The next day I awoke around ten. I like to have the morning well aired before I open my eyes.
My first thought was of the Prince and his safety. Was he all right? Surely an alarm would have been raised during the night had any attempts been made to harm him. He was probably still abed, or consuming vast quantities of food. Or both.
“Reow,” Chakkri said enthusiastically, as if he knew I was thinking of food. He stared at me with deep blue eyes from his position in the exact center of the bed. That is where the feline insists on sleeping.
Before you let out a hearty guffaw, and perhaps even think me mad for allowing him to take up this prime spot, let me hasten to assure you it was not my decision. Far from it. Shortly after coming to live in my household, the cat waged a war with me when I tried to put him out of my bedchamber at night. Yes, I said a war. The prize to the victor: the center of the bed. His weapons? A will of iron and a voice like a screaming baby.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with sleeping diagonally.
Robinson entered the room balancing a tray with a pot of coffee. Three liveried footmen followed him, carrying a large tub filled with hot water for my daily bath.
Robinson is almost my height. I often give him coats I have grown bored with, which he then has altered to his smaller frame. I cannot say whether it is the wearing of my fine cast-offs or just a natural ability, but Robinson has a general air of loftiness. “Good morning, sir. Would you care for coffee before you bathe? A roll?”
“Yes, thank you,” I responded, sitting up and arranging the silk coverlet around me.
“Reow,” Chakkri stood, stretched, then raised his dark nose toward the tray Robinson held. He sniffed the air. “Reeoow!”
“The cat wants his breakfast, Robinson. I daresay a roll will not do,” I chided. “You know he likes Andre’s scrambled eggs with cheese sauce.”
The valet heaved a long-suffering sigh.
Oh, God. I prayed I would not be treated to Robinson’s Martyr Act this early in the day. Robinson and Chakkri are hardly the best of friends. In fact, the meticulous valet had threatened to leave my employ when the cat first came to live with us. A valet’s reputation is made by the appearance of the gentleman he serves. The thought of cat hair on my clothes put Robinson in high dudgeon. A devilish bad business.
A large increase in pay brought us over the first hurdle. Later, my permission for the valet to use a special cloth to remove any cat hair that dared to attach itself to my coat resulted in an uneasy truce. Still, Robinson has never quite resigned himself to living with the animal. He counts cat hairs on the furniture, and continually tries to find ways to persuade me to crate the cat up and send him back to Siam from whence he came.
I raised a brow pointedly at the valet’s lack of attention to the matter of the cat’s breakfast.
Robinson’s lips pursed. He poured my coffee, dismissed the footmen, and with a muttered, “Andre has spoiled him at home with his cooking,” left the room to get some eggs.
A short time later Chakkri’s stomach was full, and so was mine. Using a well-licked paw, he washed around his whisker pad. Then, he leaped back onto the bed from the floor where he had been dining off the royal dishes, turned around once, lay down, and fell asleep.
I frowned.
Usually after breakfast the cat was ready for an official room inspection, the purpose of which was to determine that everything was in its place and had not been moved during the night. He normally followed this with a monitoring of outside activities from the window, and an inventory of my Sevres collection, muttering about his findings along the way. He is a very vocal animal.
Since we had arrived at the Pavilion, however, Chakkri had chosen to sleep most of the time. Sea-gulls flying past the window caused him to raise his head briefly, but that was the extent of his activities. He was becoming the Viscount Petersham of cats. A lazy specimen of Siamese fur.
I mulled the matter over while bathing, but had to put the problem from my mind when it was time to begin what Robinson and I have dubbed The Dressing Hour. This is that crucial part of the day when I don simple, yet perfectly fitting and elegant clothing, and tie my famous neckcloth. Once the process is complete—and yes, you are correct, it takes longer than an
hour—I never so much as glance in a mirror to check my appearance during the day. Until it is time to change clothes for the evening.
Roughly two hours later, while fashioning the final adjustments to my cravat, my mind drifted to the previous day. “Robinson, have you perchance taken note of a guest by the name of Arthur Ainsley?”
