Murder While I Smile (27 page)

“What do we do?” Coffen asked, when he had joined Luten and the others. “Can we be there? I’d like to see the old bustard being put into manacles.”

“We’ll be there early and find some dark spot to watch.” Luten looked at Corinne. “We’ll drop you off at home.” She just looked at him as if he were a moonling. “Oh, very well, but if you have nightmares, don’t blame me.”

“I blame myself,” she said in a wistful voice, regretting all her ill humor toward Yvonne.

If she had been more understanding, if she had helped Luten help the comtesse ... But the roots of this tragedy were deep. They went far into the past, to a frightened young French girl forced to sell a forged picture to support herself and her illegitimate child. If she had sold that picture to anyone but Lady Yarrow ... If Yarrow had not been such a lecherous, evil old wretch ... If, if, if. The past was beyond recall, but she could do one thing for Yvonne. She must rescue Sylvie and help her to some decent sort of life. That was the only atonement she could make, and she felt it was all Yvonne really wanted of her.

Chapter Twenty-six

Coffen suggested they all go to Hyde Park in his unmarked carriage, in case someone recognized Luten’s crest entering the park. Hyde Park was well enough known to Fitz that he delivered them there without mishap. He halted halfway down Serpentine Road, and they walked through patches of mist toward the spot Yvonne’s carriage was to stop. The moon was dulled to a silver glow, enough to light their path, painting grass and branches with an evanescent light. Their footsteps, though quiet, echoed loudly in their listening ears. When an owl uttered a plaintive, echoing
whooo,
Coffen nearly leapt out of his slippers.

“I knew there’d be an owl,” he muttered, and was hushed by Luten.

Luten held Corinne tightly against his side as they waited in the still shadows. She thought of poor Yvonne and was grateful to be alive, to be safe, to be loved. They heard the heavy clop of hooves and grinding of wheels first, then watched as the carriage carrying Yvonne’s body drove slowly along Rotten Road and drew to a stop. The coach might have been a hearse, the driver Death. The coachman looked all about but didn’t call or leave his perch. It seemed a long time they waited.

Coffen drew out his watch and announced, “One o’clock—and all ain’t well. What’s keeping Yarrow? If Bow Street gets here first, we’re sunk.”

As he spoke, they heard the dull clatter of a carriage coming at a fast pace. They exchanged a wide-eyed stare.

“Oh Lord, I hope it’s Yarrow and not Townsend!” Corinne whispered.

As it came into view, it was seen to be a crested rig, drawn by a blood team. Yarrow! They drew a collective sigh of relief. The driver drew on the reins, the horses slowed, the carriage pulled up behind Yvonne’s and stopped. His coachman alit and opened the door for him. Yarrow dismounted, peered around into the shadows, and walked at a stiff-legged gait to the waiting carriage. They watched with bated breath as he opened the door and peered inside. They couldn’t hear what he said, but at least he didn’t leave.

“If he takes to his heels before Townsend gets here, we’re out of luck,” Coffen said. “What’s keeping Townsend anyhow? Are you sure that footman you sent for him can be trusted, Luten?”

“No. I didn’t have a week to make the plan. It was done on the spur of the moment. There! He’s getting into the rig. He’s certainly seen she’s dead. He won’t stick around long.”

“He’ll make a search for the papers before he goes,” Coffen said. “If he sees his watch, he’ll take it. He must be wondering how the devil it got there.”

Before Yarrow left the carriage, Mr. Townsend of Bow Street came shambling down the road in a jig drawn by one elderly nag. He took up his lantern and leapt down from his perch. The fat little figure in a flaxen wig topped by a broad-brimmed white hat was dressed quite independently of fashion in a straight-cut coat and kerseymere breeches. This famous character had taken more criminals than the rest of the Bow Street officers together. He was in great favor at court and was often to be seen guarding against crime at the better balls, making easy with the great and near great.

Yarrow stepped down from the carriage. “Your lordship!” Townsend said, doffing his hat. “Is Lady Chamaude quite well?” The lantern cast a lurid light on Yarrow’s dissipated countenance.

“What the deuce are you doing here?” Yarrow cried in a voice that betrayed his agitation.

“Her ladyship requested I dart along to keep an eye on her. I can’t imagine in the world what she is up to. Meeting some desperate fellow, I daresay. French!” he added disparagingly. “But you know that. She’s all right and tight, is she?”

