Death on a Silver Tray (24 page)

Mr. Fairingdale had departed from this custom. His gloves were white, however, small red tulips had been embroidered across the cloth. Ghastly!

“How very kind of you to be concerned. As you can see, I am the pattern card of health.” I leveled my quizzing glass at his hands. “And I see you are positively blooming, Fairingdale.”

One of the fops snickered. “Fancies himself a real Tulip of Fashion, Sylvester does.”

Mr. Fairingdale swung around and silenced his friend with a look. Then he turned back to me, his chin in the air. “Are you admiring your likeness in Gillray’s print? Don’t let us keep you. That is,” he said, pointing at the window, “unless your poor eyesight requires your obtaining assistance to find your way home.”

I stood speechless—for once—as the three laughed shrilly and went on their way. My brows drawn together, I scanned the prints trying to discover what that idiot Fairingdale referred to.

Then my gaze fell on the third lampoon, and I understood.

It was a wicked caricature of yours truly with a blindfold on. Standing in front of the cartoon “me” was a woman portrayed as Beauty, obviously Miss Ashton. She held a silver tray with a glass full of some liquid, resting on it. Floating in the liquid was a skull and crossbones. Underneath, the caption read: “Can it be that Prinny’s Favorite and the Arbiter of Fashion has been blinded by Beauty?”

I drew in a sharp breath.

The tide had begun to turn against me already.

Chapter Twenty-one

Oatlands Park is situated in Surrey on the southern bank of the Thames River. It is not far from London, which is one of the reasons for its popularity. The other reason is Freddie herself.

She is the most genial of hostesses and cares not if a man talks loudly, drinks excessively, or loses consciousness on her drawing room carpet. An atmosphere of relaxation and good fellowship prevails. The informal company is almost always made up solely of men.

 True, one must dislodge a dog if one wishes to sit down. There are between twenty and thirty house dogs at any given time scattered about at Oatlands. They have free reign and command the best chairs by the fire. But this is a minor inconvenience. I delayed my departure from London until after six that Friday evening so that I might persuade Petersham to come along with me. His estrangement from Munro continued. I felt the viscount needed to be surrounded by friends, and a little distance between him and Munro might improve matters.

In addition, I selfishly wanted someone nearby to keep me from shooting myself after I told Freddie I had not solved the case of Lady Wrayburn’s murder.

So it was that our unhappy party of four rode in a hired coach out to the country.

Chakkri was the only contented creature in the vehicle. He had entered his basket without complaint and promptly fell asleep. The basket was now on the floor between Petersham and me.

Petersham sat opposite me, brooding, and occasionally taking snuff.

Next to me, Robinson, who is wretched every time we visit Oatlands because of the dog hair, sat clutching my mahogany dressing case and glaring at Mr. Digwood.

 Diggie, as he is known, is Petersham’s valet. Robinson and Diggie hate one another with a passion. Diggie knows his master would replace him with Robinson if he could. Robinson knows that Diggie feels superior because Lord Petersham is a viscount, not a mere mister. Had there been any way to obtain two vehicles, I most certainly would have done so in order to avoid witnessing the exchange of nasty glares between them.

Just then, I noticed Robinson casting a pointed eye at Petersham’s pleated shirt cuff. His gaze lingered long enough for all of us to observe it and Robinson’s pursed lips.

I braced myself.

“You know, Mr. Digwood,” Robinson said with good will positively dripping from his tongue, “I have often found that pleats that are ironed poorly can indeed be corrected.”

Diggie, a portly fellow whose brown eyes tended to bulge, went red.

Petersham extended his arm and looked critically at his cuff.

Robinson blithely continued. “It is true. I have had a special pleating iron made, but you could almost duplicate its splendid effect by ironing the pleats between two layers of muslin dampened with vinegar.”

From the look on Diggie’s face, I should not hold myself amazed to find Robinson with his throat slit, the smug smile he currently wore wiped forever from his lips.

Petersham dropped his arm and looked appalled.

Robinson was satisfied.

By the time we arrived at Oatlands, darkness shaded the Palladian style building. Old Dawe—that is the name everyone calls him—opened the door to us, and we could hear laughter coming from the drawing room. The party was already merry.

