Murder While I Smile Page 13

  “I am glad you said that, my dear Luten—about being offended, I mean. Otherwise I would have had difficulty believing you. I think you are undertaking a perilous course. Yvonne will have her way with you if you continue seeing her.”

  “The last I heard, it takes two to make love.”

  “Not when Yvonne is one of the partners. She has the stamina and lust of two,” Prance said, with a dreamy look in his eyes. “And so had I. We made love twice. I amazed myself that I was up to it.” He sighed. “At long last, lust.”

  “I am not interested in the details of your conquests. She also has the wits of two. Take care she doesn’t fleece you.”

  “I shouldn’t think it likely,” he said with a little disillusioned sigh. “She has lost some of her attraction since I know you are not interested in her.”

  “There is not much point in my seeing her again since you’ve told her I’m engaged. She’ll suspect I’m up to something. If this forged Watteau business works out, I’ll have something to hold over her head to get at the truth of the Gresham business.”

  “That was naughty of me to tell her,” Prance said. “I apologize for my pettiness earlier this evening, Luten, but when I thought you were double-dealing with Corinne, my chivalrous instincts were abominably riled. We are all so fond of her, you know. She’s like a ... er, sister to me.” He smiled provocatively.

  Luten felt again the urge to box his ears but decided it was wiser to let the tentative peace continue. Prance in a pique was a dangerous animal.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “So it’s official, then,” Coffen said to Luten the next morning. “Your secretary says it was Yarrow who bought the house on Grosvenor Square. Looks like Chamaude is lying about being through with him.”

  Coffen, determined not to be left out of the case entirely, had dropped in to learn Luten’s plans for the day. They sat in the morning parlor, where a shaft of sunlight from the eastern window set the oak walls aglow. Delicious aromas of gammon and eggs and toast wafted from the covered dishes on the warming board to set Coffen’s mouth watering. His breakfast had consisted of toast (which had fallen in the grate and was served with ashes), some plum preserves that had begun to turn to liqueur, and the last cup of coffee in the pot, served without cream. His cook liked to drink coffee well creamed and sugared while he cooked.

  In Luten’s breakfast parlor, silverware and glass twinkled, and the dishes shone. It was a sad commentary on the laxity prevailing in his own household, where the only thing that shone was the seat of his servants’ trousers.

  “My secretary spoke to the estate agent. The story he tells is that the house is for Lady Yarrow’s widowed sister,” Luten replied, and dipped his fork into one of a pair of fried eggs. A trickle of yolk just on the verge of hardening oozed out from the white. Coffen could nearly taste it.

  “Yarrow would hardly tell the agent it was for his mistress.”

  “I don’t believe it was. Lady Yarrow helped him pick it out and went with him to examine it. He’d hardly let her do that if he meant to set Yvonne up there.” He lifted a triangle of golden toast and bit into it.

  “I thought his wife was an invalid.”

  “Invalidish, but not bedridden. More a case of not wanting to bother much with Society. She goes out occasionally, even with her husband.” He set the toast back down on his plate. Melted butter was soaked into it.

  “You sure it’s the same house Chamaude wanted to buy?”

  “She took me to show it to me. She was astonished to see the sold sign on it. She had no idea it was Yarrow who had bought it.” He lifted his knife and spread some strawberry jam on another triangle of toast.

  “I wonder why he did, if it ain’t for jam—Chamaude.”

  “Can I offer you some breakfast, Pattle? I thought you had already eaten. Remiss of me.”

  Coffen was up from the table and at the sideboard so fast he nearly upset his chair. “Thankee, don’t mind if I do. I only pecked a nibble of charred bread.”

  He returned to his place with a well-laden plate and tucked into his gammon and eggs.

  “We were discussing why Yarrow had bought the house, if not for Chamaude,” Luten said. “Spite, perhaps, when Yvonne cooled on him.”

  “It sounds like him. A spiteful fellow, from what I hear. These are grand eggs, Luten. My compliments to your chef. Chamaude took on her match when she tangled with him— Yarrow, I mean.”