Making certain not a single wrinkle marred the way my mazarine blue long-tailed coat set across my shoulders, the valet’s expression brightened. Nothing was better than good gossip in Robinson’s opinion. “Yes, sir, I have. A quiet young gentleman, but one whose emotions run deep.”
“Hmmm, yes, I agree. I wonder what his feelings are toward the Prince,” I said, turning to face the mirror.
Robinson paused in the act of gathering my nightlinen for the laundress. “The Prince, sir?”
“Precisely,” I replied, unwilling to tell Robinson about the peerage Mr. Ainsley felt the Prince had promised him and then reneged on. I had said enough to whet Robinson’s appetite and wanted to see what he could find out on his own. A seed planted and all that. You understand.
“Hand me my black velvet greatcoat, will you, Robinson? I have a mind to take a walk on the beach.”
“On the beach, sir?” Robinson said, his voice rising in alarm. “Are you quite certain? The pebbles will ruin your perfectly polished Hessian boots!”
“It will not signify. I trust you to take care of the boots,” I told him while putting on the greatcoat and reaching for my hat. “While I am out, perhaps you might see to obtaining some sand. For Chakkri, you know,” I said, indicating the corner of the room where Chakkri’s private container stood.
The valet’s gaze met mine.
In a fit of pique over the cat taking up residence with us, Robinson had selected a particular container for Chakkri to use for his personal needs. The porcelain tray had been a gift specially made for me and presented by a merchant hoping to advance his daughter’s chances in Society. The place where Chakkri often covered a damp spot was directly over the artist’s rendition of yours truly, complete with perfectly tied cravat, tall hat, and raised quizzing glass.
Robinson’s lips tightened.
“Yes,” I said, snatching up the last roll from the breakfast tray and making my way to the door, “we have to fill the tray with . . . something, eh?”
I left Robinson with a moue of distaste on his face.
In the hallway, I allowed myself a smile.
* * * *
Outside the Pavilion, a breeze carried the sea air to my nostrils, and I inhaled deeply, enjoying the scent. Although the autumn air chilled my face, I was warm enough in my greatcoat, despite the grey day.
Striding along the building with my gaze trained on the upper floor windows, I counted aloud. “. . . Two, three, four—aha! That should be my window right there,” I said to no one. Moving several yards away from the structure, I removed the breakfast roll from my pocket and crumbled it into bits with my gloved fingers. Busy tossing the crumbs about on the ground, I did not hear anyone approach.
“George,” a sweet, light voice called from behind me.
I swung around, dropping the rest of the roll. “Freddie!”
Her Royal Highness, Frederica, the Duchess of York stood a short distance away smiling at me. The daughter of a Prussian king and married to King George III’s second son, the Duke of York, Freddie is a small, dignified lady with brown curly hair. Today she wore a rich forest-brown pelisse over a cinnamon-coloured walking gown and matching bonnet. Her charming countenance is the dearest female face known to me. Especially when it holds such an expression of delight as it did now.
“Dear, whatever are you doing, breaking that roll and throwing it about the ground like that?” she asked.
“I thought to attract birds for Chakkri to watch from our window,” I explained. I covered the few steps between us, swept off my hat, and bowed low to her. Then I brushed a last crumb from my hand, reached out and clasped her gloved hand in mine.
One of her hands. The other hand held a leash, which was attached to a dog. Freddie has what you might call a fondness for the creatures and lives with upwards of one hundred of them. This one I had not seen before. He is a sad-looking hound with big, people-like eyes, his colouring running to black and brown with a white chest flecked with black. His snout is white, and he has enormous brown eyebrows which—I give you my word—he wiggled at me.
“Never mind that now,” I said, keeping Freddie’s hand in a tight grasp and looking down into her precious china-blue eyes. “You have come to Brighton at last. When did you arrive?”
She smiled up at me. “Last night, while everyone was at the Johnstones. I had to come. I had to give you your present and could not count on your coming soon to Oatlands.”
