Free The Bloodied Cravat by Rosemary Stevens Page B

I wear simple clothing, cut to perfection.”
    Fairingdale possesses an elongated neck. That combined with the height of his neckcloth causes him to look down his nose at those around him, me in particular. “Simple?” He drawled the word. “That lace dress you gave the Duke of York’s wife is anything but simple, I should say. Even you must agree.”
    Damn and blast! Tallarico had been talking. How else did Fairingdale know I had given Freddie that dress? Who knew what rumours about the Royal Duchess and me were, at this very moment, flying about the room?
    And if the gossipmongers were hard at work over the dress, what would happen if they learned the contents of the missing letter? I looked at Freddie, dancing with the Prince, and felt a wave of dread.
     

Chapter Ten
     
    Munro drew in a sharp breath. “You gave the Royal Duchess that dress, Brummell?”
    Petersham pulled a gold initialled snuff box from his pocket and took a pinch, appearing bored.
    Fairingdale looked smug.
    I leveled the fop with a pitying expression. “When one is the Arbiter of Fashion, one’s talent for design is often appreciated by royalty. Such was also the case when I helped the Prince of Wales plan uniforms for the l0th Light Dragoons. But, do not worry, you could not be expected to know that, Fairingdale.”
    “Fie! People do look to me for style!” His face turned the colour of his puce coat. His eyes blazed with anger. “I’ll take you down from your exalted post, wait and see. You are nothing more than the son of a secretary.”
    “Secretary and confidential advisor to the late Lord North, a former Prime Minister of England, to be precise,” I replied in a blasé tone. “A highly respected and coveted position.”
    “Mushroom,” Fairingdale spat.
    Mushroom, you know, is slang for an upstart, someone above his station in life.
    I frowned. “Were there? I do not recall seeing any on the dinner table, and I do delight in them, especially in wine sauce.”
    Petersham snickered. Munro looked thoughtful.
    Fairingdale glared down his nose, then turned on his heel and minced away.
    “I cannot think why the Royal Duchess invited him,” I remarked.
    “I don’t think she could have, Brummell,” Petersham said. “He came along with Lord Wrayburn. Fairingdale’s still living at Wrayburn House, don’t you know.”
    “No, I did not. I have not met Lord Wrayburn. Which is he?”
    Petersham indicated a tall, thin, man, the epitome of an Englishman, a bit pinched-looking. He was past his fortieth year with dark blond hair. He stood conversing with Lady Crecy, a woman anxious to marry off her daughter, Lady Penelope.
    My mistake was looking their way. Lady Crecy immediately perceived my gaze and waved a pudgy hand in the air, commanding me to join her. “Excuse me, Petersham, Munro,” I said.
    Arriving at her side, I bowed and was greeted with much enthusiasm and a bouncing of Lady Crecy’s too-tight grey curls. “Oh, Mr. Brummell, how delightful to see you! Here, Penelope, make a curtsey to Mr. Brummell, what can you be thinking? Do not mind her, my dear man, she is awed at seeing you again! She remembers well when you danced with her last autumn at my little party, do you not, Penelope?”
    Before Lady Penelope could answer, her mother’s tongue ran on wheels. “Have you met dear Lord Wrayburn, Mr. Brummell? Of course you remember all that unpleasantness surrounding his mother’s death last year. Such a scandalous crime. But here he is today quite recovered,” Lady Crecy pronounced with a fond smile.
    I bowed and then addressed Lady Penelope. “I am happy to see you looking well, my lady. Are you enjoying the Season?” This would be Lady Penelope’s third Season. Her first two had been marred by her propensity to sniffle. I had passed along the name of a good doctor, and evidently her ailment had been brought under control for she appeared in fine health.
    “I am indeed, Mr. Brummell,” she answered, smiling at me with