Murder While I Smile Read online

  “Surely a hopeless passion is an allowed infirmity in an old friend?”

  “You’ll get over it. It is Coffen we should be worried about.”

  “I do feel for him, but he hasn’t my sensitivity, you know. His heart is a sturdy old muscle, only excited by food, and perhaps agitated a little by actresses. He is not cursed—or blessed—with my deep well of feeling.”

  “It’s his pockets I’m talking about, not his heart.”

  “He can well afford a thousand pounds. Dear heart, let us not discuss trifles. What you must do is help me bring the comtesse into fashion—well, respectability at least. We can do it, if we all stick together. Society will not spurn her if she is seen about with the Berkeley Brigade.”

  “You expect me to make a friend of Yarrow’s mistress? Luten would hit the roof if I did such a thing.”

  Prance gave her a sly look. “I shouldn’t think so. He is a man, after all. Is that what concerns you, that he’ll fall under her spell?”

  “He has more sense—and better taste.”

  Prance rose up from the sofa like an outraged Methodist who has been offered strong drink. “No one has ever questioned my taste! Especially a lady who has no notion how to dress!” He regretted that indiscretion as soon as it left his lips, but it was true all the same. Corinne’s toilette was always just a little too busy to please his austere taste.

  He hastened on, before she could flare into a temper. “Very well. If that is your final decision, that you refuse to help me in this utmost crisis of my life, then I must carry on on my own.”

  “I’m doing what I think best for you, Reggie. And I’m sure Luten will agree with me.”

  Prance gave her a mischievous look, said, “We shall see about that,” then he bowed punctiliously and made a chilly departure, leaving Corinne alone, and more than a little concerned that Prance would draw Luten into the comtesse’s dangerous orbit—and wondering what he meant about her style of dressing, too. Fop!

  She had initially felt some pity for the comtesse, but as she considered the evening, she felt the pity was misplaced. The woman had caught Coffen in her web at a public art exhibition; she had smitten Prance in the space of ten minutes. Already she and her old friend Prance were at daggers drawn. What effect would this mischievous beauty have on Luten? He was not entirely impervious to beautiful women.

  For three years Corinne had reigned supreme as the queen of the Berkeley Brigade. All the gentlemen were in love with her, to a greater or less degree. Coffen, her cousin, loved her like a sister. Sir Reginald never loved anyone as much as he loved himself, but when he felt the need to be in love, it was with her. But of course, it was Luten that worried her most. She must keep Luten away from that siren.

  She made a careful toilette the next afternoon to greet her fiancé on his return from the country. As he entered her saloon, she viewed him as the comtesse would no doubt view him. He was tall and lean, with the broad shoulders of a sportsman. His crow-black hair grew in a dramatic widow’s peak. Finely drawn eyebrows over cool gray eyes lent him an ascetic touch. It was his strong nose and square jaw that gave authority to his face, and his haughty smile that gave it a touch of arrogance. A blue jacket of Bath cloth clung to his shoulders like paper on a wall. His modest cravat was immaculate, his buckskins the same, and his Hessians as bright as mirrors. And on top of it all, he owned an abbey and was a marquess. Those last two, she felt, were the attributes that would excite the comtesse’s interest.

  All of this flashed through her mind in a second, then Luten smiled and held out his arms, and she rushed into them to be thoroughly kissed.

  “Did you miss me?” he asked, in a husky voice unlike his usual bored drawl.

  “Desperately.” She held his hand tightly as she led him to the sofa. “How did everything go with the farm?”

  “I hired a bailiff to take care of it. I’ll probably sell it. It’s a hundred miles from the abbey, too far away for me to conveniently keep an eye on it and not large enough for us to keep for our second son. And what’s new here?”

  Her heart swelled in pleasure at that casual “second son,” which suggested a long and happy marriage.

  “Prance has fallen into a wretched muddle,” she said.

  “The Rondeaux are not leaping off the shelf, I take it? The deadweight of all that poesy suggests it would require a derrick to hoist them. We must give him a hand.”

  “He can hardly give them away, but that is not what I mean.” She outlined the situation, just mentioning the comtesse’s age and lack of character.

  “And on top of Prance fancying himself in love, Coffen is going to buy a horrid old picture from her—for a thousand pounds.”