  “He was necessary earlier on to authenticate her paintings,” Luten explained. “Selling some of them to Prinney established her as a provider of genuine goods.”

  “When you’re at Boisvert’s place this afternoon, take a peek around and see if he’s got any more of my Poosans, will you?” He poured himself a cup of coffee and added a liberal helping of cream and sugar.

  “I shouldn’t think it likely, but I’ll look. What are you and Prance up to today?”

  “Prance is meeting Chamaude at three, he tells me.”

  “Excellent. That will take care of her while Corinne and I search the studio.”

  “I could go along with you. Mean to say, not much chance of getting caught with Boisvert and Chamaude both busy.”

  Luten would have preferred being alone with Corinne, but he was indebted to Coffen and felt obliged to let him tag along. “Very well,” he said, and passed the strawberry preserves.

  “Thankee, don’t mind if I do. Did you do anything about watching Half Moon Street?”

  “Winkle is there.”

  “It might look suspicious, him losing that wheel two days in a row.”

  “He took Limpy and hired a rig from Newman’s Stable.”

  “Ah, that nag you got from Astley’s Circus that knows how to fake a limp. I wondered when you bought it what you wanted it for. I thought you was playing a joke on someone.”

  “One never knows when a lame nag will come in handy. I ride Limpy occasionally when I am forced to take visiting relatives to Rotten Row. It shortens the outing amazingly. Limpy also makes a good excuse to dally about when I want someone watched.”

  “What time are we leaving this afternoon? Two-thirtyish?”

  “Thereabouts.”

  “What are you doing this morning?” Coffen asked, and lifted a succulent piece of bacon into his waiting mouth. Delicious!

  “Driving with Corinne. She wants to see the house on Grosvenor Square.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Feminine curiosity, perhaps. I’m curious myself to see who moves in. We’ll just drive by.”

  “I’ll stop in and see what Prance is up to. Try to talk him out of giving Chamaude his mama’s diamond necklace. Feel bad about siccing him on to her. Never really thought she’d give him the time of day. Or night.”

  “Twice,” Luten said, a smile quirking his lips.

  Coffen shook his head. “Didn’t think she’d settle for anything less than a baron. Mean to say, Yarrow’s a marquess. It would be the sausage fingers that put her off. Of course, she’s not as young and pretty as she used to be.”

  He noticed that Luten had set down his empty cup and put aside his serviette. “Are you waiting for me to finish? Don’t mind me, Luten. You just go ahead with whatever you have to. I’ll have another bite of that bacon.”

  “Make yourself at home. I have a few things to do before I call on Corinne.”

  He left, and Coffen settled in for his third breakfast.

  Luten and Corinne were soon off. She was in good humor with him that morning. He was spending more time with her. And as Chamaude had become Prance’s mistress, she had no fears of rivalry for Luten’s affections. She did have some qualms for Reggie’s welfare. He was prone to wild enthusiasms that were usually short-lived. His great romance would soon peter out, but in the interim, they must make sure he didn’t squander his entire patrimony on the hussy.

  “Coffen is coming with us this afternoon,” Luten told her, as the carriage wended its way northward toward Grosvenor Square, through streets that were uniforml
y beautiful, with white-pillared brick houses rising impressively behind iron fences. Servants bustled about, polishing brass door knockers and windows. A few nannies pushed their charges in carriages, taking advantage of the fine weather. “I hope you don’t mind?”

  She had looked forward to being alone with Luten, but somehow, one never minded Coffen. “Prance, too?”

  “He is seeing the comtesse at three.”

  “I wish you will caution him about spending a fortune on her.”

  “I have warned him. A word from you—his faithful friend— might be more effective.”

  “I’ll have a word with him after we have all completed our afternoon business. He and Coffen were to attend Drury Lane with us this evening. I wonder if Prance will beg off.”

  “As long as he doesn’t invite Yvonne to join us—”

  She looked at him in alarm, fast turning to consternation. “Surely he wouldn’t!”