I gave her my best look of reproach. “Present? I do not need any gift other than your company. But you wound me. Almost nothing could keep me from your weekend house parties, as you well know. Now that you are here, there will be no need for me to travel to see you. You will be staying through the weekend, will you not?”
Freddie cast a look behind her where her maid, Ulga, stood at a respectful distance watching us. Gently, she tugged her hand from mine. “Oh, I cannot say, George,” she said. “We will see how the Brighton air agrees with me.”
What she meant was that she would have to see if her blackguard of a husband, the Duke of York, found out she had ventured away from the country estate he rarely visited, Oatlands, to travel to the Pavilion. If he did, he might decide to join her, with mistress in tow.
Yes, yes, I know the Duke is highly regarded in some circles, being the Commander in Chief of England’s land forces, but he is not highly regarded in the circle of my brain. Gentlemen should be true to their marriage vows, and if they cannot be, they should at least be discreet. The Duke of York is neither.
“Will you not introduce me to your escort?” I bantered, wishing to see the smile return to Freddie’s face.
“His name is Humphrey, but wait a moment before shaking his paw. Let me give you your present first, George, before someone wanders along and finds it.” Freddie walked over to a nearby tree. The dog and I followed.
With the flourish of a conjurer at Southwark Fair, Freddie reached behind the tree and produced a walking stick. She smiled and handed it to me. “I had this made up especially for you, dear, to thank you for your help with that recent nerve-rattling incident regarding Miss Ashton.”
I stared down at the ebony cane in surprise and pleasure. Beautifully carved, it is topped by an elegant silver dog’s head. The canine’s eyes are sapphires. Such a gift would remind me of the Royal Duchess every time I carried it. “Freddie, it is handsome to be sure, but you need not have given me anything.”
“Nonsense, George,” she proclaimed roundly. “If not for you, Miss Ashton would be in Newgate, my reputation would have suffered, and God only knows what else. I simply desired to show my appreciation for all you did in recent weeks.”
I wanted to tell her that I would do anything for her, cross raging rivers, slay dragons, rescue wounded puppies, whatever was required, but she is a married woman and I am an honourable gentleman. Dash it!
“Thank you, Freddie,” I replied gravely. “This shall be the only stick I carry from now on.”
“George, do not say so! I know you have a marvelous collection of canes. You must not limit yourself to just this one,” she insisted. But I thought there was a spark of pleasure in the depths of her eyes even as she denounced my plan.
“Freddie, I choose to carry only this walking stick,” I said in a tone that stated the subject was closed.
A hint of colour on her cheeks, she took the cane back from me. “Well, if you do carry it, it will afford you a measure of protection. Here, if you twist the silver dog’s head like this,” she said, suiting her actions to her words, “you have a remarkably sharp swordstick.” A gleaming blade snapped out of the bottom of the cane. Freddie handed the cane back to me.
“Excellent,” I said, turning the head back, causing the mechanism to retract the blade, leaving me with an innocent-looking walking stick.
“Now let me tell you about Humphrey, George. I received a petition from him—well, actually his master—who was forced to leave England. Not being able to take the dog along, he feared for Humphrey’s future.”
I looked down at the animal and he gazed back with the most melancholy grimace I have ever seen. He is a short-legged creature, and his long droopy ears and wrinkled jowls almost touched the ground.
“His master begged that I might give Humphrey a home, stating that with sufficient carrots and grated parmesan cheese, the poor darling would be quite content.”
“Carrots?” I asked, casting a disbelieving eye at the animal’s stocky body.
“Indeed,” Freddie confirmed, nodding her head. “Well, George, I need hardly tell you that I offered the dog a home at once. I have not regretted the decision for a moment; Humphrey is such a loving soul. Considering that he has recently been separated from the only master he ever knew, I felt it incumbent upon me to bring him along on this trip to Brighton, so he would not feel abandoned in any way. He must know he is among friends. Will you not pet him, dear?”
