Death on a Silver Tray (2 page)

See there, one can justify one’s selfish ways if one but tries.

I must tell you, though, that even years after attaining my position in the
Beau Monde
, it still amazes me that I have risen to such heights. That a Society which eschews association with anyone whose family cannot trace illustrious roots back to the time of William the Conqueror would bow to the opinions of a twenty-seven year old man with no aristocratic lineage—and worse, no immense fortune—astonishes me.

But then, who am I to question their judgment? I keep my doubts well-hidden, preferring to present a fearless, completely independent demeanor to the public lest they topple me from my invisible throne.

After all, this is what my father had wanted for me. When he sent me off to Eton all those years ago, his sole hope was that the aristocratic connections made there would enable me to become somebody. If he were alive today, perhaps he would be pleased with the end result. Perhaps. It had never been easy to please Father. And since he and Mother had died within a year of one another when I was fifteen, my opportunity to gain their approval was gone.

Even so, I often envision what my parents, especially Father, might think of my present position in the Polite World. Possibly he would appreciate the fact that despite my guiding influence over fashion, there is nothing to call attention to myself in the way I dress. Unless one counts elegant perfection. But, truly, once I finish the long daily ritual of bathing and dressing, dubbed The Dressing Hour by myself and my valet, I give no further thought to my appearance.

 Until, that is, it is time to change clothes again.

My doctrine is simple. I have a violent dislike of extremes and of vulgarity. I believe in good tailoring and demand excellent cuts to my clothing. I wear little jewellry other than my father’s watch, which hangs from a chain attached to my waistcoat, and my quizzing glass. The latter is a circular magnifying lens of moderate proportions that I wear suspended from a long, slim black cord around my neck.

Up until recently gentlemen’s clothes have been characterized by fussy, frilly, and elaborate stuff. When my friendship with the Prince of Wales helped open Society’s doors to me, I soon replaced what was regarded as fashionable for gentlemen with a smooth, sleek, uncluttered look.

A heady triumph.

Another thing I take pride in accomplishing is maneuvering the ways of Society toward cleanliness. I shudder every time I think of, or am forcibly reminded of, the custom of covering oneself with perfume to conceal unpleasant odors. Ugh! Cleanliness, after all, can only promote good health. Dirt must lead to diseases. I cannot understand why everyone does not accept the idea.

At any rate, I was in a good mood when I entered my house in Bruton Street.

The ground floor contains a modest hall, which leads to a nice sized bookroom. Here, the best editions of chiefly French, Italian, and English literature line the shelves. It is a warm chamber where I can spend hours indulging in two of my favourite pastimes: reading and letter-writing.

Down a narrow corridor to one side are the stairs leading to the kitchen. Robinson’s sitting room and bedchamber are on the other side. The upstairs boasts a large drawing room, larger in fact than some town houses, I am pleased to report; also a dining room and my bedchamber. It is the perfect arrangement for a gentleman about town.

Robinson met me on the stairs. He promptly reversed his direction to follow mine. “Good evening, sir.”

“Hello, Robinson. Getting devilishly chilly outside.”

“Yes, sir. Fires are burning in all the rooms. I know how you dislike the cold.”

“Very good.” As I said, he is an excellent manservant. He knows it, too, the devil.

“Andre has instructions that you will be dining at home this evening. He is preparing his recipe for chicken in mushroom and wine sauce.”

I breathed a sigh of anticipation. What is better than good food, well prepared and well presented, accompanied by an appropriate wine? Very few things indeed. Andre, while he costs the earth, knows his craft. His skill in preparing lobster patties, another of his many specialties and my particular favorite, is most appreciated. I make sure he is rewarded and remains content in his position. Needless to say, invitations to the small, but exquisite, dinners I occasionally hold are coveted and not just for the company of yours truly.

We entered my chamber. A tented bed with ivory silk hangings dominates the room. In here I have every appointment a gentleman of fashion might desire, and a few more. Very well, more than a few. For sequestered from prying eyes are my most prized possessions, including my best Sèvres porcelain pieces.