  “One never knows, with Prance. He enjoys to shock Society from time to time, and she is not a complete social pariah. She does attend a respectable ball now and then. But no, I doubt he’d go so far as to bring her along when you are present. There’s the house,” he said, pointing it out. There was no sign of life, just the smallish brown brick house with curtainless windows, looking insignificant beside its grander neighbors.

  “Shall we drive to Bond Street?” he suggested, knowing she liked to stroll along that busy thoroughfare, looking at the shop windows.

  “Yes, let’s. I have asked Black to begin burning the Rondeaux,” she said, smiling at Luten’s kindness in buying a hundred copies.

  “Simon is handling the conflagration for me. He started the minute he arose this morning and had got through a dozen before I left.”

  “They burn slowly, don’t they? Mrs. Ballard and I had the devil of a time getting them to burn at all. We had Black build a good fire with logs first and pitched half a dozen books on top.”

  “And after all our efforts, Prance seems to have lost interest in his Rondeaux,” Luten said.

  “He has found a new enthusiasm. He is the sort who must have something to boast about, and the Rondeaux, unfortunately, are no boasting matter.”

  They drove to Bond Street, where they went on the strut, enjoying the warm autumn sunshine and the bustling throng of polite London. Dandies in glossy curled beavers, tight-fitting blue jackets, and buckskins, their Hessians gleaming; ladies in poke bonnets of all heights, many ornamented with fruit to celebrate the harvest season. A sprinkling of red and gold uniforms darted in and out of doors—postmen making their appointed rounds. The grander scarlet regimentals and black shakos of army officers strutted at a prouder gait. A few urchins in rags darted to and fro, hoping to win the honor (and tuppence) of holding a buck’s reins while he alit for a moment to greet a friend. One lone black-robed priest hurried by, looking out of place amidst the gaiety.

  A steady stream of equipages clattered over the cobblestone paving. Stylish landaus and capacious barouches, each with its coachman and some with liveried footmen riding postern, tilburies, phaeton high flyers with towering wheels, bucks in yellow varnished curricles, and more sedate passengers in closed carriages, both with and without a noble crest on the panel. Carriage horses bucked and shied as a pair of Corinthians streaked past mounted on glossy blood nags, their manes flying in the wind. The riders bent tensely over their nags’ necks were obviously taking part in a race. Their anxious, determined faces suggested a high stake. It might even be the man’s entire fortune or estate that was at risk. The bucks were mad gamblers.

  The air carried that undefinable aroma of the city. Here the milder country smells of leaves and earth gave way to urbanization. Oil from carriage wheels and smoke from chimneys and stoves blended with whiffs of perfume and men’s toilet water as pedestrians brushed shoulders. Food smells were adrift too: tempting coffee, the yeasty delight of freshly baked bread—and beneath it all, the unmistakable stench of horse.

  After seven years, London still held a fascination for Corinne. She enjoyed stopping to exchange a few pleasantries with friends, and of course, examining the shop wares. She had written home to Kate that one could buy anything in London, and she was not far wrong. Fine food from all corners of the kingdom was available: ham and cheese, fresh butter and milk and eggs, bread, fruit and vegetables, fish and mutton. There were also spices from the East, sherry from Spain, smuggled brandy and silks from France, muslins from India, furs from Canada and Russia. It was like a giant, civilized bazaar, for all the goods were displayed in tidy shops, each with its hanging shingle, or more recently its name and product emblazoned in gilt over the storefront.

  “I’d like to buy you an engagement present,” Luten said. He had been watching her to see what excited her interest. “I wish I had stopped at the abbey to get the Luten engagement ring out of the vault. Let me buy you something. Emerald eardrops, to match your eyes?” he suggested.

  “You’re becoming maudlin, Luten,” she said, but she was pleased with his new sentimentality. “You once informed me that my eyes were nothing like emeralds but closer to the inferior peridot. Buy me peridot eardrops, if you want to give me something.”

  “You have an excellent memory for an insult, madam. You once called me an egregious ass, but I have long since forgotten it.”

  “So I see.”

  “The trouble with ladies nowadays is that they don’t know how to take a compliment,” he scolded.

