Murder While I Smile (22 page)

Simon’s eyes wandered about the room, where trousers lay on the floor, jacket had been thrown over the desk, and a cravat hung from the post of the canopied bed. “Would that be your regular carriage, sir, or
—
”

“Of course my regular carriage.”

The tardiness of his rising meant he had to visit Brougham before calling on Corinne. He sensed that his visit with her might require some considerable time. He thought of sending her a note, then decided against it. He would go to Love and Wirgams to select a large diamond ring for her engagement and deliver it in person. Simon made him presentable and brought him a cup of coffee. Luten drank it and left, still frowning and muttering under his breath. Simon was out of sorts all day after this unaccustomed harshness from his master.

“These look genuine,” Brougham said, studying the notes and letters Luten handed him after he had discussed his trip to Colchester. “I’ll send them around to that handwriting specialist on Bridge Street. We’ll need something written by Yarrow for comparison.”

“And Inwood. That letter is a telling document. The comtesse mentioned Inwood had discovered some flaw in the rocket design. If we could find his research and have it checked, we might get the contract recalled, even if these notes are forged.”

“Now we know why the Tories were in such an almighty rush to clear out Inwood’s office. His notes have been burned long ago. I’ve a drawerful of notes from Yarrow. We can check on his handwriting. Nothing from Inwood. I wonder who would have.”

“Marchant, but I don’t like to tip him off. He’s in Yarrow’s pocket. I’ll drop around to the rooms where Inwood lives—lived.” A frown creased his brow to think of that young life cut off before its time. And of course, it would have to be the better young man who was dead. He would have been a fine addition to the Whig ranks. “Marchant mentioned the address. Craven Street, just around the corner from Whitehall Street. Inwood’s family will not have cleared his things away yet.”

“Better get on to it right away. If by any chance the note is genuine, you may be sure Yarrow won’t waste any time rounding up every word the fellow ever penned and burning it. Oh, by the by, the Melbournes are having a do this evening. Are you invited?”

“I am, but I hadn’t planned to attend.” He had hoped for a quiet evening with Corinne.

“Yarrow will be there. Melbourne is halfway to being a Tory, you know. He always admired Canning. They hope to reel Melbourne in. No matter, I can attend myself.”

“Then I pray you hold me excused. I do have a life beyond Whitehall, you know.”

Brougham gave him a glinting smile. “So I hear. When is the big day?”

“Never, if I don’t find a moment for my fiancée soon.”

“Best look sharp, then. I hear she was out with young Lord Harry last night. I shan’t bother you again today—unless an emergency arises, of course,” he added with a twinkle.

Luten felt a spasm of alarm at hearing the name Lord Harry. The handsome rascal had been a special friend of Corinne’s for years. He consoled himself that she had only gone out with Harry to make himself jealous. He went straightaway to Inwood’s little flat on Craven Street. When he told the landlady he was there to recover government documents from Mr. Inwood’s rooms, she did no more than cast a glance on his crested carriage before letting him in.

“He was a great one for working at home,” she said, smiling in fond remembrance as she led him upstairs. “Such a nice young fellow. Here we are, then.” She unlocked the door but didn’t follow him inside. She knew a gentleman when she saw one. No fear of this lad pinching any of her goods. His house would be inlaid with gold and silver, to judge by the looks of him.

The flat was only three rooms—a parlor, bedchamber, and study—all of them modest. Inwood was obviously not from a well-to-do family. MPs were not paid, and he was too honest to have provided himself with any lucrative sinecures. His landlady cooked and cleaned and did his laundry. Inwood didn’t even have a personal servant. From the quantity of books in his study, all tumbled over tables and chairs, Luten deduced that he had been a bookish fellow and with a bent for science. His papers appeared to be intact. He had made copious notes on rockets, but they appeared to be preliminary notes. If he had discovered some serious flaw, Luten could find no sign of it. As Luten knew little of the science of rocketry, he gathered up the notes to take along for Brougham to look into. He also scooped up other samples of Inwood’s penmanship. The writing certainly looked like the writing in the note to Yarrow. A good forgery would have similar writing but even the paper was identical.

