the Porter & Pole. Did you sign any agreement with them to remain in their employ?”

Ted scratched his head. “Me and Ned don’t know ‘ow to write.”

Ned nodded his agreement. “That’s right, though once there was a lady who tried to teach us. A purtier thing than her you never did see, she had the shiniest hair, shinier than them shoes you’re wearin’. I always wanted to run my hands through it, but Mum made me promise not to. And her skin—well, all I can say is have you ever seen the underside of a pig’s belly?—it was silky like that, but she run off one day kinda like Mum’s pigs and—” Again, he looked to his brother for help. “What was I saying, Ted?”

“Then there is no impediment to your coming to work for me,” I interrupted.

Robinson whimpered.

Ted’s ruddy face creased in a wide grin. “No, sir, there isn’t. I mean, I don’t know what that word—impediment—means, but we’d be happy to work for you.”

“Good. For tonight, I will use someone else to carry my sedan-chair. I must insist you both bathe before you begin your employment and that you continue to bathe regularly thereafter.”

The two looked at each other, clearly baffled by this request. However, they shrugged good-naturedly and assured me they would comply.

“Robinson, I think there is enough room in the attics to set up two small rooms for Ned and Ted.”

“But, sir,” Robinson said through gritted teeth, “the attic holds our cast-offs from our Chesterfield Street address.”

“Quite right. Good of you to remind me, Robinson. Those things can be taken away to a charity house. We should have done so before now.”

Robinson drew a deep breath, preparatory to delivering me a blistering set-down, I was sure, but I held sway. “I am persuaded having Ned and Ted here will take some of the burdens off your shoulders.”

“That’s the truth,” Ted chimed in without malice. “A puny fellow like you couldn’t possibly do all the things we strong men can.”

“Nor would I want to,” Robinson said coldly.

“Then it is settled and I can return to my dinner,” I said.

“Thank you,” Ned and Ted chorused. They slapped each other on the back, obviously thrilled to have money to send back to “Mum.”

Robinson snorted.

I climbed the stairs, merry thoughts of the
Beau Monde’s
reaction to the twins dancing in my head. For everyone strove to obtain footman of identical heights; it was the thing to do. I, now, I had taken this notion a step further. My men would be
completely
identical. My place as leader in all things fashionable was that much more secure.

And wait until Freddie saw them!

I sighed happily as I entered the dining room.

Then I froze.

Sitting in my place at the table was Chakkri. He licked his paw and then used it to clean around his whisker pad. The plate in front of him, which had previously contained my dinner, was bereft of a single shrimp. He had carefully eaten around all the mushrooms, onions, and oysters. They had been pushed to the side of the plate, no doubt with his efficient pink tongue. The wine sauce, I noted with astonishment, had also been consumed.

Chakkri stopped his cleaning process long enough to look at me with approving blue eyes, as if to say, “Now that was a meal! You can keep your fishheads!”

Then, I give you my word, he emitted a delicate burp, hopped down from my chair, and retired to my bedchamber.

Chapter Ten

As I climbed the stairs of Lord and Lady Crecy’s town house, I heard the orchestra playing a lively reel. A wigged footman dressed in gold and white livery threw open the doors to the ballroom when I approached.

Inside, elegantly dressed couples danced to the music: The ladies were in flowing gowns of colorful silks, velvets, and satins; the gentlemen were in the style I had brought about—immaculate dark coats and breeches.

People mingled among their friends, chatting and drinking champagne. Young ladies not fortunate enough to obtain a partner for the dance sat with their chaperons in a row of gilt chairs placed against the wall.

The chamber was decorated in the Chinese style. Silk wallpaper depicted a river landscape in great detail, with water flowing, birds flying, and trees swaying. The room had been cleared of most of its furnishings, but a few pieces of Chinese porcelain were placed about on pedestals. The delicate objects stood in each seemingly protected corner of the room, shrouded behind tall potted palms. Yet I still feared an

over-zealous dancer might threaten their safety.

“Mr. Brummell! Oh, I am so glad you changed your mind and decided to attend our little party.” My hostess, Lady Crecy, was a short, plump woman with too-tight curls ringing her head. They bounced with her excitement over my unexpected presence.

I bowed.

Lady Crecy struck a gloved hand to her chest. “Upon my honor, Mr. Brummell, you have the most exquisite way of bowing I have ever seen in my life.”

“Thank you, my lady. As to my attendance here this evening, I assure you I put my valet on Byron’s diet of potatoes and vinegar as punishment for failing to send my card of acceptance.”

She tittered. “Never mind that. What is important is that you are here. I hope you will not find us dull. London is thin of company at the moment, but I felt I should do something to amuse my dear daughter, Penelope, before she perishes from boredom.”

Dash it all, I had forgotten Lady Crecy had a girl she was desperate to marry off. The poor thing had been through two social seasons thus far without a single suitor. She suffered from some sort of nasal difficulty and could not stop sniffing, an unfortunate mannerism that even her enticing dowry could not overcome.