“Mr. Brummell, sir, it’s good to see you again. And Lord Petersham. I hope you are well, my lord,” the ancient retainer welcomed us. He is a small man, past sixty at least, with sparse grey hair. Surprisingly strong for his age, he is fiercely loyal to the Royal Duchess.

After settling in and changing into evening clothes, I walked out of my room and down the stairs, anxious to see Freddie. I met her in the hallway just outside the drawing room.

“George!” she cried. She smiled, and my breath caught at the light in her blue eyes.

I bowed low, then took her hand and pressed a warm kiss on her bare knuckles. “Freddie, how can you be more beautiful every time I see you? Animal dander must have a salubrious effect on your person.”

“Stuff and nonsense! I see your eyes twinkling,” she bantered. “Only I
am
glad you are here. I do so wish you to meet Minney’s puppies.” She glanced about and then whispered, “And I cannot wait to hear how you untangled the mystery of Lady Wrayburn’s death.”

I felt a knot form in my stomach.

A great shout of laughter came from the drawing room. The door swung open and the untroubled face of Scrope Davies appeared in the doorway. I dropped Freddie’s hand.

“Brummell! Thought someone said you were here. Come on in and settle a bet between Yarmouth and me. He says Joe Norton beat John O’Donnel in a fight last week. I’m not having it.”

“Can Yarmouth think of nothing but contests between pugilists?” I asked, annoyed that my privacy with Freddie had been interrupted.

Scrope shrugged. “I don’t know. Never thought about it. Yarmouth fancies himself an amateur pugilist, you know. But, see here, there’s money on it, so stop dawdling and join us.”

He turned away, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Petersham traipsing toward us. “May I see you alone?” I asked Freddie in a low voice.

She nodded. “If the weather is fine tomorrow afternoon, we can walk together at one of the clock.”

“Very well,” I said, reluctant to leave her. Our eyes met for a brief moment, but then Petersham reached us, and I fell in with him and the others. I saw Freddie throughout dinner and the remainder of the evening, but there was no further opportunity for private conversation.

Happily, the next day turned out to be warmer and the sun shone.

At the appointed hour, I strode outside—steering clear of the monkeys—and meandered around the beautiful grounds—watching where I stepped—until I came to a paddock where Freddie housed a herd of kangaroos and ostriches.

She stood, arm outstretched, feeding one of the kangaroos from her fingertips. Her curly brown hair was held back from her face by a yellow silk bandeau. Clad in a golden-color spencer jacket over a sprigged muslin gown, she appeared young and carefree.

All at once I was struck with a terrible premonition of impending doom. Lady Wrayburn’s killer eluded me, and I must tell Freddie. I could not bear the thought of her thinking ill of me.

“Freddie,” I called tentatively from a few feet away.

She turned and smiled at me while brushing crumbs from her gloved fingers. Her cheeks were pink from the sunshine. “Are they not glorious creatures, George?”

I glanced at the kangaroos. “Tolerable. But you have not seen my Chakkri. Yes, you may look amazed. I have succumbed to the allure of owning a pet and have acquired a cat.”

“A cat! How wonderful. Come, let us take a stroll and you can tell me about him. It is a rare day, and you know I enjoy being outdoors.” She tucked her hand into my arm and we began walking along a path that ran next to the pine woods.

I told her all about Mr. Kiang and the cat who had come into my life, and promised to bring him to her sitting room so she could see for herself his many charms. She listened enthralled and clapped her hands when I described how Chakkri would only eat the sort of food I ate.

“He sounds so much like you, dear,” Freddie said.

“What?”

“Oh, goodness, George, this is making me laugh. Here is Chakkri, only wishing the best food, appreciating your Sèvres collection, cleaning himself meticulously, and—” She broke off laughing.

“Well, I have to say I do not see the comparison,” I declared loftily. I could not help but remember Mr. Kiang’s assertion that he had chosen the cat because it reminded him of me. For some reason, the assertion chafed.

“That is all right,” she assured me, wiping moisture from under her eyes. “Dear, I am thrilled to hear you have allowed an animal into your heart. Having a pet can be rewarding in ways you cannot imagine.”

“You would do well to tell Robinson of Chakkri’s virtues. He cannot see them himself.”

