Chapter Seven

 

Chaos reigned in the hall. Mr. Griffin stood in front of the sedan-chair, arms spread wide as if to protect his creation from an onslaught of Napoleon’s army.

His lackey swooped down in an attempt to capture the cat. In a lightning fast move, and with seemingly little effort, the feline avoided his grasp. Instead the cat reached out a paw and drew a red line across the man’s hand.

 The servant howled, clutching the back of his hand. “The thing ain’t natural, I tell you! ‘Tis some demon from hell!”

Fangs bared, the cat hissed at him. I would too if someone called me a demon from hell.

Not wishing to look anything less than in full command of my household, I said, “Mr. Griffin, have your men carry Robinson into the bookroom. There is a sofa in there upon which you can rest him. I am certain he will recover presently. He has fainted before on occasion.” Once when I had a sky-blue coat and matching sky-blue breeches made, Robinson had swooned at the sight.

At a nod from Mr. Griffin, the two men gave the cat a wide berth and lifted the unconscious valet. I led the way into the bookroom. I spared a backward glance for the feline, who was calmly licking the paw he had used to scratch the servant, as if the act of touching such an ill-bred fellow disgusted him.

Inside the bookroom, Robinson moaned when placed on the long sofa across from the desk. I walked to a side table and poured him a glass of brandy.

Once the valet was sufficiently revived and could hold the glass and partake of the contents, I turned to Mr. Griffin, who stood anxiously in the doorway. “I have the situation under control. You may leave the sedan-chair with me. I shall let you know my decision regarding it in a week’s time.”

“Thank you, Mr. Brummell. Are you certain I cannot assist you where the, er, animal is concerned?”

“No, thank you. I can handle him. One of my friends’ idea of a joke, no doubt.”

They departed, being careful to walk far around the cat, who had now progressed to cleaning his face with a well-licked paw.

I stood over Robinson. His supine form rested on my carved and gilt-wood sofa. It is adorned with lion’s head uprights and lion’s paw feet, and is cushioned with handsome gold brocade. At almost seven feet, the sofa more than accommodated Robinson, whom I could see was revitalized by the brandy. “Are you all right?” I inquired.

His pale countenance told me he was shaken. “Sir, a—a feline in your house! We must be rid of it at once,” he gasped.

I glanced speculatively out into the hall. The cat held his tail between two paws and washed the length of it. “Why? You know I favor animals. This cat is different from any other I have seen. He intrigues me.”

Robinson struggled to sit up, his expression indignant. His voice regained its strength. “Only think of the cat hairs on our clothing!”

I patted his arm. “Oh, I have more faith in you than that, my good man. You would never permit such a thing.”

Robinson rose slowly to his feet and faced me. “Sir, we have no idea where the cat came from. He may carry disease. And cats can be destructive. His claws will shred your furniture. He will knock over your Sèvres porcelain, sending it crashing to the floor!”

I raised an eyebrow at these ominous prognostications. “You are correct in that we do not know where he came from. Let me see that basket he arrived in.”

Robinson’s lips pursed. He stood his ground, refusing to go back into the hall where the invader was. I sighed and braved the front lines. The cat barely spared me a glance as I walked past him to retrieve the wicker basket. It appeared the feline had decided his entire body needed a wash and was concentrating on the task. I approved of his fastidiousness.

Back in the bookroom, I sat behind my desk and opened the basket. “Ah, success is at hand. Here is a note.”

Robinson stood, arms folded across his chest, while I read the letter aloud.

 

Dear Mr. Brummell,

I am pleased that you so wisely decided not to bid against me for the Perronneau painting. You must have realized that such a prize belongs to a king. As a reward for your good judgment, I send you this gift.

In my country, we have been breeding special felines, fit for royalty. My connections with the palace in Bangkok enabled me to bring a female cat with me to England for companionship while away from home. I did not know when I left Siam that the cat was already pregnant. She gave birth to five kittens ten months ago, not long after my arrival in England.