When he took the papers back to Brougham, he decided to tend to a few other matters while he was there, to obviate having to return later. It was past noon when he finally got around to visiting a jeweler, where his vague feelings of guilt goaded him into purchasing a gaudy emerald-cut diamond of ten carats, which would look like a platter on Corinne’s dainty finger. He put it in his pocket, stopped to buy a large bouquet of flowers from a vendor on Piccadilly, and drove off to Berkeley Square.

Prance and Pattle had arrived at Corinne’s house at eleven, as arranged the evening before.

After exchanging greetings, Prance said, “I have had a reply from my letter to Sir Vance Dean, my old tutor at Cambridge. He tells me he has not put my
Rondeaux
on the reading list for his class on medieval literature, but if I would like to send half a dozen copies, he would be happy to include them in the reference library.”

“That’ll get rid of six more of them copies you bought,” Coffen said.

“And another six to Oxford. But I still do not know who the rabid fan who purchased one hundred copies can be. An intriguing mystery, is it not? Prinney, I wonder, planning to give them to visiting dignitaries?”

“Very likely,” Corinne said, as she wished to avoid talking about the
Rondeaux
and discuss other things.

“He’ll invite me to Carlton House to autograph them. A signal honor.”

Coffen just nodded and turned to Corinne. “Have you seen Luten yet?” he asked. Her strained face suggested she either had not, or had seen him and fallen into an argument.

“No. He hasn’t called—though Black tells me he returned at six o’clock this morning.”

“Six o’clock this morning!” Prance exclaimed, signal honor forgotten at this hint of scandal. “Where was he all night?”

Her delicately carved nostrils flared. “Where do you think?” she asked, in a rhetorical spirit.

He lifted his fingers to his lips. “Oh dear. Sorry I asked.” He extracted a billet-doux from his pocket and waved it before her eyes. She recognized the violet ink from the inscription on the
Rondeaux.
The handwriting was spidery. “Dear heart,” he added, patting her fingers, “I have excellent news for you. He has not spirited Yvonne off to a love nest.
En effet,
she has invited me to call this afternoon at Half Moon Street. Says she had the megrims yesterday. I shall chide her for that plumper— and try to discover where Luten took her.”

“Double dealer.” Coffen scowled.

Prance tossed his curls. “I saw her first!”

“I don’t mean you, Prance. Her. Cheating on Luten behind his back.” When Corinne’s nostrils pinched to slits, he realized he had been indiscreet and tried to cover his gaffe. “Not to say she’s running around with Luten. No such a thing.”

“I don’t know about that,” Corinne said. “Luten went dashing out of his house at ten-thirty this morning as if the place were on fire. He didn’t come here.”

“Was he driving his hunting carriage?” Prance asked eagerly.

“No, his crested carriage.”

“Then you needn’t worry he’s with her,” Coffen said.

“I am not in the least worried. The only reason I want to see Luten is to tell him our engagement is off.”

Coffen considered this a moment, then said, “A good idea, before he tells you. Mean to say, a bit of satisfaction in giving him the boot at least.”

“It is all very sad,” Prance said, subduing the smile that wanted to peep out, “but don’t be overly hasty, dear. Wait and hear what he has to say. Would Yvonne want to go on seeing me if she had a carte blanche from Luten? Methinks not.”

“It appears she found Luten unsatisfactory, Prance, and has chosen you over him. There is a feather for your cap.”

“Call me a macaroni!” he said. “Shall we go to Bond Street? I like to buy myself something exquisite when I have been embittered by love. It exorcises the demon, jealousy.”

“Hers don’t need any exercising. It’s strong enough,” Coffen muttered.

Prance sighed. “Exercise it to death,” he said, to avoid lengthy explanation. “I had thought I would be buying myself a new snuffbox or cravat pin this morning, but as events turned out, I shall help you choose yourself a bibelot instead. It must be a luxury, to make you feel better. I recommend the new foaming soap from Vienna, if you haven’t tried it yet.”

“Rubbish. Soap ain’t a luxury,” Coffen said. “Dashed insult.”

“Your ignorance is immaculate, Pattle. I do not refer to the cleansing quality. Foaming soap is sybaritic, like covering oneself with whipped cream.” He gave a shiver of remembered bliss. “But perhaps you have a point. Losing Luten requires a more extravagant pampering. Perfume, a bonnet. No, I have it—jewelry! There is nothing like gemstones to cure a wounded spirit. I saw the prettiest little butterfly brooch at Rundell and Bridges, gold filigree with diamonds spotted on the wings. Only ten pounds. I coveted it but could think of no place to wear it.”