  He patted her fingers indulgently. “It seems I returned just in time. Fear not, my dear, I shall handle Yvonne.”

  Corinne’s heart leapt in her chest. She had not mentioned the comtesse’s Christian name. So Luten already knew her. That he called her Yvonne suggested a certain intimacy. With such a woman, there was only one sort of intimacy that came to mind.

  “Oh, you know her?” she said, staring at him in surprise that was already tinged with mistrust.

  “I have her acquaintance,” he replied.

  Before Corinne could learn more, the door knocker sounded and within seconds Coffen and Sir Reggie came in.

  “Saw your rig arrive,” Coffen said. “Saw you dart over here. Gave you two a few minutes alone, then came along to welcome you back.”

  “I tried in vain to restrain him,” Reggie said, with an air of apology. “How did it go in Somerset, Luten?”

  “I’ve put the farm up for sale or rent. The next-door neighbor is interested, but he wants it as a gift.”

  “If you manage to sell it,” Coffen said, “I can put you on to some bargains in art. I’m buying a Poosan from Comtesse Chamaude. She’s French.”

  “Yes, the ‘Comtesse’ gave me a hint,” Luten replied. “I was just telling Corinne I know the lady.”

  Prance flew into a frenzy of excitement. “You know her? Who is she? Is she really a countess? You wouldn’t know her age? And what, exactly, is her relationship with Yarrow?”

  Corinne listened with both ears cocked, scrutinizing every word that left Luten’s lips for clues to his past relationship with the woman.

  “Yes, she is actually a countess. One of the émigrés who were chased out of France by Robespierre in the last century. The only other member of the family who made it was Chamaude’s mama, who died a decade ago. The elder Lady Chamaude brought a load of jewels with her and was able to set up in some style. She eventually married a large landowner from Yorkshire.”

  “Odd we didn’t hear of our comtesse sooner,” Prance said.

  “The old lady wouldn’t sponsor her into Society. Pity, for she would certainly have made a brilliant match, when she was younger.”

  “What age would she be now?” Corinne asked. That “when she was younger” gave her hope.

  “She must be forty if she’s a day,” Coffen said. “A bit long in the tooth for my taste, but a looker, all right.”

  “A little younger, I think,” Luten said. “Late thirties. She married very young.”

  “What did the mama have against her?” Corinne asked, unhappy with Luten’s quick objection to forty and expecting to hear something scandalous.–

  “Yvonne was an actress at the Comedie Française.”

  “An actress!” Coffen exclaimed. He had a great love of actresses. “By the living jingo, I didn’t know that.”

  “The Comedie Française is not considered so déclassé as our theaters,” Prance said “That would hardly sink her chances.”

  “The story I heard is that Yvonne was from a rather common background, but being an actress, she managed a decent accent, and with her looks she would have fared well had not the old comtesse shut the door on her,” Luten explained. “Didn’t leave Yvonne anything in her will, either.”

  “But Yvonne brought some valuable paintings with her, e
h?” Coffen asked.

  “Not with her. She landed at Brighton in a dinghy with only the clothes on her back. Yarrow was the one who ferried the family paintings ashore years later. Her husband had hidden them somewhere in France—in a church basement, I believe. Only Yvonne knew where, or no doubt the old comtesse would have got hold of them. Perhaps that is what they fought about. Or perhaps it was the by-blow Yvonne tried to palm off as her husband’s child a year or so after his death. I have only Yvonne’s side of the story. She was quite frank about her background and her affairs. Yarrow was running back and forth across the Channel in some diplomatic capacity during various lulls in the fighting. Yvonne caught his eye, and he did what he could to help her.”

  “Is she his mistress?” Reggie asked eagerly. “Was the by-blow his?”

  “I believe the by-blow preceded Yarrow’s acquaintance by a few years. Perhaps he only brought the pictures across to ingratiate Prinney, who ended up with most of them.”

  “She may be his mistress, but I can tell you one thing,” Coffen said. They all looked at him. “She can’t stand the sight of the old blighter. Winces when he latches on to her with those fat old sausage fingers of his. She looked like a baited animal when he touched her.”

