Let's Talk of Murder (2 page)

At her present age of four and twenty, her beauty was at its peak. The contrast of crow black hair against her ivory complexion frequently drew a comparison to a cameo, but this didn’t do her justice. That prime aesthete, Sir Reginald Prance, averred her true claim to beauty was in her liveliness. No mark of the crow’s foot marred the corners of her brilliant green eyes. When she opened her cherry lips, the voice that issued forth held the throaty quality of a thrush. After straining for a simile, Prance had compared it to a cello softly played in a velvet tunnel.

“What did he want, Luten?” she demanded the instant they were inside his door, without even inquiring for his comfort. When a royal prince had just left the house, it was not necessary to further identify “he.”

Prance and Coffen added their excited queries, until the elegant saloon echoed like a cattle market.

“If you will all be quiet a moment, I’ll tell you,” Luten said, at his most haughty. The room fell still as they each found a seat. Luten then outlined briefly and succinctly what the prince wanted and what the reward was, with emphasis on the need of secrecy.

Corinne was the first to respond. “Imagine the Prince Regent wanting our help!” she said, dazed.

“We’re famous!” Prance cried, and uttered a high pitched laugh. His aim in life was to be famous. He hardly cared in what sphere, but if given a choice would have opted for something artistic. Drama, poetry, music, painting, fashion—these were his fields of expertise. Upon receiving a grunt from Pattle, he added, “Well, famous on Berkeley Square.”

“You’ve bitten off more than you can chew, Luten,” was Coffen’s reaction. “Everybody in England hates Prinney. With nothing to go on but a shadow, how do you hope to find the fellow?”

This blunt stating of the facts did little to dim the general excitement. No one ever paid much heed to Coffen Pattle. No doubt his unprepossessing appearance had something to do with it. When a gentleman is cursed with a short, stout body covered in an invariably rumpled and frequently spotted jacket, he gains little respect. Add to that mud-colored hair, a ruddy complexion and a tendency to blurt out the unvarnished truth, and his inconsequence is assured. His sharp blue eyes didn’t miss much, however, and he had more than once proved that his mind was as sharp as the next fellow’s.

“We have a little more than a shadow to go on,” Luten pointed out. “There were three other people present. We’ll interview them. Perhaps one of them saw something.”

Sir Reginald sat silent a moment, then said. “I shall undertake to interview Byron for you, Luten.” Prance had a mad passion for Byron. He didn’t know whether he loved or hated the man, but in the very bottom of his heart, he knew that the famous, handsome, rakish poet was all that he aspired to be himself. As a failed poet, Prance was green with envy of Byron’s success. As a fop and a dandy, he envied his looks. Bryon achieved, without even trying, that
degag
é
air of unconscious style that Prance craved. As a mere baronet, he envied Byron’s title. As to his success with the ladies! Really, it hardly seemed fair for one man to be blessed with such an abundance of riches.

Prance was elegantly slender with a feline, almost feminine grace in his movements. He was quite enchanted with his own physique, and lavished much attention on its ornamentation. What pleased him less was his narrow face, that had more than once been likened to a greyhound. He acknowledged quite frankly, at least to himself, that he had a mean streak. But then he found his friends’ faults only added to their interest, and he was never slow to grant himself any indulgence granted to anyone else.

When he saw the relieved look in Luten’s eyes, Prance added mischievously, “Or perhaps Corrine would have better luck with Byron, as he gets along so famously with the ladies.”

The rogue in him enjoyed watching Luten squirm. Luten was almost as jealous of his fiancée as she was of him. The pair of idiots were madly in love, but whether they would ever actually get to the altar was becoming a moot point. Their engagement was of short duration, but for the three years since Lord deCoventry’s death they had been alternately squabbling and flirting and annoying each other with various love affairs. This was the result of Luten’s premature proposal during her mourning. Unprepared for it, she had uttered a nervous laugh and replied bluntly, “Good heavens, no.” Luten’
s
pride had taken years to recover from the shock.

“But then who would interview Lady Hertford?” Luten asked, refusing to reveal his annoyance. “I thought Corinne the proper one to speak to her.”

“Me,” Coffen said. “Surely you ain’t suggesting Prinney would be jealous of me! I’m younger than her son. Who in his right mind would look twice at the Old Lady of Manchester Square anyway?”

