Death on a Silver Tray by Rosemary Stevens Page B

he is designing a new style of greatcoat.”
    Our eyes met.
    This is the one challenge Robinson can throw out that I invariably back down from, a truth that irritates me, make no mistake. But that does not change the stratagem’s effectiveness.
     As you have no doubt learned by now, I am rather careful of my reputation as the arbiter of fashion. While under no circumstances do I give complete credit to Robinson for the genius of my clothes and grooming—far from it, I am my own man—I do value our partnership in obtaining the ultimate result.
    So I relented. “Very well. I shall return the cat to
    Mr. Kiang. Send round to the Porter & Pole for two men to carry me in my new sedan-chair. I do not know Mr. Kiang’s direction, but expect I could find out at White’s Club.”
    “Yes, sir. Very good, sir,” Robinson said and hurried to obey the order before I could change my mind.
    In truth, I felt sorrowful about returning the cat. As fond as I am of animals, for some reason I had never considered obtaining one for myself. Now that Chakkri was here, I thought it might be pleasant to have a feline for a companion. And the idea that these cats were bred for royalty and were not yet in England held appeal. What would the Prince of Wales think of my having the animal?
    On second thought, perhaps it would be best not to tell Prinny. We were already at war with France. We need not add Siam to the list of our enemies.
    I rose from my seat at the desk and located Chakkri. He was sitting tall in the manner of a ruling monarch on the side table. The one that contained two crystal glasses and the crystal decanter of brandy I had served Robinson from earlier.
    I held my breath. Would the cat knock the decanter to the floor, shattering the expensive crystal?
    With a movement so delicate and intricate I could not help but be impressed, Chakkri moved sinuously past the crystal. He hopped lightly onto the large bookshelf against the wall. There he investigated the spines of several books before moving down the bookcase toward a Sèvres plate I had recently acquired and displayed. The plate, I noted, sat dangerously close to the edge of the shelf.
    My heart almost stopped in my chest. True, the plate is not one of my very best. As you know, I keep those in my bedchamber. Still, it is Sèvres and lovely. It is a portrait plate I admired because the lady painted in the center has brown hair the exact shade as Freddie’s.
     I could not decide whether to make a grab for the cat before he could send the plate crashing to the floor as Robinson had foretold, or if such a sudden motion on my part would startle Chakkri and create an even more likely catastrophe.
    Standing motionless, I watched as he sniffed discreetly at the plate. In the absolute silence of the room, I suddenly heard a sound.
    Chakkri was purring.
    I felt my shoulders ease and my jaw relax.
    Then a thought flickered across my mind. Was it possible the cat actually appreciated the exquisite artistry of the plate?
     No! That was nonsense. His purring had to have been a coincidence.
    After a few more moments of delicate sniffing, the cat apparently wearied of his explorations. Moving past the plate with the grace of a dancer, he executed another flying leap and jumped onto my chair by the fire. He turned around once, curled into a perfect circle, and closed his eyes.
    I admit I stood there watching him sleep. The rise and fall of his beautiful fawn-colored fur mesmerized me. Occasionally, his whiskers would twitch or his ears would quiver. I wondered if he was dreaming. More likely, I was.
    A short while later, Robinson returned to inform me the men from the Porter & Pole had arrived to carry my sedan-chair. Warily, I picked up the wicker basket and moved toward the sleeping animal. I slid my hand under him, half expecting him to hiss as he had done at Mr. Griffin’s servant, and perhaps even take a slice from my hand.
    Chakkri defied prediction though. He opened his incredible