  Corinne remembered how the comtesse had stiffened when Yarrow put his hand on her arm. She hadn’t noticed the woman’s expression. Surely she had smiled, though?

  Prance stared as if he had been shot in the heart. “Why did I not notice that?” he asked in a hollow voice. “But you know, I did sense some negative ambience in her saloon. I am sensitive that way. I thought it was just Corinne’s reaction to another beautiful lady, but perhaps it was Yvonne’s loathing of Yarrow. She must be rescued. Surely we all agree on that?” He looked about the room for support.

  “Rescued, my foot!” Corinne scoffed. “I didn’t notice her wincing. Yarrow was very kind to her.”

  Coffen screwed up his forehead and said, “I went to her house planning to fall in love with her, but I have no intention of falling afoul of Yarrow. He could ruin a fellow. All I want to know is that the Poosan I’m buying is the goods. She ain’t the sort that would sell a fellow a forgery, is she?”

  “Sell forgeries to the prince, and with Yarrow’s approval?” Luten asked, his thin eyebrows lifting. “Your wits are gone begging, Pattle. Yarrow would never contrive at something so dangerous to his own welfare. And he would certainly know a forgery from the genuine thing. He’s sharp as a needle about art.”

  “But would she try to palm a fake off on someone like me?”

  “I wouldn’t put it a pace past Yvonne, but she would not do it with Yarrow’s knowledge or approval. If he was there, you need not fear.”

  Corinne heard that casual “Yvonne” with deep distrust. “She might have arranged to have Yarrow there to authenticate the original Poussin, then slip you a copy today when you go back,” she said to Coffen:

  Luten’s thin lips parted in an anticipatory smile. “In that case, I had best go with you, to make sure she don’t fleece you,” he said.

  It was exactly what Corinne had feared. The comtesse was a magnet, drawing men to her. To object would reveal her rampant jealousy to Luten, to say nothing of bringing Reggie’s contumely down on her head. Luten would not want her to go with him. Reggie, on the other hand, would push for it to bring Chamaude into fashion. She would go, if she had to tag along behind in her own carriage. She would not let that man-eating Frenchie get her talons into Luten.

  Chapter Four

  “We were to go for a drive this afternoon, Luten,” Corinne reminded her beloved.

  “Of course. We’ll go now,” Luten replied, with just a wisp of impatience. “I’ve sent for my carriage. What time do you plan to pick up the painting, Coffen?”

  “I didn’t set a time, but some wine merchant is to look at it today. I wouldn’t want him to beat me to it.”

  “Then we shall go to Yvonne’s first, and I’ll return for our drive shortly, Corinne,” Luten said. A certain something in her eyes caused him to add with unusual thoughtfulness, “If that is all right with you, my pet?”

  “Why don’t I go to Chamaude’s with you and we can continue from there? I’ll get my bonnet,” she said, and darted out of the room before he could object.

  She heard his objection perfectly well from the hallway, however. “You take her for a drive, Reg,” Luten said.

  “I? I know as much about art as you. More! I’ll go to Chamaude’s and make sure the painting is original. You go ahead for your drive with Corinne.”

  When she realized Luten was trying to get rid of her, she had no compunction about lingering at the mirror by the open doorway, ostensibly arranging her bonnet, but with her ears on the stretch and her heart pounding angrily in her chest.

  “I don’t want Corinne calling on Yvonne,” Luten said.

  “What harm can befall her when she is with us?” Reggie parried.

  “Dammit, a woman like Yvonne is no fit friend for her. You shouldn’t have taken her there yesterday.”

  “I did not take her,” Reggie said. “It was Coffen.”

  “Didn’t know at the time there was anything wrong with the comtesse,” Coffen said.

  Sir Reg saw that Corinne’s jealousy was succeeding in forwarding the comtesse’s entrée into Society where an appeal to humanity had failed. “We don’t know there is anything wrong with her,” he said. “I think if the Berkeley Brigade took her up, she’d be accepted anywhere.”

  “I suppose there’s no getting out of it now. Ah, there you are,” Luten said, smiling as Corinne came in with her bonnet tied and her pelisse over her arm. She sensed that the warmth of his return had already cooled noticeably.

  “It shouldn’t take long to buy a picture,” she said, looking at him from eyes bright with suspicion. “We will be on our way for that drive in no time.” She handed Luten her pelisse, and he helped her put it on.