This was the nickname society had bestowed on Lady Hertford. “She is half a century old, and fat as a flawn. And churchy along with it.”

“That’s the way Prinney likes his ladies,” Prance said.

“Well it ain’t the way anyone in his right mind likes ‘em.”

Prance shrugged. “Perhaps his affection for Rubenesque ladies is a vain effort to make himself appear less gargantuan.” His eyes made a disparaging tour of Coffen’s toilette, and added, “You, for instance, might appear less like a scarecrow if you associated with footpads and link-boys, rather than with gentlemen.”

“And you might not be so hateful if you kept a civil tongue in your head,” Coffen riposted. “Tahrsome fellow.”

Luten cleared his throat. “As I was saying, I think out of respect to the prince, we ought to have a lady speak to Lady Hertford.”

“That leaves Henry Fogg for me,” Coffen said. “Do you know anything about him?”

“Only that he’s some connection to Lady Hertford. You can get his address from her.”

“I’ll ankle along with Corinne to Manchester Square, then. All a waste of time. It’s Prinney the fellow has some grudge against, depend upon it. The others won’t know anything about it. The real mystery is how he missed such a monstrous target. He must have been drunk as a Dane.”

“Byron might very well have been the target,” Prance said, placing the tip of his finger against his lower lip. “Any gentleman who has seduced the half of London must have a host of enemies.”

Coffen shook his head. “If they had any sense, they wouldn’t take a shot at him when he was with the prince. Bound to cause a ruckus. They’d wait until they got him alone in a dark alley.” As usual, he was ignored.

“What will you do, Luten, while we trot about town, acting as your legs?” Corinne asked.

“I shall send for Henry Brougham, and make plans for when we take over the government,” he replied in a gloating voice. “That is to be our reward, you recall. I want to discuss the affair with him. He has the sharpest mind in the party.”

“Will he be the Prime Minister, or will you?” Coffen asked.

“Surely Grey or Grenville?” said Prance, surprised. “Not to disparage your abilities, Luten, but you—and Brougham as well—are a little young for the post.”

“Prinney made a point of mentioning my leadership qualities. Pitt was twenty-four, I believe, when he was made Prime Minister,” Luten replied coolly.

“But he was a genius!”

Luten was much too polite to glare, but his voice held an edge of ice when he replied. “Yes, well, that is the sort of thing I want to discuss with Brougham. And it won’t get beyond discussion unless we find the wretch who fired that shot last night.” He looked around at his helpers, rubbed his hands and said, “So, shall we get busy? Report back to me the moment you finish your assignments.”

“Sounds like grammar school,” Coffen grumbled, rising.

“Coming, Corrie?” Prance asked.

“I want a word with Corinne before she goes,” Luten said.

When they were alone, he put out his hand and she went to him. “You must be extremely frustrated to be
hors de combat
at this time,” she said, squeezing his fingers.

“Bad timing indeed. But I can hobble about a little. I got downstairs by myself, and could make it to my carriage if necessary.”

“Don’t strain yourself. You’re supposed to be recuperating, so that we can go to Ireland, you recall.”

This was her roundabout way of reminding him of their pending wedding. It was to take place at Ardmore Hall, her home in Ireland, when he recovered, for she would not risk having the society wags say she only managed to catch him when he couldn’t run. She could not bring herself to say simply, “Hurry up and get better so we can get married.” That would skirt too close to admitting that she was in love with him.

“I’m not likely to forget, my dear,” he said, and pulled her on to his knee for a long, satisfactory embrace, that said all that needed saying. They were both better at acting than at words, when it came to love.

Coffen and Prance were waiting for her outside. “What do you make of this?” Prance asked, as they crossed the road. Since Prance lived on the same side of the street as Luten, she assumed they were inviting themselves to her house for a drink before going their separate ways, and led them inside.

Her house seemed small and modest after the gilt and brocade grandeur of Luten’s mansion. Her late husband could not leave her his entailed estate but he had set aside funds to provide this small house, along with a country retreat and twenty-five thousand pounds, the interest on which provided her with a competence. With Prance’s help, she had contrived an elegant drawing room with an air of cozy opulence.

“Like I said, there’s no hope of finding the fellow,” Coffen said again, when they had been supplied with a glass of wine and gathered around the fireplace. Then he added consideringly, “Like looking for a weasel in a haystack. But it will be fun trying, eh?”

