Murder While I Smile (8 page)

The warmth and tenderness in his eyes went a long way toward dissipating her fears. But she would still find out why he had come home in his hunting carriage.

Chapter Eight

Lord Luten did not receive his usual familiar greeting from Black as the butler admitted them.

“Wine, your ladyship?” Black inquired, pointedly ignoring Luten.

“We don’t want to be disturbed,” Luten said, and handed Corinne’s mantle to the butler.

“Why am I in Black’s black book?” he asked, as they took up a seat on the sofa before the grate.

She gave Luten a quizzing smile. “Perhaps he suspects you of some foul deed. You know how closely he monitors all our comings and goings.”

“You should keep better discipline among your servants.”

“He has my best interests at heart. How can I chastise him when his nosiness practically saved my life last spring? So what have you been doing all afternoon, Luten?” she asked, handing him a glass of wine.

“I called on Grey to let him know I’m back. The Tories are sending rockets to Spain. That is a secret, by-the-by. Grey has appointed Henry Brougham to handle it, in my absence. Brougham and I are to work together. He’s a clever fellow, a Scot. Matriculated Edinburgh University at thirteen. He’s published scientific papers and is a lawyer and writer besides—and he’s only a few years older than myself. Makes one feel a bit of a loafer. He’s also a fine orator. I see him as Fox’s successor as leader of the party.

“He suspects, as I do, that the Tories are up to some chicanery with the tenders, giving the contract before the House resumes for autumn.” He lifted his glass in a silent toast and they drank.

“The exigencies of war cannot wait until the House resumes,” she pointed out.

“The exigencies of war make a credible excuse, at any rate.”

To discover more of his doings, especially regarding the hunting carriage, she said, “Coffen was wondering if you had sent his Poussin home.” It was not precisely a lie, merely a prevarication.

“I sent it hours ago! Did he not receive it?”

“If you sent it, then I assume it’s there. He dined with Reggie.”

“Did you not dine with them?” he asked, surprised.

A flush of remembered annoyance warmed her cheeks. “No, I had thought you and I would dine together, since we haven’t seen each other for nearly three weeks.”

He gave a charmingly rueful smile. “I had been looking forward to it. I was detained. This rocket business ... Sorry, love. We’ll make it up tomorrow.”

“Sure it was not this Comtesse Chamaude business?” she asked, softening the question with an arch smile.

Luten either misunderstood or chose to misunderstand. “I shouldn’t be surprised if it’s all part and parcel of the same thing. Yarrow is on the Ordnance Committee that will assign the contract.”

“What can that have to do with her?”

“Perhaps nothing.”

“Did you call on her?” she asked, her heart beating faster. She knew Luten disliked being questioned about his doings, but as his fiancée, she felt it her right.

“Why do you ask that?”

“Why do you not answer?”

“No, I didn’t call on her. I was busy following a portly country gentleman in an ill-cut jacket, answering Brougham’s description of Gresham. Gresham is the other contender for the rocket contract. It was Brougham who put me on to him. He mentioned that Gresham is in town, putting up at Reddish’s Hotel, ostensibly having his portrait taken, but actually trying to sell the Ordnance Committee on his rocket. We thought it a good idea to see who he calls on. He didn’t call on Yarrow, but then Yarrow is too cunning to meet the man publicly if there is any trickery afoot between them. Gresham did call on Yvonne.” He cocked his head aside and lifted his eyebrows over his intelligent gray eyes. “Interesting,
n’est-ce pas?
I had sent for my hunting carriage and risked driving past her place on Half Moon Street a few times. Gresham was there for an hour.”

With her fears regarding the hunting carriage allayed, Corinne turned her attention to Gresham’s suspicious behavior. “Perhaps Gresham met Yarrow there,” she said.

“No, Yarrow didn’t show up. He was at the House all afternoon, but it’s an odd coincidence, Gresham’s visiting Yarrow’s mistress.”

“Perhaps she is trying to influence Yarrow to choose her friend, Gresham’s, rocket,” Corinne suggested.

“Yarrow is the likelier culprit. He’s the one who would be engineering any chicanery. But enough of politics. You now know why I was driving my hunting carriage.” A teasing smile creased his face, for he was flattered at her jealousy.

“Black did mention it. Knowing its function, I wondered.”

“Surely you didn’t suspect me of carrying on with a lightskirt, when we are planning our wedding!”

“Why, no, Luten, to tell the truth, I suspected a lightskirt of trying to get her claws into you. She made no secret of her intentions. Are you not flattered at my concern?”

“Vastly flattered, but one does not hanker after ale when he has champagne at hand.”

