Murder While I Smile (12 page)

“Aye, and I’ll make sure I wipe my nose next time I sneeze as well. I didn’t come down in the last rain, Luten.”

“Sorry, Henry,” Luten said with a charming smile as he rose to take his leave. “I keep forgetting you’re the wise man of the party. You’re such a young wise man.”

“There’s naught to do in Scotland but sit and think and grow wise,” Brougham replied with a laugh, pleased with the compliment.

“And eat oatmeal.”

* * * *

Like Prance, Luten required solitude and silence to ponder the matter at hand. Unlike Prance, he did not seek it at home but in the privacy of his office at Whitehall. If he could get Yvonne arrested for selling forged paintings, that would at least put her out of commission for the nonce, hopefully until this war was over. She had asked him to write to his friend in Somerset and inquire whether he was interested in the Watteau. To speed matters up, he had told her that the gentleman had asked him to scout some pictures for him and the answer was a foregone conclusion.

He assumed that she would send the picture off to whoever made her copies for her, secure in her mind that the buyer was well removed from London and knew little of art. To discover who the forger might be, Luten had set a footman to watch her house and follow her if she left, or if she sent a servant out on an errand. Winkle was to report to him at once if he discovered anything of interest. Winkle was a good lad who had done this sort of work for him before. He would dress himself up as a dandy and drive a gig to the corner of Half Moon Street and busy Piccadilly, with a view of Chamaude’s house. There he would remove the bolt from a wheel of the gig, which could quickly be replaced to allow him to follow anyone leaving her house. Meanwhile, he would watch the comings and goings while ostensibly awaiting the arrival of the wheeler.

In a little over an hour, Winkle came tapping at his door, big with news. He looked so elegant in his blue jacket and curled beaver that no one would ever suspect his humble origins, until he opened his mouth.

“Boisvert!” he exclaimed triumphantly.

“What about him?”

“A footman went to visit Boisvert. He was carrying a big parcel wrapped in brown paper. Looked the right size for the picture you mentioned.”

“Who’s Boisvert?”

“A French artist. He has what he calls an ay-tell-eeay in Shepherd’s Market,” he said, struggling over the French word. “A ratty little place between Curzon and Piccadilly. Not far from Half Moon Street. The fellow didn’t even take a carriage. He went on shank’s mare.”

“Shepherd’s Market. I know the place.”

“The footman took the parcel in and come out whistling ten minutes later. Went back to Half Moon Street empty-handed.”

“You’re sure he didn’t see you?”

“Nay, he never looked behind him. I got the wheel back on the gig and followed him at a distance, drove past as he was going into Boisvert’s, then drove the rig around the corner and walked back. Met up with a race-track tout that was selling tips on the races, so as to look natural, walking two by two.”

“Good work, Winkle. Did anyone else call on the lady?”

“A handsome-looking gent went in earlier and was still there when I left. Tall, dark.”

“The mysterious Frenchman!”

“He looked like it, though I didn’t hear him speak at all.”

“You’ve done good work, Winkle. You can go home and await further instructions. Have a few ales on me,” he said, and handed Winkle a golden coin.

“Do I keep on me fancy duds?”

“Yes, best be ready for another assignment, but don’t go back to your old post or she’ll suspect you.”

Luten was feeling the weight of conscience where his fiancée was concerned and decided there was no reason he couldn’t take Corinne with him to visit Boisvert. In fact, he would ask Boisvert to do a portrait of her. That would please her and get himself into the atelier. He assumed Boisvert was capable of painting a decent picture if he was the artist who was doing the forgeries for Yvonne. While Boisvert discussed costume and setting and so on with Corinne, Luten planned to ferret around the studio to see what he could discover.

At Berkeley Square, Corinne was becoming impatient at being virtually abandoned by her fiancé at this romantic period of her life. She had thought they would get down to serious wedding plans when Luten returned from the country, and instead of that, they had hardly seen each other. She had seen Reggie dart over to visit Coffen. When the knocker sounded, she thought it was them calling on her. She was surprised and delighted to see Luten shown in.

After a somewhat perfunctory embrace, for Black was watching like a hen guarding its chick, she said, “You had a call from Coffen?”