With a touch of reluctance born from a mental image of Robinson’s disapproving expression when I handed him gloves covered with dog hair, I knelt down and stroked the top of Humphrey’s head.
“Look, George, he likes you!” the Royal Duchess exclaimed.
Did drooling equal affection? If so, the dog was positively in love with me. I inched my buckskin-clad knee discreetly away. Robinson was skilled in his work, but I doubted he included a drool-remover in his cache of valet equipment. I looked up to reply to Freddie’s statement, when, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a movement at the window of my bedchamber. Focusing my gaze, I perceived a startling sight.
Two eyes blazed at me, the orbs glinting red. A tail snapped repeatedly against the pane of glass.
Chakkri saw me petting Humphrey. Chakkri was angry.
Rescue came from an unexpected source. At that moment, Lady St. Clair, accompanied by her daughters and their maid, headed our way. I could cease my attentions to the dog without offending Freddie.
I rose, then bowed as the ladies joined us. They sank into deep curtseys for Freddie.
“Good morning, Lady St. Clair,” Freddie said regally. “It is a fine day for a walk, is it not?”
“Quite so. We are honoured to have your Royal Highness amongst us. If it pleases your Royal Highness, may I present my daughters, Lady Chastity and Lady Prudence?”
There followed another series of curtseys and pleasant remarks.
Lady Chastity noticed Humphrey. “I’ve never seen a short-legged dog like that before, your Royal Highness.”
“Chastity,” Lady St. Clair said swiftly before Freddie could reply. “Do not be overly familiar with the Royal Duchess.”
Lady Prudence shot her sister a pious look.
Lady Chastity pouted prettily, but did not defy her mother. Lady St. Clair’s command had been gentle, but with a hint of steel underneath.
“It is quite all right, Lady St. Clair,” Freddie said. “The dog’s name is Humphrey, Lady Chastity. Would you like to pet him?”
Humphrey looked up hopefully.
Lady Chastity made a move forward, but her mother’s words, soft but effective, stopped her. “You are very kind, your Royal Highness, but we would not keep you,” Lady St. Clair said. I felt sure she did not approve of her daughter touching the dog, though nothing in her cordial tone indicated it. “The girls and I are taking our morning exercise and will continue to the Steine, if you will excuse us?”
Freddie nodded.
Lady St. Clair and her daughters curtseyed. “Good morning to you and Mr. Brummell, your Royal Highness. I hope you and Humpty have a nice stroll.”
With that, Lady St. Clair moved stiffly away, daughters and maid in tow. I glanced at Freddie who was gazing after them.
“Lady St. Clair did not remember Humphrey’s name correctly,” I remarked.
Freddie said nothing. She is the type of lady who does not like to speak ill of others. A little prompting would be necessary if I were to find out her opinion of Lady St. Clair. And I wished to learn as much as I could about all of Prinny’s guests. “Shall we take Humphrey for a walk on the beach?”
“Good idea, George. He will enjoy it. And you can tell me all of what has transpired since your arrival in Brighton.”
Freddie motioned for Ulga to follow. We began walking at a slow pace around the house. To get to the beach, we needed to walk past the grassy area known as the Steine. Neither of us wanted to appear as if we were following Lady St. Clair and her daughters. I said, “Though I have met Lord St. Clair before, I only met his lady and his daughters last night.”
Freddie stepped onto the footpath bordering the Steine. The park-like area was crowded with people promenading. “Lord St. Clair is a respected man in Parliament. When he inherited his estate, Edenberry Grove, it had fallen into disrepair due to his father’s excessive gaming.”
“Horrid what gaming debts can do to a man. I vow I shall never be brought low by them.”
Freddie gave a gentle tug on the leash as Humphrey had paused to sniff the ground. “See that you do not, George. As for Lord St. Clair, he eventually made the estate into one of the finest in the county. His lordship made a fortunate choice in wives. Lady St. Clair has done a great deal to help bring the estate to rights.”
Translation: Lady St. Clair was the one with the money.