I shall return to Siam with only four of her litter, and my ruler will not know the difference. I do this out of gratitude to you for your respect for my country. Because these cats are distinctive and unique to Siam, I have taken measures to see that this one is unable to breed. You will be the only person in England to own a Siamese cat.

The cat I have chosen for you, Mr. Brummell, I chose because his personality reminds me of yours in a great many ways. Over time, perhaps you will see this for yourself.

His name is Chakkri, after one of our great generals.

 

The letter was signed by Mr. Kiang.

“Good God,” I muttered. “First an imported wood, now an imported cat. I thought the purpose of the English Channel was to keep unwanted foreign objects away.”

“Precisely, sir. You must find Mr. Kiang and return his ‘gift’ at once.”

I sat back in my chair and considered this. Through the open door to the bookroom, I saw Chakkri moving cautiously and with stealth through the hall toward us. His dark nose sniffed close to the floor. When he reached the doorway to the room he stopped.

 After stretching his neck and peering into the room, he did an odd thing. Instead of simply walking across the threshold into the room, he crouched down, then leaped across the threshold. He then resumed his slow, suspicious inspection of the premises. Suddenly, he froze in front of the sofa, rose up on his hind legs, and stared into the eyes of the gilt lion’s head. A moment passed. Chakkri touched his nose to the lion’s nose. He pulled away swiftly, shook his rear leg in disdain, and continued his exploration.

Robinson watched the process with a curled lip. “As I said, the feline must return to Mr. Kiang.”

My indecision must have shown on my face, prompting Robinson to say in a lofty tone, “Lord Petersham has oftentimes indicated that a place for me in his household would always be open. His lordship is a viscount, you know, and has a strong sense of fashion. He confided in me recently that he is designing a new style of greatcoat.”

Our eyes met.

This is the one challenge Robinson can throw out that I invariably back down from, a truth that irritates me, make no mistake. But that does not change the stratagem’s effectiveness.

 As you have no doubt learned by now, I am rather careful of my reputation as the arbiter of fashion. While under no circumstances do I give complete credit to Robinson for the genius of my clothes and grooming—far from it, I am my own man—I do value our partnership in obtaining the ultimate result.

So I relented. “Very well. I shall return the cat to

Mr. Kiang. Send round to the Porter & Pole for two men to carry me in my new sedan-chair. I do not know Mr. Kiang’s direction, but expect I could find out at White’s Club.”

“Yes, sir. Very good, sir,” Robinson said and hurried to obey the order before I could change my mind.

In truth, I felt sorrowful about returning the cat. As fond as I am of animals, for some reason I had never considered obtaining one for myself. Now that Chakkri was here, I thought it might be pleasant to have a feline for a companion. And the idea that these cats were bred for royalty and were not yet in England held appeal. What would the Prince of Wales think of my having the animal?

On second thought, perhaps it would be best not to tell Prinny. We were already at war with France. We need not add Siam to the list of our enemies.

I rose from my seat at the desk and located Chakkri. He was sitting tall in the manner of a ruling monarch on the side table. The one that contained two crystal glasses and the crystal decanter of brandy I had served Robinson from earlier.

I held my breath. Would the cat knock the decanter to the floor, shattering the expensive crystal?

With a movement so delicate and intricate I could not help but be impressed, Chakkri moved sinuously past the crystal. He hopped lightly onto the large bookshelf against the wall. There he investigated the spines of several books before moving down the bookcase toward a Sèvres plate I had recently acquired and displayed. The plate, I noted, sat dangerously close to the edge of the shelf.

My heart almost stopped in my chest. True, the plate is not one of my very best. As you know, I keep those in my bedchamber. Still, it is Sèvres and lovely. It is a portrait plate I admired because the lady painted in the center has brown hair the exact shade as Freddie’s.

 I could not decide whether to make a grab for the cat before he could send the plate crashing to the floor as Robinson had foretold, or if such a sudden motion on my part would startle Chakkri and create an even more likely catastrophe.

