Free The Bloodied Cravat by Rosemary Stevens

the lace dress I had given her. I could hardly take my gaze from her. Yet, every time I did look at her, the situation regarding the missing letter niggled at the back of my brain, worrying me. I was beginning to feel like I was trapped at the bottom of a hill with a tremendous rock perched somewhere above me, ready to roll down the grass and crush me. Repeatedly, I had to push the matter of the letter from my thoughts.
    Freddie at my side, I spoke. “Earlier today I began the preparation of a liqueur I formulated especially in the Royal Duchess’s honour. Tonight we shall drink to her.”
    A murmur of expectation ran around the room. The Prince of Wales cleared his throat. “I say, Brummell, you’ve never made a particular concoction for me. I find I’m quite out of sorts with you.”
    I laughed and the rest of the company followed suit. Prinny loves food and drink, his excesses continually making themselves known in the form of his ever-increasing girth. The Prince joked, I knew, but nevertheless it would not do to give him even a hint of an insult. I am his friend and have been for many years. Indeed, if not for him who knows if I would ever have reached the heights I have risen to in Society? But one must remember never to take a liberty with Prinny, however close the relationship.
    “Why, your Royal Highness,” I pronounced, “I am saving a secret recipe to prepare on your birthday in August. We shall call it Prince’s Punch, eh?”
    The Prince beamed at my words. “Capital idea. Mayhaps we won’t need to wait until my birthday. Another occasion might arise which would require a special celebration.”
    A tremor of uneasiness fluttered across the room. Everyone knows Prinny burns with the desire to be named Regent. King George III’s bouts with madness are common knowledge. However, every time Prinny tries to persuade Parliament to give him governing powers, his father’s mental condition makes a remarkable turn for the better, frustrating his son’s plans.
    The fact that the Prince has those two wives might also be a factor in delaying a regency.
    In any event, the Prince went on as if there had been no moment of awkwardness. “Meantime, tell us what you have prepared for Frederica.”
    Freddie smiled. About to name the ingredients of the liqueur, I heard the voice I least wanted to hear in all the world ring out over the gathering.
    “Do explain in great detail, Brummell, in case we must give a report to our physicians later.” Sylvester Fairingdale laughed at his own joke, but not many joined him. This spurred him on to say, “Go on, then, you are acting as host here tonight, it seems.”
    Freddie coloured at the insinuation that I took her husband’s place.
    This sly remark is typical of Fairingdale. The fop considers his own taste in clothing far superiour to mine. He envies my position in Society and never misses an opportunity to try to discredit me in any way possible. The barb about my acting as host was particularly inflammatory.
    I chose to ignore him, though I noticed to my chagrin that whispering began. I spoke to the gathering at large.
    “I shall only give you an idea of the contents, as the exact ingredients will only be given to her Royal Highness. Brandy, lemons, currants, cloves, and a little cinnamon make it up,” I said, while Old Dawe filled crystal glasses and passed them around. I waited until I caught Victor Tallarico’s gaze. I looked at him deliberately and said, “I call it Perfetto Amore , because the Royal Duchess is such a gracious and generous lady. She is loved by all who know her.”
    “Here! Here!”
    Tallarico’s eyes burned with what I thought was a grudging admiration, but there was a hint of fury in their depths that I had chosen to name the drink in his language. He wore a dress sword, and I would wager at the moment he wished he could employ it on me.
    I accepted two glasses from Old Dawe and handed one to Freddie. In ringing tones, I said, “To her Royal