“The daughter of a neighbouring estate owner?” I asked casually, reaching down and moving the animal’s front quarters in order to get him to move along. He finally complied.
Freddie smiled her thanks. “Prior to marriage, Lady St. Clair was Miss Euthenia Beale, the daughter of a London silk importer.”
Translation: Lady St. Clair was the daughter of a Cit, the common term used for City Merchant. This explained her air of being Beyond Reproach. In an effort to cover her undistinguished parentage, Lady St. Clair took pains not to make a single social misstep.
Neither Freddie nor I spoke for a few moments as we gazed out to the sea. The waves were rough, pounding against the shore with wrathful intensity. A bit farther down from where we were, the sea-bathing machines stood without customers. Only a few fishing boats braved the heaving water.
I glanced over at Freddie, thinking she might not wish to stroll on the beach on such a day. Indeed, as I looked around, I observed only a scattering of people about. But Freddie loves unfettered nature and would not be deterred.
I grasped her cherished arm firmly and guided her down the steps. Ulga followed behind. Humphrey seemed excited, his snout raised in high anticipation of a good romp.
“Should I release him from his leash, George?” Freddie asked uncertainly.
“Yes, do. He seems eager for some exercise. I daresay he could use it.”
Freddie bent and unhooked the length of leather from the dog’s collar. He moved quickly for a fellow so close to the ground, his tail up and the tip wagging a bit as he traversed the pebbled ground.
“Perhaps I could ask your advice about Chakkri, Freddie,” I said, taking her arm and placing it through mine. We began to walk down the beach, the sound of the waves crashing in the background.
“Of course you can, dear.”
“Chakkri has been most unhappy since our arrival. He misses home.”
“Have you brushed him lately?”
“Yes, I have an ivory-handled ladies’ hairbrush I employ on him. He makes a game of it, though, walking away and then crying for me to continue.”
Freddie laughed. “I should like to witness that.”
“I would not say this to anyone else, but I know you will understand.”
Freddie nodded her encouragement.
“I daresay it is more a sense of impending doom that is disturbing him. I know I feel it, too.”
“The threats against the Prince? He wrote to me about them,” Freddie’s brow creased in concern.
“Yes. They are serious. And Prinny is feeling the strain. He stepped on Chakkri’s tail yesterday. When the cat yelled, enough guards to repel Napoleon rushed the room, all pointing their weapons at me. It took me some minutes and a few glasses of cherry brandy to soothe Prinny.”
Freddie made sympathetic noises.
“Besides foreign threats, the Prince has made a muddle of certain things here. A woman named Mrs. Davies is said to be carrying his child.”
Freddie’s lips were firmly closed.
“And there is one young man, Arthur Ainsley, who feels cheated out of a peerage he says Prinny promised him. Now he has revenge in his eye,” I told her. “Furthermore, the Prince argued in public with your brother-in-law, the Duke of Clarence, last night at the Johnstones. And Prinny has employed a food-taster.”
Freddie’s blue eyes widened. “A food taster? Great heavens, here in Brighton?”
“Yes, and the man is a cad. Sir Simon, a local baronet. Do you know him?”
“No.”
“An ugly fellow. He made a coarse remark about Lady Perry, and Lord Perry called him out. It took Lord Perry’s cousin, Signor Tallarico, and me to talk him out of it, though Tallarico had pulled a knife on Sir Simon.”
Freddie gasped.
“Perry finally let Sir Simon go, but not before promising to kill him if he so much as mentioned Lady Perry again.” I heaved a weary sigh. “Other than that, things have been dull. Petersham has a new blend of snuff he has promised to let the Prince try this evening, so we have that to look forward to.”
“George! You are making up all these calamities!”
“Upon my honour, I am not.”
“This is dreadful. What can happen next?”
Before I could answer, our attention was caught by a deep woof from Humphrey. His jowls flapped as he raced toward an object being washed up on shore by the angry waves.
Freddie gripped my arm. “Oh, dear God, George. Look! It is a body.”