I woke slowly. The dryness of my mouth made it almost impossible to swallow. My head felt thick and heavy, and the effort of raising it from my pillow would be agony, I knew.
I was still in yesterday’s clothing. How did I get in bed? I wondered, feeling the clean sheets beneath my palms.
“Good morning, sir,” Robinson intoned from beside the bed.
I turned towards him slowly and squinted. “Is that tea?” I asked, indicating the tray he held.
“Yes, sir.” Robinson set the tray on a table and poured hot liquid into a porcelain cup. “I thought you would be thirsty when you regained consciousness this morning.”
The events of the evening before came rushing back to me. The letter. Hell and damnation, the letter. No one must know. I shut my eyes.
“Shall I ask Cook to prepare a tisane? Some laudanum to ease the pain?” Robinson asked with a mite of compassion. “Or do you just want breakfast?”
“No, thank you, on both accounts,” I answered in a scratchy voice. I would have to face the world, face the problem of the letter with a clear head, not a laudanum-induced fog.
Last night’s overindulgence could not be repeated either. This is an age of hard drinkers, and normally I can hold my own. But my present situation had caused me to go far beyond my usual consumption, evidenced by the fact that I could not even think of eating anything. Usually nothing deters my appetite.
I opened my eyes, carefully pulled myself into a sitting position, and accepted the cup from Robinson. Cautiously, I took a sip. “I do not remember getting into bed.”
Robinson’s lips pursed, a sure sign of his disapproval. “I expect you do not. The first time I entered the bedchamber, you told me to—I believe your exact words were, ‘Go to the devil.’“
“Sorry.”
“Since my sleeping quarters are in the dressing room accessible only through this room, I waited in the hall for an hour.”
“Sorry.”
“The second time I entered, you were out of your senses in that chair over there. I cleared the bed of your clothing and,” here Robinson’s lip curled, “your cat. I now have a cat scratch on my left hand in addition to a dog bite on my right hand.”
“Did you obtain a salve from Cook?”
“Oh, do not concern yourself with me, sir,” Robinson said.
I pressed the fingers of my left hand to my temple and wondered why Robinson had not yet authored a pamphlet entitled How To Inflict Guilt Upon Your Employer.
Without the sympathy that goes so well with tea, Robinson poured more hot liquid into my empty cup. “I set aside articles to be cleaned for this morning, then helped you into bed.”
“Thank you.”
“I have your leather breeches, your shirt, and your new cyanous-blue coat ready for after you have bathed.”
“Perfect.”
“Four and ten cat hairs were on the breeches, three and twenty on the shirt, and the coat had too many to count. I used a special cloth to rid the garment of the blight.” Robinson glared past me to the opposite side of the bed.
Chakkri sat tall on the other bedside table, staring at me and twitching his tail back and forth. The look in his eyes rebuked me for my actions the night before. Good God, was the cat to be my conscience now as well? He need not be. My own conscience screamed inside my pounding head.
Robinson spoke. “Sir, if you are angry with me for losing your clothing, may I remind you that I, too, lost favourite garments in this disgraceful crime?”
I swallowed more tea and raised a hand. “No, you did nothing wrong, and your things will be replaced.”
“Then what, if I may ask, was the reason you threw your clothing all about the bed where that animal could lay upon them, then imbibe enough wine for three men?”
“A whim,” I answered nonchalantly. You do not think I am going to tell him the real reason, do you? I handed him the empty teacup. “What time is it? Have you ordered my bath?”
Robinson heaved a sigh. He picked up the tray containing the teacup and teapot and held it in a manner that mocked the consummate servant. Staring at a point above my head, he recited, “The time is eleven of the clock, the day is Wednesday, the seventh day of May in the year l806. Today is her Royal Highness, the Duchess of York’s birthday. I shall return with your bath.”
So saying, he turned on his heel and left the chamber, shutting the door behind him with a very sharp click, deuce take him.
I eased myself out of bed delicately. With great care, I found I could walk with the room tilting only slightly. I stripped off my shirt and tossed it onto the chair. A glint of gold caught my eye. The miniature of Freddie lay in the corner of the upholstery. I picked it up, stared at her face for a moment, then placed the likeness on my dressing table.
Chakkri watched me walk to the window.
“I assume you have had your breakfast, else I would be hearing about it,” I said to the cat.
He raised a brown paw, licked it, and gave his mouth a swipe.
“Good answer. Upon my oath you understand every word I say.”
Chakkri leapt down and scrambled past me to get to the window first, hopping up on a table to better enable him to look out. He nudged the coffee-coloured draperies aside and stuck his head through the opening. Making sure the window was shut so he could not fall out, I stood behind him, not wishing to be seen by anyone outside.
The sun shone brightly. I nodded in approval even though the light hurt my eyes. Rain would not dare fall on Freddie’s special day. Several people known to me, as well as others I did not recognize, strolled about the grounds. Standing near the drive, with another of her dogs, Hero—a black and tan little scamp—frollicking nearby, Freddie held a lead attached to the spaniel I had given her. She greeted and conversed with her guests.
I drew in a deep breath at the sight of her. She wore a pale blue dress made of light muslin, crossed in front in the popular Grecian style. Her curly brown hair was covered by a straw bonnet with a matching blue ribbon. The distance from the window made it difficult to be certain, but I believe her necklace was of sapphires set in gold. I would wager the shade of the stones matched her eyes exactly.
“Reow,” Chakkri said.