“It sounds delightful,” Corinne said, though she did not for a minute think a diamond butterfly would assuage her pain and anger. She went for her bonnet and pelisse.

She didn’t buy the diamond butterfly, nor the foaming soap, nor anything to assuage her sorrow. She didn’t want things. She wanted Luten.

Prance’s French chef, Andr
é
, prepared a light luncheon for the group. Prance was so enthralled by all the excitement of the day, he ate half a serving of chicken ragout, which was the largest meal he had taken in months.

“And now I must be horrid and ask you both to leave,” he said when the meal was over. “I must make a grand toilette for my afternoon rendezvous.” He added waggishly,
“Tu comprends, n’est-ce pas?”

He accompanied Corinne home. “I shall try to discover what was afoot with Yvonne and Luten yesterday,” he assured her. “Don’t do anything rash until you hear from me. Luten is too good
a parti
to cast off for some paltry reason.”

“I do not consider infidelity a paltry reason. I think you just fear the competition, Reggie.”

“Too cruel! But I forgive you. I was feeling in just the same savage mood myself yesterday, and today I am chirping merry.
A bientot!”
He waved farewell and returned home.

Mrs. Ballard was in the saloon when Corinne entered.

“Did you have a nice morning, dear?” she asked.

“Yes, lovely, thank you. You got my message that I wouldn’t be home for lunch?”

“I just had a sandwich in the morning parlor. I plan to go over the linen cupboards this afternoon. The sheets are wearing thin.”

“Let me know what we need,” Corinne said.

Mrs. Ballard rose and left the room. Corinne sat on alone a moment, wondering what she was to do with the rest of her day, of her life. She was staring into the cold grate when Black came pelting in. A smile split his saturnine face at the good news he was bringing.

“He’s coming!” he said. Soon her pale cheeks would be pink with pleasure. “Just hopped out of his rig, carrying flowers. I’ll get the door.”

Corinne sat frozen to the sofa, not moving a muscle, but inside, she was a seething cauldron of tumult. Far from pleasing her, the flowers were an added insult. They were as good as a confession. Luten never brought her flowers, except occasionally a corsage for evening. If he thought a bunch of flowers was going to make her take him back now that Chamaude had opted for Prance, he was mad.

Chapter Twenty-two

Luten essayed a smile as he entered the saloon; it dwindled to uncertainty when he saw Corinne’s squared shoulders and stiff face, her green eyes lit with anger.

“A peace offering,” he said, proffering the bouquet. “I am sorry I missed our date last night.” She took the flowers without thanking him and set them aside. Her eyes raked him from head to toe. “You may be sure I had a very good reason.”

“I am sure you had, Luten.”

“Something came up, after I called on Brougham.”

She directed a gimlet stare at him and said, “Would that be before, or after, you called on the comtesse?”

His eyes sparkled warily. “Why do you ask that?”

“Because I would like the answer. I know you were with her.”

“Have you been spying on me?” he demanded, trying to muster a tone of anger. It proved inordinately difficult. He knew she had him dead to rights.

“Only inadvertently. Actually it was Prance who wanted to go to Half Moon Street yesterday afternoon when Chamaude canceled their meeting. Now we know why! Coffen felt she would not let him in and decided to follow. I went with Coffen. We all saw her trunk stowed on your girl-hunting carriage.”

He blinked and drew a deep breath. The infinitesimal twitching of his lips and the strain in his voice when he spoke revealed his unease. “The only reason I took my unmarked carriage was because she didn’t want Yarrow to know it was me with her.”

“And you, no doubt, didn’t want your fiancée to know what you were up to.”

“I can explain
—
”

“Can you also explain why you took her to a country inn the day before?”

“We had tea,” he said, in that drawling voice that always infuriated her. His glare of icy hauteur challenged her to disprove it.

“Is that what the light-skirts call it nowadays?”

His guilt was fast hardening to anger at her intransigence. “It was not a love tryst, if that is what you think,” he said coldly.

“You read me like a book, sir. That is exactly what I think! A man doesn’t hustle a woman like that off to a country inn just for a cup of tea.”