Standing motionless, I watched as he sniffed discreetly at the plate. In the absolute silence of the room, I suddenly heard a sound.

Chakkri was purring.

I felt my shoulders ease and my jaw relax.

Then a thought flickered across my mind. Was it possible the cat actually appreciated the exquisite artistry of the plate?

 No! That was nonsense. His purring had to have been a coincidence.

After a few more moments of delicate sniffing, the cat apparently wearied of his explorations. Moving past the plate with the grace of a dancer, he executed another flying leap and jumped onto my chair by the fire. He turned around once, curled into a perfect circle, and closed his eyes.

I admit I stood there watching him sleep. The rise and fall of his beautiful fawn-colored fur mesmerized me. Occasionally, his whiskers would twitch or his ears would quiver. I wondered if he was dreaming. More likely, I was.

A short while later, Robinson returned to inform me the men from the Porter & Pole had arrived to carry my sedan-chair. Warily, I picked up the wicker basket and moved toward the sleeping animal. I slid my hand under him, half expecting him to hiss as he had done at Mr. Griffin’s servant, and perhaps even take a slice from my hand.

Chakkri defied prediction though. He opened his incredible blue eyes and gazed at me. I looked back, feeling a strong reluctance to put him into the basket. Rather, I wanted to stroke his fur and hear him purr again. I felt I should speak, but it seemed ludicrous to talk to him. What would I say? Chakkri, old fellow, would you kindly enter this conveyance so I may return you to your sender like a rejected pair of breeches?

Robinson cleared his throat.

I eased Chakkri into the basket. He went without complaint. Before I closed the lid, he was once again asleep.

I accepted my hat, gloves, and greatcoat from Robinson, forgoing my stick. “After I have returned the cat to

Mr. Kiang, I shall be calling at Wrayburn House. Also, there is a letter for the Duchess of York in my bedchamber. See that it is sent to her at once.”

“Yes, sir. Will you be dining at home this evening?”

“I shall. Ascertain if Andre can be persuaded to prepare his luscious matelote shrimp.”

“Very good, sir.”

I left my rooms with the basket in tow. The ride over to White’s was heavenly. I felt majestic being carried in my new sedan-chair. The seat was most comfortable, and a small square pane of glass allowed me to see outside.

During the ride, the occupant of the wicker basket next to me remained silent. Upon my arrival at White’s, I alighted and instructed one of the polemen to be certain to keep the door to the vehicle firmly closed until my return. I did not want Chakkri to awaken and exit into the London street.

I shuddered thinking what might happen to him alone. His future, I feared, would not be the same as the mongrel dog I witnessed being adopted yesterday. Why, his small, lean frame could easily be crushed under the wheels of a passing carriage as he tried to dart to safety. Or, if he survived that fate, he might be picked up by an unsavory character who would sell him to Astley’s Royal Amphitheatre to be shown as an oddity. Chakkri’s royal connections would go unknown. He would live pent up in a cage!

I hurried into White’s.

As I walked into the hall, Delbert greeted me. “Good afternoon, Mr. Brummell.”

“A bit chilly today, Delbert.”

“‘Believe me, ‘tis very cold; the wind is northerly,’“ was the reply.

I handed over my greatcoat, my expression bland, but my brain working quickly. Suddenly it came to me. “Hamlet.”

Delbert let out a guffaw. “Haven’t been able to gammon you yet, have I, Mr. Brummell?”

“Not yet, but we are both still young, Delbert. I know it is too early for Lord Petersham to be here, but what of my musically inclined friend Lord Perry?”

“In the morning room playing cards with Mr. Skeffington and Mr. Davies.”

I found the three just ending a game of hazard. I could smell Skiffy before I could see him. He loves perfume. Despite my advice for a light hand with scent, a strong air of jasmine surrounded him.