“Yes, with Chamaude’s copy of the
Rondeaux
that mysteriously ended up in Marchant’s hands. It was very helpful. I fear Gresham got the contract, however. Yarrow cast the deciding vote.”

“At her instigation, I warrant!”

“Very likely. But enough of that. We have more pleasant things to discuss. I would like to give myself a wedding present.”

She looked a question. “I am reluctant to ask what,” she said.

“A portrait of you, as you look now, all brightly radiant and happy.” He gazed at her, smiling softly, until an answering smile stole across her lips.

“Lawrence?” she asked, naming the foremost portrait artist. “Let us have one done of you, too. A pair for the family gallery.”

“Lawrence, certainly, for our formal portraits for the gallery at Southcote, but I would like something more informal for my own sole enjoyment. Brougham mentioned to me this morning a fellow who does good work. Has a little atelier in Shepherd’s Market.”

“Shepherd’s Market? Can he be any good, working out of that squalid place?”

“Perhaps he can come here to do the actual job. I thought we might drop around there this afternoon and have a look at his work. If we don’t like it, we need not hire him.”

Corinne was flattered that he wanted her likeness and agreed to go at once.

* * * *

Prance, watching the comings and goings from Coffen’s window, said, “The deceiver! There he goes off with Corinne, and she smiling, unaware of his treachery. Friendship is full of dregs, Coffen.”

“So’s wine. What of it?”

“I always admired Luten, but as the poet says, ‘Friendship is constant in all other things, Save in the office and affairs of love.’ “

“More Dante?”

“No, fool, Shakespeare.”

“I never thought I’d hear you call Shakespeare a fool.”

“Nor will you, though I hate all mankind. I am become a misanthrope.”

Coffen gave him a wary look. “Miss who?”

“Misunderstood.”

“You mean Miss Underwood, Prance. Your mind’s going on you.”

“So it is. There is no point sighing over the problem like Tom o’ Bedlam. To work!”

“You’re right. Thing to do, charge Luten with it. Can’t tell Corinne. It would break her heart. She’s my cousin—I’ll be the one to tackle Luten, but you must come with me. You’re the one saw him with the comtesse.”

“With my own eyes. This is a dark day in the annals of friendship. You must deliver an ultimatum, Pattle. He never sees Yvonne again, or we tell Corinne.”

“He’ll have to see her once to pay her off. Diamond bracelet, I fancy. After all, he’s only been out with her once.”

“That we know of,” Prance added with a questioning look. Then he shook his head. “What a ready tongue suspicion has.”

“And your tongue don’t need any help. Let us go have a look at this house they was looking at. It’ll give us a notion how highly he regards the comtesse.”

“It is smallish, but a good address.”

While they waited for the carriage, Prance said, “I discovered an odd thing today at Hatchard’s, Pattle.” Coffen rolled up his eyes, fearing another lecture on the
dux bellorum.
“Someone has bought one hundred copies of my
Rondeaux.
I was chatting to a clerk, and he said several boxes were delivered somewhere, but he didn’t know who the purchaser was. Odd, is it not? Now, who could this rabid fan be?”

“Dashed odd,” Coffen said, truly mystified, for Luten had not told Coffen of his stunt. “Might have something to do with Oxford or Cambridge. A bookstore there buying them up to make lads study them.”

Prance preened. “Oh Lord! I hope not!” he said, but he was secretly thrilled to death. “It happens I did send a copy to my old tutor at Cambridge, Sir Vance Dean. He thanked me most graciously and said he looked forward to reading it. I always take that for a sign the recipient has, in fact, read the work and can think of nothing complimentary to say, but perhaps I am too cynical. Cambridge does give a course on medieval literature. The fate of dull literary outpourings, forcing the youth to read them under pain of withholding a degree. It was Cambridge that gave me such an unutterable dread of poor Milton, who is actually very good in his own dry way.”

“No, really, Prance, you’re going too far, comparing yourself to Milton. You ain’t
that
bad. I could understand quite a bit of your poem.”

“I am flattered, Pattle. I do feel that, despite the
Rondeaux’
glaring faults, the poems were at least lucid to the meanest intelligence.”

“Very likely,” Coffen said, frowning. He reamed out his ear with his finger and said, “Did I just hear you say faults? And dull—a while back you said dull. Have you been reading the thing yourself, then?”