Prance usually corrected Coffen’s solecisms, but his mind was too full of Byron to notice the latest. “I quite look forward to calling on Byron with some legitimate reason, so that he doesn’t mistake me for one of his fawning fans,” Prance said.

“Mistake?” Coffen snorted.

Prance ignored that jibe. “By the by, does anyone know his address?”

“Number 8 St. James’s Street,” Coffen replied.

“How do you know that?” Prance demanded sharply.

“Don’t worry. I haven’t been there. Saw him going in. Twice. Only reason I noticed, there was a herd of people with books they wanted him to sign.”

“Oh,” Prance said with a wince of envy. “Do you think I should take him a copy of my
Rondeaux
as a sort of courtesy?”
Round Table Rondeaux
was the title of Prance’s long, stupefyingly tedious poem in iambic pentameters, fully footnoted, on the Arthurian legend. Despite its great length, it omitted all the more interesting parts. Lady Guinevere made no appearance.

“No,” Coffen said without hesitation.

Prance nodded consideringly. “You’re right. He would already have a copy.” Noticing Corinne’s pensive frown, he said, “ ‘Why so pale and wan, fond lover?’ Was Luten not gallant when he shoo’d us out and kept you behind?”

“It’s not that. I was just thinking, if we do find the man and Luten is made Prime Minister, when will we ever have time to get married?”

Coffen sniffed and refilled his glass. “Shouldn’t fret about that, Coz. Prinney’s not one to worry about keeping his promises. All a bogus sham. If by some quirk we find the fellow we’re looking for, Prinney will give Luten an engraved snuff box or perfume bottle, and that’ll be the end of it. Mark my words.”

“I hope you may be right.” After the words were out, she colored and added, “Oh dear! I didn’t mean that. Luten would make a marvelous Prime Minister. And it’s what he has always wanted. Only...”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head,” Coffen said. “Not a chance in a million we’ll find the scoundrel. And if we do, as I said, Prinney will renege on his promise. So, let us be off.”

“And I shall be off to St. James’s Street,” Prance said, rising. But first he had to dart home and make a fresh toilette. One did not call on the premier poet of England in a shirt that had been on his back for two hours.

Prance was as nervous as a deb when he drew up outside Number 8, St. James’s Street. He was surprised at the inelegance of Byron’s butler, a burly country-looking fellow who showed him into a saloon not unlike something Coffen might have contrived, had he spent some years in the east. A second look revealed books scattered everywhere, one clutter that Coffen would have avoided.

Strange round leather footstools were littered about the floor. Byron was sprawled on an uncomfortable-looking sofa without a proper back. The prints on the wall and the brass and ivory bibelots sprinkled on various table tops had the air of the mysterious east. A marmalade cat with one eye gave Prance a look of contempt as he brushed past, flicking his boots with a swing of his tail.

Byron stood up and extended his hand when Prance entered. Despite the disarray of a tumbling curl over his forehead, a white shirt open at the throat and trousers creased from sprawling, he was still the most beautiful, glamorous person Prance had ever encountered. His eyes, an indeterminate blue-gray like the sea on a cloudy day, were edged in inch long lashes that belonged on a woman. His skin had an interesting pallor, and his mouth—sensitive yet capricious—was straight out of a Renaissance painting of a mischievous cherub. Over all this physical glory hovered the tantalizing aura of his foreign travels, his famous poems and his many love affairs, causing a sensation not unlike intoxication.

Prance, famous for his silver tongue, found himself speechless. His tongue literally cleaved to the roof of his mouth, and what issued from his throat was nothing else than a croak like a corncrake.

Byron limped forward and clasped his hand in a firm grip. “Come in, have a seat, Prance,” he said, in a warm, friendly voice. “Good of you to call. I’ve seen you about here and there and have been looking forward to making your acquaintance.”

“Too kind, milord,” Prance croaked, and sank on to one of the low leather stools, until Byron took him by the arm and led him to the backless sofa.

“Forgive the shambles,” Byron said, but with no air of apology. “I leased this flat unfurnished as a pied-à-terre for a few weeks, or a few months, or a few something until I decide where to roost until I take off for sunny climes again. This ottoman and the bits and pieces you see are some of the loot I lugged home. I am quite a magpie in that respect, never come home empty-handed. This rubble will be sent along to Newstead Abbey eventually.”