  His carriage had arrived when they went to the doorway. They had only to wait a moment while Prance darted home to pick up a few spare copies of the Rondeaux. The four entered the carriage, and they were off to Half Moon Street. While the roué butler went to inquire if Madame was “at home,” Corinne pointed the Watteau fête champêtre painting out to Luten.

  “Now, if it were that painting Coffen was buying, I would not object,” she said. “Lovely, is it not?”

  “Charming. I’ll ask her what she wants for it.”

  “Oh, it is not for sale. I’ve already inquired.”

  The butler returned within seconds to admit them. The comtesse sat alone in her elegant little saloon, reading by the light of one lamp and looking extremely demure and pretty in a dark green gown cut up to her collarbone, where a pretty fall of Mechlin lace tumbled under her chin. She wore no brooch, no earrings, no jewelry but a plain golden band on her left hand. Her hair was casually arranged in a youthful tousle of curls rather like the cherubim do Corinne had been contemplating.

  “Company! How nice,” she said, rising with effortless grace from her chair to greet them. As she arose, any suggestion of demureness fell from her. The modest gown clung like the skin of a peach to ripe bosoms and wasp waist. “I have just been reading your beautiful poem, Sir Reginald. I shall treasure this copy you were kind enough to give me.” She held it to her breast a moment, then set it aside reluctantly.

  “My pleasure, Comtesse,” he said in soft accents, while he gazed into her eyes, trying to discern the shade. Large and bright as they were, he could still not determine their color. They changed, like the Atlantic on a stormy day, now throwing off hints of green, now black. Charming! In his state of infatuation, he didn’t notice how often the dark eyes flashed in Luten’s direction, but Corinne saw, and her heart thudded angrily.

  The comtesse turned to Luten. “Milord, it is a long time since I have had the pleasure of entertaining you,” she said, with a smile not an inch short of flirtation. Her seductive accent managed to imbue that simple “you” with a world of meaning.


  “Too long,” he replied gallantly, and shook the hand she proffered. Corinne had the distinct impression that if she had not been present, he would have lifted the fingers to his lips and kissed them. It was that sort of lingering handshake. A spasm of alarm coursed through her as their eyes locked and held.

  Corinne and Coffen were greeted less lavishly. The formalities accomplished, they got down to business at once. The Poussin sat on a brass easel by a window.

  “Here is the painting you are interested in, Mr. Pattle. The wine merchant balked at the price,” she said frankly. “So absurd. I am practically giving it away. But a man like that would know nothing of art.” Coffen’s breast puffed at the implied compliment.

  Luten accompanied Coffen and the comtesse to the easel. He lifted his quizzing glass and studied the painting’s surface for several minutes. “Do you mind?” he asked, and turned it over, but the back was covered with thin strips of aged wood and told him nothing.

  “Prance?” he said, inviting Prance to add his expertise to the evaluation.

  “Lovely,” Prance said, with hardly a glance at it. “Delightful—but it has strong competition in this room,” he added gallantly. He allowed his gaze to rest on the lady’s sparkling eyes for a longish moment. He didn’t think he was imagining the flash of interest in those orbs, the infinitesimal lifting of the eyebrows. Yarrow was no doubt useful to her, but if he judged rightly, she was interested in younger game.

  “If you’re all happy with it, then I’ll take it,” Coffen said, and drew out his check. “Wrap it up and I’ll take it with me now.”

  Comtesse Chamaude accepted the check, and it disappeared into a pocket. She called the butler. “Mr. Prance will be taking the Poussin,” she said. “Have it wrapped up carefully.”

  The butler removed the painting. She ordered wine, then led the gentlemen to the sofas and chairs.

  “Dare we hope you will be at Carlton House for the Prince’s vernissage this evening, milady?” Prance inquired.

  A white hand fluttered over her bosom. “I could not bear to see my paintings hanging in their new home, though it is so much grander than the one they leave.” She gave a Gallic shrug of her shoulders as she glanced around the little saloon. “They are like my children. I feel I have put my own children out for adoption. Silly of me,” she said, with a sweep of her lashes in Luten’s direction. “But we French, you know, are emotional.”