Everything around Freddie and me remained normal; the guests nibbled food and chatted, players aimed at the archery targets, birds sang in the aviary, dogs begged for treats at the food tables. Yet, for a moment I heard nothing and saw nothing. I was numb with shock.
Freddie spoke again, her voice flat. “Lord Kendrick took me aside. He stated that he is in possession of that letter I wrote you, George. It is the one I wrote when my husband set up
Mrs. Clarke as his mistress, and I was so very distressed—”
“I know the one,” I managed to get out. The numbness began to leave my body. In its place, a profound self-loathing—what a detestable creature I was for keeping that letter!—along with a blazing rage at the marquess began to overtake me.
Freddie’s voice, now grim, went on despite my silence. “Lord Kendrick said that unless I wanted him to send the letter anonymously to the Morning Post, I would do exactly as he said. At present, he is not blackmailing me for money. His father left a fortune. Rather he wants me to help him gain respect with the highest members of Society, specifically the Duke of Derehurst and his daughter, Lady Deidre. Lord Kendrick desires her to be his wife, and he knows the Duke holds my opinion in high esteem.”
Without a conscious decision to do so, I turned my head in the direction of Lord Kendrick. He was walking away from the Duke and Lady Deidre toward the Cranworths—Roger had finally appeared at the picnic—and Lady Ariana. Lord Kendrick’s smirk was visible even from a distance.
Of a sudden, every nuance of my famous self-control deserted me. I left Freddie without saying a word and strode rapidly across the grass.
Before he could reach the others, I grabbed Lord Kendrick by the lapels of his coat. “You vulgar coward,” I ground out. “Give me that letter or I shall deliver you to your Maker, I promise you.”
Lord Kendrick’s eyes reflected panic. Then he rallied. “I am not the only one who knows about the letter. Killing me will only result in my partner revealing all. The Royal Duchess will be the subject of a roaring scandal, and you will be hanged for murder.”
“Better they take away my life than ruin my or the Royal Duchess’s character. You are the highwayman, or you have employed someone to do your dirty work. Yes, that is it. You just said you had a partner. Not uncommon for the black sheep of the family to take on such an occupation.”
“I’ll not be involved with the robberies any longer,” the marquess said. “I’ll be too busy having you and the pretty little Duchess dancing on a string for me.”
Fury overcame me. “By God, I shall find a way to stop you from hurting her, even if it does cost me my life.”
“Heigh-ho, what’s going on here?” the oily voice of Sylvester Fairingdale interrupted. His sharp gaze rested on the marquess, then my hands on Lord Kendrick’s coat.
The fop acted as a catalyst to bring me to my senses. I looked about me at the curious glances directed my way. Lady Crecy had one hand to her ample bosom. Lady Penelope appeared taken aback. Tallarico reached inside his coat, probably to retrieve the jewel-handled dagger I know he keeps there. Doctor Wendell’s jaw dropped.
For once, I was somewhat grateful for Fairingdale’s tendency to meddle his way into my life. God knows what I might have done to Lord Kendrick had Fairingdale not appeared when he had.
I forced my muscles to relax, and my expression to reflect concern. My hands smoothed the lapels of Lord Kendrick’s coat. “The marquess’s valet had not adjusted the shoulders of his coat properly when Lord Kendrick changed clothes. I was just tugging the coat into place, helping him achieve the proper appearance.”
Lord Kendrick smiled—meaning his smirk twisted a bit—at the company.
The others seemed to accept this explanation and returned to their own pursuits. All except Fairingdale.
“Is that so?” the fop said, clearly not believing a word I had spoken.
“Yes, it most certainly is,” Lord Kendrick answered. “Brummell and I have become the best of friends. In fact, he will be putting my name up for membership at White’s Club for gentlemen when we return to London.”
I should sooner put his severed head up on a stake at the crossroads, but with every ounce of control I could muster I held my tongue and my temper in check.
“We will talk again later,” I told Lord Kendrick.
“Indeed we shall,” he replied in a superiour tone.
I walked back towards the refreshment table, my mind racing. A plan to search Lord Kendrick’s room for the letter immediately presented itself in my brain. Now would be an excellent time, while he was outside. Although his valet might be in his master’s chamber.
First I wanted to say a few words to Freddie, namely words of abject apology, and give her my strongest assurance that I would get the letter back.
However, when I reached the long end of the refreshment table where we had been standing, she was gone. A wigged footman behind the table caught my attention. “I beg your pardon, sir, but her Royal Highness asked me to deliver a message to you.”
“Yes, go on.”
“Mr. Fishe came to her, asking for her assistance with the Royal Duchess’s dog, Phanor.” The footman shifted, looking uncomfortable. “Her Royal Highness instructed me to tell you that she would be unavailable to see you until dinner this evening, sir. She asked that you respect her wishes.”
“Thank you,” I said, feeling as if I had been handed a one- way ticket on the Royal Mail-Coach to Hell. “Would you be good enough to pour me a glass of that Chambertin wine?”
* * * *
Intent on searching Lord Kendrick’s room, I went into the house and sent a footman for Old Dawe. The elderly retainer appeared in the hall and bowed. “What can I do for you,
Mr. Brummell?”
I ran a hand through my hair, not caring about its perfect arrangement. “Which is Lord Kendrick’s bedchamber?”
