Death on a Silver Tray (18 page)

“Yes, sir. The garments will be ready tomorrow.

Mr. Guthrie was honored you choose him.”

“Well, Weston would have been a bit much for servants’ livery. I am not one to go to extremes, you know.”

Robinson’s mouth dropped open.

“Where are Ned and Ted?”

“They have been seeing the sights of London, sir, like the country bumpkins they are,” he replied, then pursed his lips.

I put my feet into polished black pumps and walked to the dining room.

“Do you wish me to send for some men to carry your

sedan-chair, sir?”

“That will not be necessary tonight. I am bound to meet up with friends and will no doubt travel about with them.”

Robinson went downstairs to get my dinner. I walked across the hall to the dining room.

“Reow!”

Sitting down, I glanced up and saw a brown face with twitching ears, an overactive nose, and blue eyes perusing the table. Chakkri sat like a person in a chair across from me.

“You rogue! Get down from there!”

At that moment, Andre himself entered the room carrying a heavy tray. The Frenchman’s dark, wavy hair was combed back from his sallow face. The large, white apron he wore over his massive girth was unmarred by a single spot.

The chef spied the cat and grinned. “Ooooh, the little one will not eat the fishheads, sir. He likes only Andre’s cooking!
N’est-ce pas
, my little one?”

“Reow,” Chakkri answered and jumped down from his place to rub at Andre’s ankles. The chef chuckled.

Andre presented me with my plate of lobster patties and my salad. Then, he took an extra plate—of my good china, mind you—and cut one of the patties in small pieces the cat could manage. All the while, Chakkri purred and gazed up at Andre adoringly. The scamp!

“If it pleases you, sir, I shall place this plate on the floor for the little one.”

I waved a careless hand. “As long as he does not eat at the table.”

Andre laughed and set the plate down. “No, that would be indulging him, and we would not want to do that.”

He watched the cat eat for a moment, a wide smile on his face, before going back downstairs.

Chakkri and I relished our meal. When I finished, I left him cleaning his face with a well-licked brown paw.

Downstairs, Robinson opened the front door for me. I stood a moment on the threshold pulling on my gloves. “Do not wait up for me,” I instructed. “I shall be very late.”

“If you say so, sir,” Robinson replied. Then, “Er, where will you be going besides your usual clubs—White’s, Boodle’s, Brooks’s ...”

I raised one eyebrow severely.

Robinson appeared uncomfortable, but pressed on. “It is just that you never tell me your whereabouts on these evenings you stay out all night.”

“You are correct. I never tell you.” With those words, I walked down the front steps without looking back. I understood Robinson’s curiosity, but would not gratify it.

Meeting up with Petersham at White’s, the two of us decided to attend Lumley Skeffington’s play, the one I had promised him I would view.

After the theater, Skiffy, Scope Davies, and a young friend of Skiffy’s, a struggling actor named Edmund Kean who had yet to make an appearance on the London stage, and I all went around from club to club, drinking and gaming and celebrating the play’s success. We were a merry party, except perhaps for young Kean, who appeared somber even while growing quite drunk, and who kept trying, without success, to persuade Skiffy to give him a part in the play.

I presented the appearance of one without a care in the world, which was exactly what I desired. Petersham and I worked on a diagram for the snuff box I had promised him. It came out brilliantly, despite our being rather inebriated.

At last, as we were into the wee small hours of the morning, I bade my friends farewell.

And that is all I wish to disclose about that evening. The relaxation I indulged in after I left Petersham is something I prefer to keep private.

But even the distraction of its pleasure did not cease the endless need I felt to uncover Lady Wrayburn’s murderer. Nor did it lessen my personal vow not to stop my search until I could hand the criminal over to Mr. Lavender personally.

No matter whom he or she might be.

Chapter Fifteen

Because I returned home when the sun was already shining, I did not rise until a rather advanced hour. How advanced? Let us say the muffin bells were ringing outside, and they normally start at about four o’clock.

Chakkri tried to get me to start my day earlier. He shattered my eardrum around ten, with a loud “reow,” demanding his breakfast. I stumbled out of bed, opened the door of the chamber, and advised him to go downstairs to the kitchen and give Andre his order.