“Yes, she does look beautiful. How much longer, though, will I be able to enjoy the pleasure of her company? Not to mention my place in Society. If I lose that, what am I to do? Become a tailor in Jamaica? Who would patronise a broken Beau?”
Chakkri used a hind paw to scratch a spot behind his right ear.
My jaw clenched, and my brain struggled to function.
Freddie’s letter had been written, as had all her correspondence to me, in French. What were the odds a common highwayman would understand it? Was there a chance of avoiding a raging scandal after all? Dare I hope that neither Freddie nor I would not suffer the consequences of my folly in keeping the letter?
Robinson returned at that moment with footmen carrying my bath. Chakkri and I moved away from the window, he, to the centre of the bed, and I to bathe and begin what Robinson and I have dubbed The Dressing Hour. Of course, it never is one hour, you know.
Once clean, I surrendered myself to the valet’s ministrations. Soon my face was again free of stubble, my squared nails buffed to a shine, my light brown hair arranged to our mutual satisfaction.
After I donned my breeches, a pair of gleaming Hessian boots, and a spotless white shirt, I began the arduous process of tying my cravat. Wrapping the folds of snowy linen around my neck in just the right way, lowering my head so the starched material fell precisely as I wished, then tying the knot, could sometimes take several attempts. Fortunately, this morning we only had two failures before perfection was achieved.
Drawn as if by an invisible bond, I walked to the window and looked outside again while Robinson retrieved my coat. Freddie had moved away from the drive to speak with a strikingly handsome young man with black hair who stood next to a girl who looked to be the feminine equivalent of him. Roger and Cecily Cranworth, the quarrelling siblings? I wondered.
At that moment, an older, decrepit coach pulled into the drive. A man surely feeling the breath of his seventieth year on his neck moved slowly down the coach steps. A footman had to assist him. He wore a cheap brown coat with metal buttons, coarsely woven breeches, and a greasy periwig.
“That must be Squire Oxberry,” Robinson said over my shoulder.
“How do you know these things?” I asked, marvelling at the valet’s knowledge.
“Cook told me about the Squire. He is the district magistrate. Her Royal Highness will be speaking with him about the highwayman,” Robinson replied.
Just then, the Squire looked about furtively, then moved to stand behind the coach, away from where guests mingled. Thinking himself unobserved by anyone other than the footman who had assisted him, the Squire took the opportunity to relieve himself.
I turned from the window in disgust.
Robinson unpursed his lips long enough to mutter, “He cannot even find a chamber pot, how is he going to find the highwayman and our belongings?”
Perhaps it would be better if he did not, I reflected.
“Has Viscount Petersham arrived?” I asked while Robinson helped me into my coat. The valet briskly straightened the material across my shoulders.
“He has, sir. I saw him last night while I was standing outside your room when you had cast me out.”
Mentally, I rolled my eyes. I judged I would not hear the end of my crimes for weeks to come. My next statement was guaranteed to further irritate him. “The sad truth is, Robinson, that thanks to the highwayman, neither of us has enough clothing here at Oatlands for our stay. You must return home as soon as can be arranged and bring back additional garments. Later today, Diggie will help me get dressed for the evening. Robinson! Steady, now!”
He was suddenly using what I felt to be excessive force in smoothing out the material of my costly coat across my back. He eased off, but I could sense his anger.
You see, another source of conflict between the valet and me had been raised. Diggie, Petersham’s valet, and Robinson are arch enemies. The roots of their feud go back to the undeniable fact that Mr. Digwood flaunts in Robinson’s face the fact that he, Diggie, serves a viscount. Robinson never refrains from reminding Diggie—and me—that Petersham has often extended the invitation to Robinson to come work for him.
“Mr. Digwood, sir?” Robinson said, tugging the sleeves of my coat in place. “I should hardly think him qualified to attend you on such an important evening as the Royal Duchess’s birthday fete. You need me.”
Chakkri snorted and snuffled in his sleep. I tell you it sounded like a laugh.
I took a step away and finished smoothing the coat myself. “Now, Robinson, you know I would prefer to have you here, but I need you even more to go to Bruton Street. Surely you would not want me to send a footman with word for Ned and Ted to gather our things, would you?” Ned and Ted are two Dorset country boys in my employ. They carry me in my sedan-chair when I am in Town. Robinson considers them bumpkins.
He leveled me with his most severe Martyr Look. “No, that would not do at all, sir,” he said through stiff lips. “I shall go directly and arrange for transportation back to London.”
“Good man,” I said, attempting a smile. “Hurry back.”
“Yes, sir,” the valet agreed. He made quick work of tidying the room—with a trifle more noise than might be warranted considering the fragile condition of my head—while I made the final adjustments to my cravat.
In truth the neckcloth was perfect. I was merely delaying having to appear downstairs as my usual mannered, charming self, when inside I felt like a trip to the gallows would provide more amusement.
I thought about what Robinson said regarding Squire Oxberry’s inability to find the highwayman. Taking in a deep breath, I clung to the idea of the highwayman never being caught with his contraband. My mind took the further leap to an image of the villain going through his illegally obtained goods, and coming upon the blue velvet book. Flipping through the pages and finding nothing more than drawings and words he likely could not read, he would toss the useless thing onto the fire. In my mind’s eye, I could see the flames engulfing Freddie’s letter, transforming it to harmless ashes. Then all would be well.
That thought gave me the courage to bid Robinson farewell, tuck the miniature of Freddie into my pocket and exit the chamber to join the company.
Had I known the true fate of Freddie’s letter, I might very well have made my own hangman’s noose, and put it to use around my fashionably clad neck rather than face what was soon to occur.