Let's Talk of Murder (7 page)

“I wager Prinney and Lady Hertford know nothing of this,” Corinne said. When she saw Luten’s quick frown, she added, “And won’t be happy to hear it either.”

“There’s his excuse to renege on the reward,” Coffen said. “Told you nothing would come of that promise, Luten.”

Prance perched on the arm of the sofa and said, “I disagree. You mentioned you have it in writing, Luten,
n’est-ce pas?
A gentleman can hardly go back on his word.”

Coffen sniffed. “Seems to me that gentleman makes his own rules. He’d have a soft heart for a fellow involved in petticoat dealings. Rumor has it he has a dozen or so by-blows himself. There’s an awful thing to think about. A dozen Prinneys running around town in a decade or so. They’ll bankrupt the nation.”

“We don’t actually know that young Fogg is the father,” Luten said. When Prance’s extremely disparaging eye turned on him, he sighed. “But of course it sounds like it.”

“Thing to do,” Coffen said, “have a word with Fanny Rowan tomorrow.”

“Will they even let us in to see her?” Prance asked.

“Perhaps, if a lady is with you,” Corinne suggested.

“Aye, it might be best if you come along,” Coffen agreed.

A bell rang, summoning them to dinner. It took very little urging for Prance to accept, and none at all for Coffen Pattle. Luten, using a cane, escorted Corinne to the dining room with the others following. The table was laid with all the care of a formal party. Crystal sparkled, silver twinkled, and in the center of the board a vase of late roses nodded.

Coffen lifted his nose and sniffed the air like a hunting dog. “Time for fork work, eh? Is that turbot I smell? And a roast of pork. Not a whiff of scorching. There’s a pleasant change.”

The turbot in cream sauce was delectable, the pork so tender it hardly needed the knife. Neither the potatoes nor the gravy were lumpy and the petit pois were not boiled to a mush. Coffen could only wonder how such culinary miracles were accomplished. Prance nibbled an occasional pea and moved the meat around with his fork. He would have served a white wine with the pork, but the burgundy, he admitted, was excellent.

When Coffen held his plate up for more pork, Prance said, “Tut tut! You’re forgetting your aver dupois, Pattle.”

“You’re right. Put more of them petit pois on my plate while you’re at it. There’s a good lad.”

Prance excused himself after dinner to attend a concert of antique music. Coffen declined the invitation to join him. “If I wanted antiques, which I don’t, I’d go and visit my Aunt Lydia,” he said. “I’ll ankle along to some clubs. I might get a new line on Fogg.”

“Corrie? Or do you wish to stay and hold Luten’s hand?” Prance asked. “Do give her an evening off, Luten. The poor girl is turning into a shadow with all this dancing attendance on you.”

“Corinne is perfectly free to go if she wishes,” he said.

“No, no. I’ll stay with you,” she said at once.

That was all he wanted to hear. Once she offered, he insisted she go. “I feel a tyrant, keeping you away from all the entertainment London offers. I have plenty of work to do designing my Cabinet.”

“Taking up carpentry for a hobby, are you?” Coffen asked with interest.

“In a manner of speaking. I’m hammering together a Cabinet to run parliament.”

“Ah, that kind of cabinet. I wondered. Never knew you to be into hammering and sawing wood. I’m off. A lovely dinner, Luten. My compliments to your chef.”

Prance went home to change into evening clothes, leaving the lovers a few moments alone. They passed the time in the way lovers do. Luten finally got to try his hand at behaving like a proper fiancé.

When Prance called for Corinne later, she said, “I should have stayed with Luten. I don’t really feel like a concert this evening.”

“Actually it will have begun already,” he said, nudging her toward the door. “What do you say we stop in at Lady Melbourne’s do instead?” He didn’t actually know that Lord Byron would be there, but Melbourne House in Whitehall was the likeliest place to find him. He and Lady Melbourne were bosom bows. She was trying to arrange a match between him and her niece, Annabelle Milbanke, to relieve him of the importunities of her daughter-in-law, Lady Caroline Lamb.

“I’m not sure Luten would like that.”

“Don’t be foolish. Did he not say he feels badly, you missing all the parties? The Melbournes are good, staunch Whigs. And when you’re with me, he knows you’re well chaperoned.”