A short while later, the cat returned and scratched at my door howling until, awake again and frustrated, I got up and let him back in. Perhaps it would be necessary for me to leave my door ajar so he might come and go as he pleased, I reflected before falling back to sleep.

That afternoon, during The Dressing Hour, I ignored Robinson’s Martyr Act from my slight the night before and perused my post. There was a note from Perry saying that Lady Perry was feeling unwell. It was nothing to be alarmed over, merely one of the trials of her condition. They regretted they could not join Lady Salisbury and me at the opera.

I was writing out instructions for having a hamper of sweets made up by Gunter’s and sent along to Lady Perry as she was partial to the confectioner’s treats, when my attention was caught by another letter.

Rather, it was not a letter, but yet another drawing. It was of the same fashionable coat depicted in the first sketch, but this one was worn by a ghastly human skeleton. Underneath was the command, “Stay out of the murder investigation.”

My pulse jumped, and a chill ran through me. Suddenly I felt vulnerable to the person who drew the sketch, who must be the murderer. Before, when I thought it Sylvester Fairingdale, I felt no fear. Now, I wondered if Robinson checked all the doors and windows at night before we retired.

Then my anxiety turned to anger. How dare someone threaten me? I would not give in to these cowardly warnings. Weston was in the process of making three coats for me. I would not force Robinson to select one of them for me to wear in my coffin.

I folded the drawing before Robinson could discern its contents. “Did you see Riddell last night at The Butler’s Tankard? Oh, and I shall wear the Venice-blue coat.”

“Yes, sir, I did,” Robinson said, removing the chosen coat from the wardrobe. “As you directed me, after I felt he had consumed enough ale to be talkative, I inquired about

Mr. Hensley.”

“And?”

“Well, sir,” Robinson said, brightening. He could never remain angry at me for long, especially when he had a choice tidbit of gossip to convey. “It seems that Mr. and Mrs. Hensley are not at all happy in their marriage.”

Studying myself in the tall mahogany-framed dressing glass, I said, “That is evident.”

“Be that as it may, sir, it seems Mrs. Hensley suspects her husband of infidelity. He has not visited her bed in many months.”

“I do not know if I could blame him,” I murmured, struggling with the folds of my cravat.

“Here, allow me, sir,” Robinson said, lending his aid to the campaign of cravat creation. “The interesting part is that she believes it is Miss Ashton with whom her husband is being unfaithful.”

My hands stilled, but my brain galloped along. Now that was interesting. Here might be the person who wished Miss Ashton harm. For if Mrs. Hensley thought her husband was having an affair with the young woman, and wished him to return to her own bed, she would logically take steps to end the affair. Could it be that Mrs. Hensley was the one to remove Miss Ashton’s journal from her desk, read it, and after finding its contents damning enough, turn it anonymously over to Bow Street?

Or, could she even be so desperate as to poison the milk herself, knowing it would cast blame upon Miss Ashton?

I suddenly remembered how Miss Ashton had leaped to

Mr. Hensley’s defense when Mr. Dawlish had accused him of wishing for his inheritance prematurely. Could she have done so out of a finer feeling for Mr. Hensley? Was that also the reason she remained steadfast in her refusal of Mr. Dawlish’s proposal of marriage?

And what of Mr. Hensley? Miss Ashton had reluctantly admitted Mr. Hensley had been on the point of leaving Wrayburn House ‘for a walk’ the night his mother was poisoned. I wondered if this was a frequent custom of his. It seemed unlikely when London was rife with pickpockets and footpads whose trade flourished under the cover of darkness.

A knock at the front door prevented me from further ruminations on these fascinating conjectures.

Robinson finished helping me into my coat, then hurried downstairs to answer. He returned a moment later with pursed lips. “Sir, a young female is most insistent she see you.”

“A lady?”

“No lady would call at a bachelor’s quarters,” Robinson scoffed.

I stood very still. My grey eyes probably resembled the North Sea as I glared at him, willing him to remember that Freddie had come to visit.

Robinson caught my meaning. He swallowed, made a slight cough and said, “That is to say this young woman is unknown to us and an
unknown
lady would never call at a bachelor’s quarters.”

