Murder While I Smile (28 page)

“There is a pretty painting in a small waiting room. A Greuze, I believe, of a young girl.”

“A Greuze? Ah no, that is a painting of the comtesse when she was a girl. Boisvert did it fifteen years ago in Brighton. It is good,
non
? He was under the influence of Greuze at the time. I know Sylvie wants to keep it.”

“Of course. Let me know if I can help,” Luten said.

“You were interested in the Watteau, I think?”

Luten didn’t think Corinne would want that constant reminder of Yvonne in their home, nor did he. “I can find a buyer, if you like.”

“If you hear of anyone who is interested, I can be reached at this address.” He handed Luten his card.

“I might be able to do better than that,” Luten said. “I’ll be in touch.”

His visit with Yarrow’s lawyer was unpleasant but necessary. In order to keep certain unsavory facts regarding the nature of his long relationship with Yvonne out of the journals, Yarrow agreed to turn fifteen thousand pounds over to Sylvie.

To suppress the evidence of Yarrow’s dealings with Gresham, the Tories agreed to reconsider the granting of the contract for the rockets. Gresham, after careful consideration, decided that his Armaments Works was incapable of supplying the rocket in the quantity required, and the contract was awarded to Congreve.

Sir Reginald, pleasantly embittered by it all, went into a three-day decline, had straw laid in the street to deaden the sound of carriage wheels, wrapped his knocker up in black, wore a black armband, and composed a threnody on lost love. By the third evening, his friends had ceased sending messages and flowers. He became bored with solitude and mourning.

When he saw Luten and Coffen going to Corinne’s house, he called his valet and said, “Make me presentable, Villier. I put myself in your capable hands. I require a toilette that suggests my loss, without flinging it in the faces of my friends. The black jacket and striped waistcoat, I think, and of course, the black pearl cravat pin.”

“Shall you wear a ring?”

Prance considered it a moment. “No, that would be too joyful.”

“Just a touch of talcum on your cheeks, milord?” Villier suggested. He had discovered that Sir Reginald not only tolerated the misnomer “milord,” but liked it very well when they were alone.

“Just so, and a hint of that lilac water from France. Now for the cravat. Not the Oriental when I am practically in mourning.”

“May I suggest the Carlton? Your patron, the Prince of Wales, particularly admired it.”

Half an hour later, a highly polished Sir Reginald duly appeared in Corinne’s saloon, where he found the rest of the Berkeley Brigade enjoying a glass of wine. He was warmly welcomed back into the world.

“Finished your epic, have you?” Coffen asked, drawing Prance a chair by the grate, as if he were an invalid.

“Ah no, Coffen. Kind of you to inquire, but no creating was possible in my emotional state, save for a little threnody in memory of
her.”
The hushed pronouncement of “her” left no doubt as to whom he meant.

“Sturm und Drang,”
Coffen said, nodding. “Sorry for your trouble, Prance, but you can’t let it get you down.”

“I realize I have been self-indulgent. Naughty of me, but really, you know, the way I was feeling, it would have been cruel to inflict myself on Society. And how has the world been wagging while I have been hors de combat?” He darted a coy glance at Corinne and Luten. He noticed she was wearing the ten-carat emerald-cut diamond. It looked quite ludicrous on her little hand. It occurred to him that the black diamond bracelet would make a suitable wedding gift.

“About the same as usual,” Corinne said. She and Luten brought him up-to-date on their various doings with Yarrow, Sylvie, and Monsieur Lachange.

Prance gazed into the leaping flames. “The cycle of life goes on,” he murmured. “Love, death, marriage—and eventually new birth. I trust you two have not slipped off to visit the archbishop for a special license while my back was turned?”

“Oh no. Luten is not that eager to be under cat’s paw,” Corinne said, with a smiling glance at her reinstated fiancé
.

“Then I am not too late to help you with the arrangements for the nuptials? You cannot refuse me! It would be too cruel. I need some distraction to ease me out of this melancholia I have been floundering in. All has been disaster for me this spring. The failure of my
Rondeaux,
and of my love for the comtesse. Between the two of them, they have nearly undone me.”

“You’ve got your
Rondeaux
into Oxford and Cambridge. I don’t call that failure,” Luten said bracingly.

“Now, that is an odd thing, Luten,” Prance said, with a questioning look. “It was not the university that bought all those copies of my
Rondeaux.
Nor has there been any word from Prinney. He would have asked me to autograph them if he were giving them to visiting dignitaries. Villier mentioned something about some large boxes being delivered to you the day before my poems appeared in Hatchard’s window.”

“A few items I had sent from my cousin’s estate—the one I inherited, you know. Some books on religion I promised to Bishop Farndale.”

“Ah. I have been thinking of that unexplained smoke from your bedroom chimney.”

“The rooms were damp.”

“Odd that mine were not damp.”

“I must have my roof looked at.”

“P’raps it was old King George who bought the
Rondeaux,”
Coffen suggested.

“Yes, he is mad after all,” Prance said, and allowed himself a small smile at his sally. “We must laugh at our own follies, or we become brutes. But enough of this lugubrious chatter. About our wedding, folks, have we decided between Saint George’s in Hanover Square and Ireland? Saint George’s would be easier for me, right here in London, where I know all the sources for what I shall require.”

“Ireland,” Coffen said.

Prance frowned. “Southcote Abbey would be an impressive site,” he suggested.

“Ireland,” Coffen repeated.

“Or your house right here on Berkeley Square, Luten?” Prance said.

“It’s to be Ireland, tarsome fellow,” Coffen said again.

Prance sighed. “Ireland. If you tell me the bride plans to wear green, I shall disown the lot of you.”

Coffen looked alarmed. “Married in green, ashamed to be seen,” he said. “That’s what my nanny used to say.”

“It would match her eyes,” Luten said mischievously, and grinned at his jealous fiancée
.

“For such a sad occasion, perhaps I should wear black,” she retaliated.

“Married in black, you’ll ride in a hack,” Coffen warned. “I think you ought to wear white, even if it ain’t your first time out, Corinne. Married in white, you’ve chosen right.”

“White it is,” Luten said.

Coffen smiled contentedly; Prance frowned, and Black, wearing the face of a martyr on this sad occasion, came to the door to suggest champagne.

Copyright © 1998 by Joan Smith

Originally published by Fawcett Crest [0449224945]

Electronically published in 2011 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

     http://www.RegencyReads.com

     Electronic sales: [email protected]

This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.