“I suppose it will be all right. They’ve shipped Lady Caroline home to rusticate at Brocket, so there’ll be no scandals afoot, even if Byron is there. Not that he seems to need help in causing scandals,” she added skeptically.

The rout party at Melbourne House was an informal affair held in the painted ballroom. After being greeted by their hosts, they mingled with the throng, until Prance spotted Byron across the room, at which time he began working his way in that direction. Byron spotted Lady deCoventry at the same instant, and began pressing toward her. They met in the middle of the room, catching Corinne by surprise.

She had often seen the famous poet in the middle of a throng, but this was the first time she had seen him up close, and his beauty quite took the breath out of her. She understood at once why Lady Caroline Lamb had declared him, “Mad, bad, and dangerous to know.”

His palely handsome face was set off by a lock of dark hair tumbling over his brow, but it was at his brooding, liquid eyes that she gazed longest. They seemed to draw her in, like quicksand. But the most seductive thing about him was the invisible aura of glamour and even a hint of decadence that hung about his elegant shoulders. It was generally believed that the hero of the sensational
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
was based on himself.

He had encountered cut-throat pirates and brigands, been entertained in Albania by the cannibal, Ali Pacha, suffered shipwreck, fevers and numerous love affairs, and in the midst of all these excitements took time out to write his poetry, and meditate in a Capucin monastery before returning to England, bearing with him skulls, live tortoises and a phial of some mysterious poison. He had lived ten lives, and every one of them was reflected in his eyes.

His sensuous lips opened in a small, peculiarly intimate smile, while those world-weary eyes gazed deeply into hers. “No, don’t tell me, Prance,” he said in a soft voice, when Prance began to make the introduction. His eyes never left Corinne. “This charming vision can only be Lady deCoventry.”

Corinne heard a high-pitched, nervous little laugh come from her lips. “And you, sir, can only be the infamous Lord Byron,” she replied, and at once regretted that “infamous”. Why had she said such a thing to the foremost poet of England?

He lifted her hand to his lips, where they hovered an instant before brushing her fingers with a gentle touch, like the wing of a moth. Already he was misbehaving. It was the custom for the lady’s hand to stop an inch below the lips. She did not reprove him, but only flushed in guilty pleasure, while her heart hammered in her throat.

“It has long been a matter of infinite regret to me that I cannot dance,” he said in that softly seductive voice that sent shivers up her spine. “This evening, I find it Intolerable. Now have I touched your heart sufficiently to suggest you and I find a quiet corner and get to know each other?”

“Excellent idea!” said Prance, who had no intention of being excluded from the talk. He led them through the throng, bowing and nodding importantly, until they reached the edge of the room, where a row of bentwood chairs stood waiting for the chaperons.

“Not here,” Byron said. “Let us escape the tiaras. We shan’t be able to hear ourselves think for the gabbling. The library is just down the hall. It will be quieter there. Lady Melbourne won’t mind. I run quite tame here. We’re the best of bosom bows.”

Corinne cast a quick look around the room for someone she could claim she must speak to. Finding no one, she went with them. Several heads turned to watch as Byron motioned to a footman and asked for wine to be taken to the library. Prance was relieved it wasn’t hock and soda water. He had found, after a few trials, that the drink was impotable.

“I’ve been meaning to call on you, Prance,” Byron said, his gaze just flickering to Sir Reginald, before returning to Corinne. “You recall you were to introduce me to Lady deCoventry. It was not a lack of interest that kept me away, but a lack of time. They’re trying to get the bit between my teeth at Whitehall after I made a speech defending the Luddites.”

They were interrupted by a brace of the tiaras Byron had complained of. After Byron had said a few words and got rid of them, he closed the door and returned.

“Oh do you think you should close the door?” Corinne asked uncertainly.

“Not if it makes you uncomfortable,” he said at once, and opened it again. She felt a perfect fool. Prance was with them after all. She was making too much of it.

Prance could see she was upset and spoke on quickly, before she insisted on leaving. “Actually I’ve been pretty busy myself.”

Without missing a beat, Byron turned to Corinne. “Then you must allow me to substitute for your busy friend, madam. Let me take you for a whirl in my carriage tomorrow.”

Corinne was not immune to his charms, but Luten had been particularly attentive that evening and she had no intention of obliging the rakish poet. “I’m busy myself tomorrow,” she replied.