“Of course she is. Run along, Townsend. This has nothing to do with you.”

“I will, your lordship, as soon as I have a word with her ladyship. All in the line of duty, sir. No word will cross my lips if I have arrived inopportunely. Just ask her to throw a blanket over her nekkidness, and I’ll say good evening to her.”

“That’s not necessary, my good fellow. Run along.”

Without further ado, Townsend shoved a protesting Yarrow aside and poked his nose into the carriage. He uttered a loud “Yoicks!” and his rump disappeared into the rig.

“By God, it worked!” Luten said. He was almost more surprised than gratified. There were so many things that could have gone wrong. If Yarrow had chosen to ignore the summons, if he had come and gone before Townsend arrived, if Yvonne’s servants proved to be in Yarrow’s confidence... But the butler and footman had delivered the notes, and as Luten peered through the shadows to see how the coachman behaved, he was fully satisfied that the driver was following instructions.

He crept closer, knowing that no one was paying attention to the periphery when such exciting doings were going forth closer at hand. He saw Townsend climb out of the carriage, brandishing the bloodied knife.

He heard the driver say, “Her ladyship, she was alive ten minutes ago when she asked me to drive her here. No one else has been in
the carriage except his lordship.”

“Who are you going to believe—a demmed French servant or an English peer?” Yarrow demanded in a rhetorical spirit.

Townsend held up the hand holding the lantern. From his fingers dangled Yarrow’s watch. He studied it in the light.

“I believe my eyes, milord, which showed me your watch in the victim’s fingers. May I just see your hands, milord?” He reached out and grasped Yarrow’s right hand. “Blood! I’ll have to ask you to step along to Bow Street with me to explain a few things.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! She was dead when I arrived.”

“Suicides seldom stab theyselves. Poison, now
—

“I’m a bosom bow of the Duke of York!”

Townsend cocked his head almost playfully and clamped his fingers on Yarrow’s arm. “I’d not boast of that alliance! Don’t make me use force, milord. It ain’t fitting to darken a lord’s daylights.”

Yarrow, blustering and threatening awful reprisals and demanding his lawyer, was taken into custody to be driven in the ignominious gig to Bow Street. Before leaving the park, Townsend ordered the comtesse’s driver to remain at what he called “the scene of the crime” until another officer arrived, at which time both Yarrow’s carriage and the comtesse’s were to be driven to Bow Street, where both would be examined for evidence and the corpse would be examined by the coroner.

“Well, it’s done,” Coffen said with quiet satisfaction. “Now can we go home and get a bite to eat? I’m famished.”

“Yes, we can go home,” Luten said, peering through the shadows at Corinne. When he took her hand firmly in his, she felt a sudden easing of tension. Her heart expanded like a balloon. It was all right between them, and as for the rest, they would make that all right, too.

“We still have to rescue Sylvie,” she said. “I have no idea where Yarrow has taken her. He could hardly have her at his own house, with his wife. I promised Yvonne, Luten.”

“We’ll find her,” he said. “But for now I’m taking you home. No arguments, my dear.” He placed a kiss on her forehead and walked with her to the carriage.

Coffen followed behind, smiling to see them together.

When they were in the carriage, he said, “I expect we’ve bent a few laws this night.”

“It is a case of the end justifying the means,” Luten replied. “The greater crime would be to let Yarrow off scot-free.”

It was not until Coffen had dropped them off at Berkeley Square that they could speak of more private matters.

“I’m sorry I was so horrid about Yvonne,” Corinne said, as they sat side by side on the striped sofa. “If you had told me the truth
—
”

“I tried. You didn’t believe me.”

“You didn’t tell the whole truth. You never told me you were taking her to inns and to Colchester.”

“You wouldn’t have believed it was just business.”

She gazed deeply into his eyes. “Was it just business, Luten?”

“Is it ever just that, between a man and a woman? Knowing something of her past life, I felt sorry for her. It is a man’s instinct to help a lady in distress.” Luten saw the mistrust growing in her eyes and decided that was enough truth for one night. What she really feared was that he loved Yvonne, and he hadn’t.

“I’m not sure I can trust you, when you say things like that,” she said.

“I don’t trust you and Harry, when you’re together. He’s the first one you turned to.”

“He’s an old friend!”