  “Perhaps it is for lack of receiving them,” she retorted.

  “Have they not heard of compliments in Ireland?”

  “Indeed we have, and if you had told me I trotted over the bog with the lightest toe in the country, I would have known just how to smile and simper my thanks.”

  He was happy to see they were back on their usual footing of friendly argument. “A high standard of coquetry to keep up with.”

  “You English lack the silver tongue of my countrymen. We blame it on those silver spoons you are born with in your mouths. They cripple the tongue forever.”

  “What we require is liberal lacings of poteen to free it. Unfortunately, we prefer to lead some part of our lives in sobriety.”

  “Pity.”

  He spotted a tea service in a shop window. It was snowy white and scattered with shamrocks. Without a word, Luten drew her into the shop and bought it, to be sent to her house on Berkeley Square.

  “You will remember to make the tea so strong a mouse can tiptoe across the surface,” he informed her, when she thanked him very prettily. “The way you used to serve it when you first came to England.”

  Corinne noticed he never said, “When you were married to deCoventry.” Did he dislike the notion so much? “Yes, I have drowned several mice since making it the way you like it,” she said.

  Luten gave her a disparaging look. “Appetizing!”

  As soon as Coffen finished his breakfast, he went across the street for a word with Prance, who was seated in his study, perusing the morning journals.

  “Did Luten talk to you last night?” Coffen asked.

  “Yes, he told me why he was seeing Yvonne. I am vastly relieved, especially since he no longer plans to visit her. Mea culpa, I fear. I told her of his engagement.”

  “Just as well. I’m going with them to Boisvert’s place this afternoon.” He looked into the cold grate. “I see you haven’t got your fire going yet.”

  “It is warm today.”

  “Noticed smoke coming from Luten’s chimbley. Corinne’s as well. Not the kitchen chimbleys.”

  “Chimney, Pattle. Chimney.”

  “Eh?”

  “Your pronunciation is execrable. You speak like an ostler.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my pronounciation.”

  “Q.E.D.”

  “Eh?”

  Prance tossed his white hands into the air. “Quod erat demonstrandum.”

  Fearing this strange tongue was a forerunner to the Rondeaux, Coffen quickly returned to his subject. “The
odd thing is, I was at Luten’s earlier on. The grate in his breakfast parlor wasn’t lit. Nor the saloon.”

  “He’s had Simon light a fire in his boudoir. Luten likes his creature comforts.”

  “That must be it. Odd, though, this time of year.”

  “It gets chilly at night,” Prance said.

  “That’s because you open your bedroom windows. I wouldn’t if I was you.”

  “If I ever become you, I shall bear that in mind.”

  Coffen frowned, but could make nothing of this statement. “You mean if I ever become you.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No, but when you say it—”

  “Oh, never mind.”

  “Right, demmed foolishness. I’ll never be you. I haven’t the stamina for it. Let us go on the strut.”

  Prance set aside the journal and rose. “Yes, I must buy a little quelque chose for Yvonne. A diamond bracelet, I believe, is the customary token for the first favor.”

  “I’ll go with you to see you don’t get carried away.”

  “A wise precaution. When I relive last night, as I do—constantly—I feel I ought to send her a bushel of diamonds. She was sublime, Coffen. We mated like tigers. Twice.”

  “It might be best to keep that sort of thing to yourself, Prance.”

  “Oh, but you must let me boast a little. I have never had this sort of purely physical relationship before. I now comprehend the power of lust. I find it has much to recommend it. It jars me out of my usual emotional turpitude. I am an intellectual at heart, you know. And I owe this new vista to you.”

  Coffen frowned, wishing he had never suggested that visit. “What you ought to buy is a chair and a whip for when you call on her. That’s what they use for tigers, I believe.”

  “Only when one wishes to tame them,” Prance said coyly. “I do not.”

  “Behave yourself, Prance. You’re talking like a lecher.”

  He uttered a long, luxurious sigh. “Soon I shall be behaving like one.”

  “Tarsome fellow.”

  Chapter Sixteen