He ignored the waving fans and handkerchiefs of the ladies at the doorway who were trying to catch his attention. “Be naughty. For once–like me,” he urged. There was a challenge in those dark eyes, and that softly lifting smile. “Tell all your admirers you have the megrims, or the toothache, or a sick aunt and escape with me. We’ll drive into the country, an unplanned excursion, and see what Fate has to offer two jaded souls,”

“I hope I’m not jaded! And it’s not a mere pleasure visit that occupies me tomorrow, it is duty, sir. Something you are, perhaps, not overly familiar with,” she said daringly.

“I would be enchanted to meet Duty, if you would provide the introduction. That, in case you didn’t recognize it, was an offer to assist you, if possible, in the execution of your duties tomorrow. I am a kind of burr. I shall stick.”

Prance, who had been listening closely to learn this Don Juan’s technique, recognized those last words as coming from Shakespeare, and admired the ease with which Byron slipped them into the conversation. He said, “That’s not a bad idea, Corrie. They might hesitate to let us in, but with Lord Byron along — “

Byron shrugged modestly. “I shall be your passe-partout.”

She was torn between duty and the thrill of illicit, or at least naughty, excitement. Every lady in London wanted to attach Byron but loyalty to Luten, along with the need for discretion, urged her to decline the offer, which she reluctantly did.

Prance was not made of such stern stuff. He saw no need to reveal to Byron just why they were going to the home for unwed mothers. He rationalized that the famous poet would be certain to gain an entree for them all. Once there, Corinne could have a private chat with Fanny Rowan while he and Byron toured the home. Prance vaguely explained their errand, making no mention of Fanny or Fogg, and said that Byron was welcome to join them. Byron accepted at once, and it was arranged that Prance and Corinne would pick him up in the morning at eleven o’clock.

“Luten will have your head on a platter,” she said bluntly as they drove home an hour later. Byron had stayed with them during the whole of their visit, to the dismay of every other lady at the party and the secret delight of them both.

He explained his thinking, finishing with, “And besides, Byron, you recall, has been in on this mystery from the beginning. He was with the prince when the shot was fired.”

“He hasn’t been in on it since then,” she pointed out.

“Don’t go then, if that’s the way you feel about it.”

“I might be of some help, though.”

“No need to tell Luten, if you’re worried about his feelings,” he said in a perfectly casual tone.

“Of course I’ll tell him.”

“That’s up to you. But if you wish to go along without terminating your engagement, I would suggest you tell him after we return.”

“That’s very sneaky, Prance.” After a moment, she added, “I daresay the commotion and worry wouldn’t be good for him. Perhaps it would be better not to tell him at the moment.”

“Much better,” Prance agreed, chewing back a smile in the darkness of the carriage. “He is charming, isn’t he?” It didn’t even occur to her that Prance was referring to anyone but Lord Byron. He had that charismatic, larger-than-life sort of personality. “Did you notice the heads turn as we left the ballroom? I swear every lady in the room made an excuse to be at the library door to see what we were doing. I felt as if I were on exhibition, like the wild animals at Exeter Exchange.”

“You loved every minute of it.”

“I enjoyed it for one evening—and so did you, miss. Your face was positively glowing. I don’t know how he stands it on a permanent basis, though. Poor fellow. One has really to feel a little sorry for him. And he’s so young! It’s a wonder all the adulation hasn’t gone to his head.”

“How old is he?” she asked.

“Just four and twenty, like yourself.”

“It’s odd, he seems much—older,” she said, but was unhappy with the last word.

“Well, he is certainly a deal more experienced,” Prance admitted. “I felt like a mere whelp myself. He’s a charming man. Charming. I don’t know how any lady with blood in her veins could resist him.”

As he spoke, he slanted a sly look at Corinne. She looked quite moonstruck. She didn’t answer, but just sighed softly in regret, or anticipation.

Prance called for Corinne at half past ten the next morning. He took her elegant toilette as a compliment to Lord Byron, for in the normal way she was too sensitive to flaunt her wealth and fashion at a home for unwed mothers. She looked quite ravishing in a teal blue suit that showed off her lithe figure to maximum advantage, and a high poke bonnet with a flurry of feathers tumbling over the brim. He hadn’t seen her eyes aglow with such excitement since the last time she and Luten had enjoyed one of their spats.