Skiffy’s dark hair flowed to his shoulders in the romantic ringlets favored in the last century. Paint made his face white, and two rosy spots of color adorned his cheeks, giving him the appearance of some sort of French toy. “Brummell, my friend, ‘tis been too long since we have seen you at the theater. You must view the new play I have penned, The Diligent Daughter. I wager it will amuse you.”

“You may count on me, Skiffy,” I replied.

“The famous Beau!” Scrope Davies called. “Come join us! I warn you though, I’ve just won a hundred pounds from Skiffy. If my good fortune holds, I’m off to Newmarket to try my luck.”

I executed a mock bow. “I am tempted, gentlemen, truly I am. Scrope, I wish you all good fortune at the racecourse. But today, I must forgo the pleasure of your company and speak with Perry here. It is a tender matter involving an affair of the harp.”

Perry chuckled at this, and we ascended the stairs. Upstairs, we settled in matching chairs in front of the fire. He said, “Did you read the article in the Morning Post about Lady Wrayburn, Brummell?”

I nodded. “Yes, and I think it to be a disgraceful piece of fuel for the scandalmongers. I did not realize the Morning Post had sunk so low.”

Perry looked at me steadily. I wondered if he was thinking about Freddie’s connection to the matter. My close association with the Royal Duchess is known among my friends, but never discussed in anything more than a cursory manner. “Gossip about Lady Wrayburn’s murder is all over town. The general consensus is that pretty companion of hers is responsible.”

“Do you believe that, Perry?”

He stopped to consider a moment before answering. “I am not certain what to think. From the way Lady Wrayburn treated the girl one could almost believe it. Still, Miss Ashton, I believe her name is, seemed a well-bred girl. My friend

Mr. Dawlish says her father was Lord Kirgo. A bit of a romance there, you know, between Mr. Dawlish and Miss Ashton. He turned down an offer from me to view Lord Boden’s new harpsichord this morning to be at her side. Actually, Brummell,” Perry enthused, warming to his favorite topic, “the harpsichord is not new. It is a rare find. Appears to be made in Naples and has a date on it of l643.”

I casually adjusted the sleeve of my coat and remarked, “Interesting. Getting back to Lady Wrayburn’s demise, we do not know much of the rest of the Wrayburn household, excepting that fop, Sylvester Fairingdale, who is a nephew, I believe.”

Perry snorted. “Fairingdale! His tight neckcloths might have cut off the blood supply to his brain and caused him to commit a beef-witted act like poisoning his aunt, thinking he could get away with it.”

“Perhaps.” I sat back in my chair. “Lady Wrayburn’s older son is abroad, but the younger is in residence.”

Perry nodded. “Yes, Timothy and his wife, Cordelia Hensley. Mrs. Hensley would not lower herself to live anywhere that was not fashionable. She exists solely to be in Society, and of course, Wrayburn House is a good address.”

“She rules the roost, eh?”

“Completely. Hensley is totally under the cat’s paw.”

This comment reminded me of the question I had for Perry. Not that I did not relish gleaning what information that I could about the Wrayburn household, mind you. It was just that I had a more pressing need. “Perry, do you know Mr. Kiang’s direction? I need to speak to him.”

“Certainly, I know where he was staying, but it will do you no good. He left for Dover after the auction yesterday. He was due to sail home to Siam this morning.”

I groaned aloud.

“What is it, Brummell? I confess I was rather surprised you did not attend the auction. Mr. Kiang did get the Perronneau painting you wanted, but I was able to obtain my lute. Petersham almost fell into strong convulsions when

Mr. Kiang outbid him on a snuff box. And after he ventured out of doors early to bid, too.”

I shook my head sadly, imagining Petersham’s remorse over losing the snuff box. I hoped he would not go into a decline. To answer Perry’s question, I said, “It was not convenient for me to attend the auction, after all.”

I avoided telling him the whole story. It was not that I do not trust him, because I do. It is simply that I have no inclination to discuss Freddie’s visit or her request of me to investigate Lady Wrayburn’s murder. A gentleman does not gossip about a lady for whom he cares.