I relaxed my posture. “Did she give her name?”

“Yes, sir, Lydia Lavender,” Robinson responded, then his eyes grew wide. “Do you think she is a relation of the investigator from Bow Street?”

Ah, yes. I had sent her a letter requesting permission to call upon her. Evidently, she felt no need to conform to the rules of modern society, and had taken it upon herself to call upon me.

“She is his daughter. Escort her to the drawing room, Robinson. Offer her wine and cakes. I shall join her presently.”

But that plan did not suit Miss Lavender.

Robinson returned to my chamber, his face pink with indignation. “Sir! Miss Lavender expressed a desire to see the revolving bookcase her father described to her. She insisted on being shown into the bookroom.”

I restrained a chuckle. “Very well. I shall meet her there.”

I left Robinson muttering about how improper it all was, and went downstairs.

Pausing at the entrance to the bookroom, I saw a slender young woman in a serviceable pale blue gown standing on a stool reaching for one of the volumes on a high shelf. To enable her to stretch higher, she balanced precariously, revealing her blue stockings and neatly turned ankles.

She had dark red hair, not quite auburn, but definitely much darker than her father’s, with a plain, high-crowned bonnet covering most of it.

Although I said nothing, she perceived my presence. “Have you actually read this copy of Mary Wollstonecraft’s
Vindication of the Rights of Woman
, Mr. Brummell?”

“Yes. I have read all the books in this room.”

Grasping the volume in triumph, she stepped down and faced me. Her beauty was startling. The hair I thought to be merely a dark red actually sparkled with gold flecks. Her eyes were brilliant green and her complexion! Ah! What a delight. No freckles, which might have been expected with her Scottish heritage, marred its ivory surface. Instead, here was the smooth, glowing translucence of the finest porcelain. Sèvres could accomplish no better.

She appeared to study me as closely as I regarded her. “Mary Wollstonecraft is a beacon of light in the darkness of ignorance. How do you feel about her ideas?”

Her speech was well-modulated, without a trace of a Scottish accent. I thought a moment before replying. “I concur with the author’s feelings that there is a great injustice in the way women are treated presently, and agree that if women should desire learning, that books and tutors should be provided them. However, I cannot go along with her thoughts on women supporting themselves by useful work. Women should, instead, be treasured and valued for their companionship,” I ended, my thoughts drifting to Freddie.

“What if they wish to work? What if they desire an occupation, rather than merely to be a companion to some gentleman of means?” she said. “What if, Mr. Brummell,
there is no gentleman of means?
”

Miss Lavender’s eyes shot sparks.

I found I did not quite know how to handle such a passionate speech. In Society, ladies avoided overt displays of strong emotion. But then, this woman was not a member of Society. “Please do sit down, Miss Lavender. I see Robinson brought cakes. May I pour you some wine?

She sat in the chair opposite the desk and accepted the glass I offered. “I perceive you do not wish to debate with me on the topic. I accept that. For now,” she said and grinned. “You are a famous man, Mr. Brummell.”

“Which, I imagine, is why we skipped the formality of introductions?”

The impudent Miss Lavender ignored this sally. “I admit I was surprised when I received your note asking to meet me. You will forgive me for coming to you rather than sending you a note giving you permission to call? I wished to see what a bachelor’s residence looked like, I grant you.”

“And now you have done so and you can add it to the catalogue of your life’s experiences.”

She chuckled, then turned serious. “Does this have something to do with the murder my father is investigating? For if it does, you are wasting your time appealing to me. My father respects my opinions, but makes his own decisions when it comes to his work. He would like me to spend my time on other pursuits.”

I tilted my head and reflected. “Allow me to venture a guess. He would prefer you to be raising his grandchildren?”

Her full-throated laugh filled the room. “Faith! You don’t have to be around Father for very long before learning that, do you?”

I took advantage of her good humor to present my case. “I know of a young woman who is with child and may soon need a place to go.”

Miss Lavender’s expression changed. “Is the child yours?”

“Good God, no!” I expostulated.

“There is no need to take offense. Isn’t it common knowledge that the countryside, the stews of London, and even the ballrooms of London are filled with the Nobility’s bastards?”