Old Dawe appeared undisturbed by the question. “His is three doors down on the left from yours, sir.”
“Has he a valet with him?”
“Yes, sir. Thompson, who served the old marquess, now serves Lord Kendrick.”
“Is Thompson, mayhaps, in the kitchens or the pantry just now?”
Old Dawe shook his head. “No, sir. I do not believe he has left the marquess’s room since he helped him change his coat earlier.”
“Did Thompson come down to supper with the servants last evening?”
“No, sir. A maid brought him his meal on a tray.”
“Thank you.”
Climbing the stairs, I decided there was no easy way I could search the marquess’s room while his valet was about. I would have to find a way to divert the man. Quickly.
I reached my bedchamber, flung open the door, and found a possible co-conspirator; Robinson had returned from London.
Robinson dropped the towel he was about to drape over the washstand. “Sir! What has happened to your hair?”
“What? Oh, I think I must have run a hand through it. This has been a trying day.” Good God, was that an understatement.
“No, sir, I mean, I knew it should have been trimmed before I left, but there was no time. Now you have got it in an entirely different style.” Robinson’s eyes narrowed. “Did
Mr. Digwood do that?”
I closed my eyes for a moment. You have allowed your hair to grow. I like it this way.
Freddie. Freddie was angry with me with very good reason. Both our reputations were in jeopardy.
In that case, I shall keep the style. For you.
I must get that letter back. I passed a hand over my brow. “Sir?” Robinson said, coming to stand next to me. “Are you quite well?”
Two chairs stood near the empty fireplace. I angled one toward the other. “Sit down, Robinson.”
The valet did as he was told, his eyes bright with curiosity and, I think, concern for my well-being.
His expression changed when I lowered myself to the chair and a bundle of cat fur named Chakkri jumped into my lap. “Reow,” the feline said, reaching up a paw to my chin.
“Good afternoon, old boy. Well, that is not precisely true, by God.” The cat settled down, content to have me stroke his fawn-coloured back as was only his due in life.
Robinson sat, his lips pursed. He was no doubt gauging the number of cat hairs he would be forced to remove from my clothing.
“Look here, Robinson, I am in a bit of a fix. When the highwayman stole our valises, he got away with my blue velvet book. You know the one I mean?”
“Yes, I do sir,” Robinson replied, distracted from Chakkri by the question. “I have seen you placing sketches and such in it.”
“That is correct,” I agreed, wondering how much to tell him. I did not want to widen the number of people who were aware of the nature of the letter by even one. And that included my trusted valet, who liked to imbibe spirits and chatter at The Butler’s Tankard in London. “Recollect that I was very upset when our things were stolen. The true reason was that I had placed a certain letter in the book for safekeeping. A letter which could prove, er, embarrassing if it fell into the wrong hands.”
“Reow!” Chakkri shrieked. The cat stood up in my lap, his tail bristling. I stroked him from neck to tail, and after a moment, he settled down.
I, on the other hand, felt a sudden chill at the tone of the cat’s cry. You may think me fanciful, but that feline understands every word I say.
Robinson leaned forward in his chair. “Was the letter from a young lady, sir?”
He is always trying to discover the details of my amours, and, as you might imagine, I thwart him at every turn. I raised my right eyebrow by way of censure. “I need your help, and I wish you would ask as few questions as possible.”
“Very well, sir,” Robinson said on a sigh. “Have they caught the highwayman? Does he have the book?”
“No, they have not caught him, but I have reason to believe his identity is Lord Kendrick.”
“Lord Kendrick!” Robinson exclaimed, gripping the arms of his chair. “Sir, that was no member of the Nobility holding a pistol on me, I assure you.”
“I believe you. The marquess has a partner or an accomplice, if you will, a paid ruffian most likely. Before you ask me why Lord Kendrick would stoop to robbing people on the road, let me say that the reasons people do evil things are numerous. To speculate at present would only cost us precious time. Let us just say that, as usual, money is the root of most evil.”
Robinson thought this over. “Already there has been talk of his lordship in the servant’s hall.”
“Oh? What kind of talk?”
“When I returned from London this afternoon, I went to the kitchen to get a bite to eat. Everyone was angry and upset, especially Cook. It seems Lord Kendrick forced his attentions on one of the maids last night, Cook’s niece.”
Robinson and I looked at one another, a silent message of contempt for Lord Kendrick’s behaviour passing between us. Housemaids are routinely accosted, make no mistake, but the frequency of a wicked activity cannot make it the slightest bit more acceptable.
“Look here, Robinson, what I must do is search Lord Kendrick’s bedchamber. I would like to go straightaway, but I cannot see how at present. I must cool my heels until after dinner. I need your help.”
“How can I serve you, sir?”
“Find Thompson, Lord Kendrick’s valet, strike up a conversation, a friendship. Convince him to take a drink with you downstairs, go for a walk in the cooler evening air, whatever comes to mind. That way, while Lord Kendrick is gathered with the guests after dinner, I can search his room. Send word to me when the way is clear. If Thompson questions you as to why you must apprise me of your whereabouts, tell him I keep you on a very short leash.”
Robinson nodded. “I shall do it. After dinner, when the servants are clearing the table and washing up, I should be able to distract him then.”
“Good man.”
A sound like a snort came from Chakkri.
Robinson narrowed his eyes at the cat.
“Pour me a drink before we begin the Dressing Hour, Robinson.”