“What did you want to see Kiang about, Brummell?”

“Mr. Kiang left me a gift and I wish to return it.”

Perry’s face registered astonishment. “He left you a gift?”

“Yes, and a devil of a gift. A cat.”

“What?” Perry exclaimed, leaning forward in his chair. “Why would he do that?”

I outlined Mr. Kiang’s note and ended by saying, “The cat is a beautiful creature, but sure to turn my household on end.”

“Robinson threatening to present himself at Petersham’s doorstep again?” At my nod, Perry said, “Really, Brummell, he is forever saying he will leave but never does. Seems his way of winning an argument.”

“Dash it all if you do not have the right of it,” I said, wondering why I had not realized Robinson was bluffing and why I still did not think I could bring myself to call the bluff.

“About the cat, something to consider is that in quite a few of these foreign countries to refuse a gift is a high insult. And if, as you say, the animal is rare, news of your giving it away might eventually reach Mr. Kiang’s ears even in Siam.”

Perry had a good point. I thanked him, and after a few minutes, I made my way out of the club, slipping some coins into Delbert’s hand after he handed me my belongings.

Outside, all appeared quiet in my sedan-chair. I gave the order for home, determined to consider my next move on the way. On the seat next to me, there was a stirring in the wicker basket. Slowly, the lid rose and a wedge-shaped brown face appeared. Chakkri sniffed the air and looked toward the window. He yawned at the sight of the London streets. Then he gracefully hopped out of the basket onto the satin seat.

I braced myself for what I was sure would come next. It has been my observation that most cats like to exercise their claws after sleeping. I pictured taking the sedan-chair back to Mr. Griffin, the satin seats in shreds.

But it was not to be. The instant Chakkri’s paws made contact with the satin, he lowered his nose and began his sniffing routine. Then he promptly dropped to his side and began rolling and twisting on his back, showing every evidence of ecstasy at the feel of the smooth satin. Not once did his claws so much as nick the fabric.

I sat stunned. Here was an animal that seemed to appreciate the finer things in life. You think me mad? Only remember the care he took with the crystal and the Sèvres plate. Why, he actually purred after sniffing the Sèvres!

He slipped off the satin seat and landed on the white fur rug at my feet. Immediately he repeated his joyous writhing on the soft fur.

This was no ordinary feline, I tell you. And the little fellow was immaculate—no disease ridden varmint like Robinson had theorized. I judged his fur was softer than the rug on the floor. I remember thinking it was the softest fur I had ever beheld when I picked him up earlier.

Suddenly I remembered what Mr. Kiang had said in his letter. How he chose Chakkri for me because his disposition reminded him of me. Was Chakkri’s appreciation for beauty and quality the trait Mr. Kiang meant?

No, that was silly. I disregarded Mr. Kiang’s remark and gazed down at the animal on the rug. He lay on his back in a position which begged me to rub his stomach. You know a dog or cat does not offer an exposed belly to pet to just anyone. I reached down tentatively and stroked his soft fur. He began to purr.

Really, when I thought it over, Chakkri would pose no problem to my establishment. He would be content with inexpensive fishheads from the local market to eat. A small box of sand would take care of his most personal needs. And it would be a novelty to own such a unique animal. I would be the only person in England to own a Siamese cat.

Besides which, it was my duty to my country not to strain relations between England and Siam by giving the little fellow away. Who knows, Mr. Kiang might one day return to England and demand a progress report on Chakkri’s life.

My mind was made up. I prepared to face Robinson and determined I would not argue further with him on the subject. I would call his bluff on taking employment with Petersham if I needed to. Then, I would see Chakkri settled and pay an afternoon call on Wrayburn House. I did not want to postpone interviewing the family members any longer.

The vehicle halted in Bruton Street. I placed Chakkri in his basket. “Welcome to the Brummell household, Chakkri. Continue on your best behavior, and I daresay we shall rub along together well enough.”

I thought I caught a smug expression on his face.

I probably imagined it.