“Yvonne was an old friend. If we can’t trust each other, then what hope is there for us? We can’t go about tied to each other like those unfortunate twins born in Siam. I love you. I had, and have, no intention of being unfaithful to you, unless you are unfaithful to me.”

“Marriage is impossible,” she said. “I don’t know who ever invented such a stupid institution.”

“Nor do I, but until someone comes up with a better way of raising children, it seems we are stuck with it. So is it a bargain?”

“How romantic!” She gave him a saucy look. “I’ll think about it.”

“I’ll help you,” he said, and drew her into his arms for a scalding kiss and a much more romantic proposal.

When Coffen came tapping at the door later, Black just shook his head. “This ain’t a good time, Mr. Pattle. You understand.”

“Making it up, are they?”

“They’ve got over that hump. I’m wondering if I ought to throw a bucket of water over them,” he added roguishly.

Pattle gave him a frown. “Mind your manners, Black. You’re talking about a lady.” On this setdown he returned to his own house to ponder the mystery of romance, which always seemed to elude him.

The next few days were busy ones. Monsieur Lachange called on Lord Luten, whose name did not publicly arise in connection with the tragic case of Lord Yarrow and the comtesse. Lachange proved, upon close examination, to be even younger than Luten had thought.

“I want to thank you for trying to help Lady Chamaude,” Lachange said. “I don’t know how you did it—I ask no questions—but I cannot believe Yarrow personally killed her. He hasn’t the courage, but he is morally responsible. I doubt they will hang him. It is unknown for a jury of a lord’s peers to do so.”

“He’ll spend the rest of his life behind bars at least,” Luten said with satisfaction.

“Small enough punishment for the years of agony he has caused. He has held Lady Chamaude a virtual prisoner for years. I know she was deathly frightened of what he would do when he forced her to attend that party.”

“Why did he make her go?”

“I thought he just wanted to keep an eye on her. He knew she was desperate to find her daughter. I believe she suspected all along, and now, of course, I realize he wanted to get her away from Half Moon Street to murder her. Yet in his own evil way, he loved her. Dog in the manger. If he couldn’t have her, no one could.”

“It was Yarrow who removed Sylvie from Mrs. Yonge’s?”

“Yes, he became nervous when Lady Chamaude began seeing you and Sir Reginald and hired one of his henchmen to bring Sylvie to London. He told Sylvie her mama wanted her. He feared that, between the two of you, you would help Lady Chamaude escape his clutches. He needed something to keep her in line and knew her daughter was the likeliest thing. But he went too far. When he threatened to harm Sylvie, the comtesse spat out all the pent-up years of hatred—then he knew he must kill her.”

Luten just shook his head. When he spoke, it was of other things. “We’ve been looking for Sylvie—put advertisements in the journals, questioned Daugherty. Bow Street has him in custody again for the murder of Boisvert.”

“Sylvie is with me and my mama,” he said. “Yarrow had hired a woman to guard her. He told the woman she was a lunatic. He kept Sylvie locked in a room in St. John’s Wood. When the woman read of Yarrow’s arrest, she unlocked Sylvie’s door and fled. Sylvie came to me. We have been engaged for a year. We shall marry at once. I met her when I began taking the comtesse to Colchester to visit. Her ladyship approved the match.”

“You have known Lady Chamaude a long time?”

“Since I was a child. She was a friend of Mama. We émigrés stick together. Lady Chamaude had a few faithful friends, but unfortunately we were powerless against Lord Yarrow. That is why she sold Mr. Pattle that forged Poussin, the one I exchanged for the original. She was desperate for money, you see, and the forgery was very good, but she feared in the end that Yarrow would find it out and make trouble for her. They were bickering over everything by that time. He may have threatened—I don’t know.

“He knew Yvonne had used Boisvert in the past. When the Watteau disappeared from her walls, he went to spy on him and presumably saw the Watteau, as he had Boisvert killed.”

“Who sent Gresham to Boisvert?”

“The comtesse suggested it, to help Boisvert. Like the rest of us, he was always in need of money. He wanted to remove his atelier to a better address.”

“What will you and Sylvie do for money?” Luten asked.

“I make my living as a French tutor and translator. There is still the Watteau—-the original—to be sold,” he said. “And a few lesser pieces. We don’t need much. We hope to set up a small day school in some town far removed from London.”