Free The Bloodied Cravat by Rosemary Stevens Page A

Highness, the Duchess of York, on her birthday. May there be many more birthdays to come so we might continue to enjoy the honour of her company.”
    “To her Royal Highness!” the company exclaimed.
    “Thank you,” Freddie said modestly.
    Gloved hands held crystal glasses high in the air before the guests sipped the drink and then offered their compliments. But then, thoughts of the missing letter—and the Duke of York—intruded on my happiness. I took a large swallow of the liqueur.
     “Delicious,” the Prince declared. “I’ll have another glass, then lead Frederica out for the first dance.”
    Curious glances slid my way. My face remained impassive while I sipped my drink. Mentally I prayed a sudden, ferocious attack of the gout would strike Prinny.
    Yes, I wanted to be the first to dance with her. You probably suspected that. But, you are correct. It is not my place to do so. The Prince is the highest-ranking gentleman in the room, and Freddie’s brother-in-law. He holds the right to the first dance.
    I extended my glass to Old Dawe who refilled it with what I interpreted as a sympathetic look.
    The music began and Prinny took Freddie from my side. I was about to look for a partner when I was distracted.
    “This liqueur is superb, Brummell.” Lord Petersham, whom I have known for ages, sauntered up with his constant companion, Lord Munro. Petersham is tall, dark-haired and angular. Munro is smaller, with thin blonde hair. The two frequently quarrel, but cannot remain apart. Last autumn, when Bow Street suspected Lord Petersham of murder and Lord Munro appeared to have supplied Bow Street with damaging evidence against the viscount, their break seemed permanent. However, their bond is strong, and they resolved their differences last Christmas.
    “Good evening, Petersham, Munro,” I said.
    Lord Munro gave me a curt nod. He does not like me. Too bad of him, really.
    I addressed the viscount. “Petersham, I must thank you for the use of Diggie this evening. His assistance in helping me dress is appreciated.”
    Petersham favoured me with his winning smile. “Robinson won’t be happy. Say, your hair looks different. Diggie responsible for that?”
    “Yes, I have let it grow, and Diggie suggested the Apollo style.”
    “Are you going to continue wearing it like that?” Petersham asked.
    “I might.”
    “O-ho, you’re risking Robinson’s wrath!”
    “I cannot see this concerns us, Charles,” Lord Munro said to Petersham, his gaze frosty.
    Petersham looked uncomfortable, but quickly rallied. He is too lazy to remain upset for long. “By the way, what’s the news on this highwayman everyone’s talking about? Stole your things, did he?”
    “Yes. Apparently he has struck in the county several times over the past years,” I informed him.
    “Egad, what if the highwayman had attacked our coach, Harold,” Petersham said to Munro. “Why, I’ve got a dozen of my best snuff boxes with me. What if the blackguard had taken them?”
    Lord Munro made soothing noises, then looked at me as if I were responsible for upsetting Petersham.
    “I am certain the person responsible will be caught in time,” I said reassuringly, though I felt far from certain that Squire Oxberry would help. What had he done so far?
    Sylvester Fairingdale strode up. “Tsk tsk, Brummell. Had some of your clothing pilfered, did you? How will you go on without your additional garments—No, no, I’ve got the answer! It won’t matter one whit that some of your things were stolen. All of your costumes look the same. You can wear the same one every day and no one will be the wiser.”
    I raised my quizzing glass and slowly studied Fairingdale’s attire through it. Tonight he was all puce and chartreuse. Ugh! If Fairingdale were a good man, I would feel compelled to offer some discreet advice. Since he is a scheming care-for-nobody, altruistic thoughts did not enter my head. “Ah, but Fairingdale, I do not wear costumes , as some do.