“Strangely, the answer is yes. I took the
Rondeaux
to bed last night and fell sound asleep at the end of Rondeau Seven, and there are, you recall, an even hundred rondeaux.”

“Then you have another couple of weeks easy sleep to look forward to.”

“The point I was endeavoring to make is that the
Rondeaux
lacked esprit. Next I had planned to write an epic poem on the French Revolution, featuring a young noble lady.”

“With them dashed stern eyes, I suppose?”

“No, paradisiacal eyes.”

“If you’re going to use that kind of language, you’ll have another clinker on your hands.”

“No, no, I shall couch it in metaphors.”

“I pity the poor lads at Cambridge. You haven’t learned a dashed thing from your failure, Reg. And for God’s sake, leave off them little notes at the bottom of the page that are so hard to read.”

“One can hardly call a poem a failure when Cambridge has put it on the curriculum as required reading! I must write dear Sir Vance a note and thank him. This is his doing. This does not mean I plan to disregard your advice, Pattle. You have a point. I shall couch the French poem in a manner more pleasing to the common man. They like to feel their literature, rather than think it. Smells, sounds, sights, the haptic sense of touch, and of course, it must virtually wallow in emotion!”

“That’s the ticket,” Coffen said, nodding his approbation. “I do like a good wallow.”

“Yes, you are everyman. I shall use you as my sounding board. Now tell me what you think of this.”

Coffen looked around like a baited animal. “Ah, there’s the carriage!” he exclaimed, and darted to the door before Pattle could bethump him with any more discussion of poetry.

They drove to Grosvenor Square, just as the To Be Sold sign was being removed.

“We’re too late!” Coffen said in a voice of doom. “He’s already bought it for her. Didn’t waste any time, did he?”

“Let us speak to the fellow removing the sign. He’s no common laborer. Those kersey small clothes and crimson waistcoat bespeak a man of business. The estate agent, likely.”

He dismounted and went forward, lifting his curled beaver and smiling. He was back within two minutes.

“Well, was it Luten that bought it?” Coffen demanded.

“No, it was a company, but the fellow hinted that it was bought for a lady.”

“What company—and what lady?”

“An aunt lady. Need I say more? A gentleman always claims his
chère amie
is a close relative when his aim is to make her respectable. The company is one of those anonymous outfits MPs use to hide their business dealings. Luten has a couple of them to my knowledge. The agent hinted it is owned by a melord.”

“Luten, the bounder!”

Prance sat, dejected. He felt his enthusiasm for the French poem seeping away. In fact, he felt as jaded as Lord Byron and wondered if
he shouldn’t turn his hand to a cynical love poem on the fallibility of ladies in general, and French courtesans in particular.

“We shall beard the lion in his den,” he said.

“I don’t know about that, but I’ll dashed well have a word with Luten,” Coffen said, and gave the draw cord an angry jerk.

Chapter Twelve

“I shall certainly not want to come here to have my portrait done,” Corinne said, peering from the carriage window out to a mean, narrow alley. Dust eddies rose from under the wheels as they lumbered over the uncobbled ground. Clapboard buildings, once a jaunty red but now faded to brick color, leaned against each other for support like drunken derelicts. Journals and discarded playbills weathered to papier-mâché by time and the elements clung like barnacles to the base of the buildings. “Why does Boisvert not remove to a better part of town, if he is successful?”

“Perhaps he will, when his fame spreads as a result of doing your picture,” Luten replied.

She peered at him from the side of her eyes. “I always suspect you are up to something when you pour on the butter at this rate, Luten. And why, pray, do I have the honor of driving in your hunting carriage?”

“We are traveling incognito. You were always curious about this rig. Now that we are about to wed, I plan to be rid of it. I thought you might like to see what it’s like. No concealed mattress, you see. No mirrors installed on the ceiling. Really a very boring carriage.”

“I didn’t ask you to be rid of it! It might come in useful after we are married.”

“That is very lenient of you, my dear.”

“For spying on villains, I mean, not its former use!” She stopped, blinked twice, and said, “What do you mean, we are traveling incognito?”

“It means, hopefully, we shall not be recognized.”

“I know that! But why?”