 I walked over to a crescent-shaped side table and ran a caressing finger across the surface of a recent Sèvres acquisition. It is a tortoise-shell plate with a parrot painted in the center. I am cheered simply by gazing upon the delicate, fragile piece which is representative of the best art man can accomplish.

While, for the most part, I am happy with the life I have achieved, there are times when I feel my cherished art pieces are my only real friends. Society expects much of me. I am to be witty, have the best of manners, be expertly dressed and remain ultimately cool at all times. In front of my Sèvres porcelain, I may wear my older silk dressing gown and slouch.

But I grow maudlin. I do have true friends—Viscount Petersham, whom you have met, Lumley “Skiffy” Skeffington, Scrope Davies, “Poodle” Byng, her Royal Highness the Duchess of York, whom I am privileged to call “Freddie,” and, great heavens, the Prince of Wales himself.

Realizing I had remained silent for several moments, I turned around and saw Robinson observing me curiously. I straightened my shoulders. “Was there anything in the post to interest me?”

Robinson flipped through a dozen folded vellum squares before selecting one and handing it to me. “The Duchess of York’s weekly missive, a trifle late, sir.”

“Oh good. I shall read it now before I dress for dinner. The naughty girl has taken her time writing, and after I sent her two long letters. Ungrateful little wretch,” I declared with no small measure of warmth.

Frederica, daughter of a Prussian king and married to King George III’s second son, the Duke of York, is one of my most cherished acquaintances. She is also my closest female friend.

 Dearest George,

What must you think of such a slow correspondent?

I can only imagine you are justifiably cross with me for not answering your last letters. But I console myself with the reminder that you are much too kind to ever remain out of charity with me for long.

I trust the reason for my delay in writing may also hasten your forgiveness. My dear Minney has had her pups. Five of the most darling little creatures, George, all soft black fur and big brown eyes. At last we can determine who the scamp was that got her in a family way, and thereafter paid no particular attention to her. It is my precocious boy, Legacy, who is the indifferent Papa. But, never fear, we shall bring the rascal about. Rather than giving him the run of the estate, I have sequestered Legacy with his new family and have high hopes for their future. Old Dawe tells me that yesterday, when he took Minney her food, Legacy actually let her have a good portion of it after devouring the lion’s share himself.

This, by the way, brings the count of dogs at Oatlands up to one hundred and seven. I expect to be quite occupied here for the rest of the week, but I shall not fail to write again within the next few days.

 Yours, ever, and truly,

 Freddie

Still chuckling over the antics of Freddie’s treasured pets, and contemplating what gift I could take them on my next visit—a leather ball? a length of rope knotted at both ends?—I stripped off my clothes and eased myself into the copper tub Robinson had filled with hot water. Ah, now that felt good.

How could members of Society disdain immersing themselves in water? Some actually believed one could become ill by doing so. How ridiculous.

I wished I could indulge in a good long soak, perhaps read the rest of my correspondence, but I needed to get on with the preparations for the evening. Exiting the tub, I dried myself with a soft cotton cloth, donned my Florentine dressing gown, and sat at my dressing table.

Robinson ceased building up the fire and came to attention.

“I shall be attending the Perrys’ musical party directly after I dine, Robinson.”

With these words, The Dressing Hour officially began.

Robinson whisked himself over to one large wardrobe and pulled open its mahogany doors. Inside, snug in their appointed places, nestle my selection of evening clothing. With few exceptions the pieces are dominated by my preferred costume of dark blue coat, white waistcoat, and black breeches.

Robinson extracted one of the superbly tailored coats, a deep slate blue color, and laid it reverently on the bed. He selected a fine white lawn shirt, a pair of black, silk-lined Cassimere breeches, and a luxurious white brocade waistcoat.

“Are those the new breeches Meyer made for me?” I asked.

“Yes, sir,” Robinson answered, bringing the garment for me to inspect.

I ran my hand expertly over the soft material, studying every seam and button. To better scrutinize the lining, I turned the breeches inside out. Tailors vie for my custom because if they please me, they gain the business of scores of stylish gentlemen, thus enabling them to line their own pockets with money.

The lining appeared satisfactory, yet something bothered me about the breeches. I turned them right side out. A frown creased my brow as my gaze fell on the two buttons spaced a few inches apart on the waistband.