“I shall. But you had best not bring Chakkri to my sitting room. That is where I have Minney and the pups. We will have to make other arrangements. And, by the way, Lord Sidwell is one of our party this weekend. He arrived late last night and retired early, but you will see him today, I expect. Oh, here comes Hero.”

A little dog who looked to be a cross between a small terrier and a shaggy poodle bounded toward us at top speed. His hair was mostly black, but his feet, chest, and head were a mixture of tan and cream.

He halted at Freddie’s feet and gazed up at her adoringly. She bent and petted him, causing his plumy tail to wag and his black nose to seek her hand.

Freddie looked over her shoulder at me. “Will you not pet him?”

I thought briefly of Robinson’s reaction to seeing me covered with dog hair. Oh, devil take it. I reached down and stroked his fur. Hero barked and jumped in doggie delight.

“I am glad you already have a Hero, Freddie, as I am afraid I would make a poor hero myself.”

Freddie straightened at my serious tone. The dog laid down and rolled in the grass. “What are you talking about, George?”

I gazed into her eyes and reached for her gloved hand. “It is Miss Ashton.” I swallowed and held the precious hand tight. “Freddie, I have failed you. I thought I had uncovered the real killer, but found I was wrong. Miss Ashton’s freedom is still at stake, as is your reputation.”

I made no mention of the threatening drawings or my altercations with Fairingdale.

She gazed at me steadily for what seemed like hours, so great was my anxiety, but was actually only a moment or two. Then she lifted our clasped hands and patted mine. “Dear George. You must have faith in yourself. I do. You will untangle the muddle.”

“Freddie, you do not understand. Mr. Lavender, the Bow Street investigator, plans to arrest Miss Ashton on Monday. There is nothing I can do to prevent it.” I stared at her, waiting for her to absorb the news and for the disillusionment to appear in her eyes.

She stood quietly and considered my words. “Well, if it comes to an arrest, then you will simply keep on working until the puzzle is solved. It shall be dreadful for Miss Ashton to be imprisoned, the poor thing, but you will prevail, George. I know it.”

I felt a lump rise in my throat. I let her hand go and brushed a curl away from her eye. My fingers lingered to caress her cheek. “Your faith—”

My voice broke. I stopped and cleared my throat. “Your faith in me gives me strength. I hope it is not misplaced.”

“Of course it is not, dear,” she said with complete conviction, her face leaning into my hand.

My gaze ran over her features, lingering on her lips. “My princess,” I murmured, my heart rate accelerating.

She seemed to come to an awareness, and gently moved my hand away. “We must return to the house, George,” she said softly.

I looked down at her for a moment. “Yes, of course. You are right,” I agreed, disappointed and ashamed of my disappointment.

Being a man of honor is something which a gentleman must constantly work at, you know. When I am with Freddie, I find the work arduous.

We ambled back to the house, and Freddie took me upstairs to her sitting room to see the puppies. They were most appreciative of the leather balls I had brought them. The room quickly turned into a scene of romping canines.

Freddie’s maid, Ulga, was in attendance the entire time. Under her watchful eye, Freddie later waited in a small upstairs parlor for me to bring Chakkri to visit. They took to each other immediately. Freddie could not stop exclaiming over Chakkri’s beauty and regal air, which pleased the cat no end.

“I hope he is being fed well while he is here, George. Did you ask Robinson to talk to Cook?”

Chakkri purred hoarsely, rubbing his face against Freddie’s shoes as she stroked his fur.

“I have not heard any complaints from Chakkri. Believe me when I tell you he makes his needs known.”

Later, while Robinson and I were putting the finishing touches to my attire for the evening, a servant brought a tray of food for Chakkri. It contained a miniature portion of everything I assumed we would be dining on, including risolles of fowl and a small saucer of mock turtle soup.

“Her Royal Highness is all that is kind. She thinks of everyone’s comfort, even that animal,” Robinson remarked.

He had obtained a special cloth which he employed to rid my coat of any lone cat hair before leaving his presence. He used it vigorously on my mazarine blue coat before pronouncing me fit for company.

Meanwhile, Chakkri’s nose busily explored the contents of the tray. He sniffed approvingly at each item until he came to the saucer containing the mock turtle soup. Without warning, he bared his fangs and a low growl emitted from his chest, in the same way he had when the drawings arrived from the killer. He then shook his front paw in the manner cats have when something is distasteful to them.