I drew in a sharp breath.

“What is it, sir?” Robinson asked, alarmed.

“These ... buttons ... do ... not ... exactly ... match,” I said in a voice faint from shock.

It is difficult to say which of us was the more unnerved. Robinson seized the offending garment from my fingers and examined it himself. “Reprehensible! We shall speak most severely to Mr. Meyer.” He swiftly folded the breeches and consigned them to the bottom of the wardrobe to be dealt with later. “Now let us put the disturbing incident behind us and continue,” he suggested in a bracing tone.

Robinson chose another pair of breeches and laid them out for my approval. I went over them with painstaking precision and could find nothing amiss.

You feel I am overly critical? Not at all. Dressing is an
art
. You would not want an artist to paint your portrait showing you with a blemish on your face, would you? I rather thought not. Why should clothing not be equally flawless?

At the washstand, Robinson filled a Chinese bowl with warm water and assembled the shaving supplies. He said, “I heard from Lord Culver’s man that his master has resorted to wearing false calves.”

This intelligence was undoubtedly shared in order to distract me from the Disaster of the Breeches, but it did not.

“Sir, you must unclench your jaw, else I will accidentally cut you with the razor.”

I contemplated the sharp blade and thought of Meyer’s throat. What if I had gone out in public dressed in breeches with mismatched buttons? My reputation would be in tatters. I could almost see Father’s look of disapproval.

With only a light whiff of Floris’s citrus scent clinging to my freshly shaved face, I began the nerve-racking chore of dressing. Robinson and I have a mutual goal: perfection. Nothing less will do.

Tonight, this resulted in Robinson removing one starched length of white linen after another from the wardrobe. Every one of our attempts at tying the perfect cravat failed. It cannot be said at whose door the fault for this could be laid. Robinson did his part in winding the starched cloth around my neck, and I carefully lowered my head to arrange the folds. Robinson tied the ends into an intricate knot with the skill of an artist. But, the least error on either of our parts could ruin the whole composition, and a new cravat must be produced.

Standing in the center of a sea of discarded linen, I felt my temper rise. When yet another attempt resulted in an unsatisfactory outcome, I said, “Oh, devil take it, Robinson, get another neckcloth.”

The valet moved to the wardrobe and suddenly stood

stock-still.

Looking up to see what had rendered him immobile, I saw there was only one remaining length of cloth in the wardrobe.

Our eyes met.

“Is the laundress coming this evening with clean linens?” I asked between my teeth.

Robinson swallowed. “I am afraid not until the morning, sir.”

I sighed. “Well, I suppose we had best get this one right.”

Several tense moments followed but, happily, with Herculean efforts we at last achieved success. I found myself relaxing enough to remark, “We may soon have another treasure to add to our walls. A painting.”

Robinson’s deft hands helped me into a faultless pair of breeches, my waistcoat, whose buttons matched to a shade, and the slate blue coat. The latter was no easy task since, once donned, the coat had to fit without a single wrinkle.

“How wonderful, sir. May I inquire as to the nature of the painting?”

“A lovely Perronneau, Robinson. It is painted in shades of pale blue with touches of ivory and grey. The cat looks especially lifelike.”

“A cat, sir?” Robinson pursed his lips in a gesture well known to me. It indicates my fastidious valet’s disapproval. Robinson’s golden blond hair, expertly combed in the short Brutus cut, seemed to stand on end at the very mention of a feline.

“Come now, man, we have birds on our porcelain and paintings of dogs and horses,” I said, slipping into thin, black shoes. “A cat would be a welcome addition. Besides, I should be able to obtain the painting for an excellent price. It is owned by Lord Sidwell, and I believe he is in need of funds.”

I let the words drop in an offhand manner and waited. Robinson did not fail me.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, his clear blue eyes glowing with excitement. “You know how I abhor repeating gossip, but ...”

I barely managed to restrain an outright snort at such utter nonsense. Robinson prides himself on his league of chattering valets, butlers, underbutlers, footmen, and maids who can always be depended upon to talk about their lords and ladies. Heaven knows Robinson’s knowledge of the latest news rivals the
Morning Post
, and his propensity to share it is equally fervent.