He set aside his glass and drew her into his arms to convince her he was marble-constant in his devotion. As his arms crushed her against him and his lips seized hers in a fevered embrace, she was left in no doubt.

Their lovemaking was interrupted by a commotion at the front door. “Dash it, this is more important than snuggling!” Coffen scolded.

“The estimable Black is barring the door,” Luten said, as the scuffling grew louder. “We’d best find out what ails Coffen. Too much maraschino, I fancy. How he could guzzle down that disgusting syrup!” He rose and opened the door. “What is it, Coffen?” he asked irritably.

Coffen barged in, his finery all askew, his hair hanging in oily strands over his forehead, and his blue eyes bulging. “I was burgled while we was at Carlton House!” he announced.

Corinne jumped up from the sofa. “Good gracious! What was taken?”

“That dandy brass jug from the hall table, the one I put my hat on; my silver candlesticks that I had in the saloon—I don’t know what all.”

“How did they get in?” she asked. “Your servants were there.”

“Playing cards in the kitchen. Three sheets to the wind, the lot of them. They got into the wine cellar. My butler left the door on the latch for me in case I forgot my key—which I did.”

“Let us go over and see what else is missing,” Luten said.

“We’ll search for clues,” Coffen added. He placed a strong reliance on the efficacy of clues.

They all darted across the street. Prance, who had been pacing his saloon to aid conjuring up a theme for his next oeuvre, noticed the movement and joined them.

“What is up?” he demanded.

“Coffen’s been burgled,” Corinne told him.

“The Poussin?”

“By the living jingo, that’s it!” Coffen cried.

His penitent butler, Jacob, stood in the hall listening, with his head hanging in shame and a strong aroma not of wine but of ale emanating from him. He looked like a scapegallows and was, in fact, a poacher from Coffen’s country estate who had been lured from decimating Pattle’s game by the offer of employment in London. He was a dark-haired man with round shoulders and a shifty eye.

“The picture is in your study,” he said. Then as he remembered that guests were present, he added, “Sir.” They could all see the man was foxed.

“Let us have a look,” Prance said, and darted down to Coffen’s study.

He returned with the picture, still in its wrapping. He undid the wrapping, and they all examined it, front and back.

“This is the original, all right,” he said, setting it on a chair.

Coffen examined it. “It is. There are the nicks I put in the frame when I hit it against her table.”

“What all is missing?” Luten asked.

They examined the familiar rooms. The permanent state of disarray made an inventory difficult, but this was not entirely the servants’ fault. The silver epergne that should have been on the dining-room table sat on the floor in the saloon, where Coffen had been flipping cards into it. A clutter of cards were scattered around it. Journals were tossed about on the sofa. Used wineglasses were on every dusty table.

Corinne went to check the silverware. The cupboard in the butler’s pantry was not locked as it should have been, but the silver was all there. A few paintings of some value still hung on the dining room walls.

Coffen ran upstairs and returned to tell them his jewelry was intact.

Prance, who had been checking the saloon, said, “They made off with that ugly Capodimonte statuette of Columbine that used to sit on your mantel. You say the brass vase and silver candlesticks are missing. We are looking, then, for some thieves with eclectic and abominable taste. Are you sure it wasn’t your own servants?”

“Nay, they’re all drunk as Danes. I quizzed them. They’re in no shape to keep a secret. When they steal, it’s usually money from my desk drawer.”

Prance shook his head. “Kind of you to keep a supply there for them.”

“Only a few pounds. Saves them stealing my stuff.”

“It sounds like some passersby who perhaps saw the door ajar and risked slipping in,” Corinne said. “With Jacob in the kitchen... You really must speak to your servants, Coffen.”

“I will, as soon as they’re sober,” he replied, though they all knew how vain the effort would be.

Prance tossed up his hands. “For God’s sake, put this Poussin away. And lock the door when we leave.”

Coffen handed the painting to Jacob, who looked at it a moment, then slid it behind the chair, handy to any thief who opened the front door.

“Thankee for coming, folks,” Coffen said, shamefacedly. “Can I give you a glass of wine for your trouble?”

“I could do with a posset,” Prance said, then with a memory of Coffen’s kitchen, he shook his head. “Never mind. My Andr
é
will prepare me one.” He looked with some interest at Luten. “Well, Luten, we are all on nettles to discover why you called out your hunting carriage this afternoon. Beating my time with la comtesse, hmmm?”

Luten directed a mock scowl at Corinne. How else did Prance know what carriage he had been driving? Prance’s butler was not a spy. They went into the untidy saloon, removed assorted debris from the sofas, and sat down. Coffen gave them a glass of wine, and Luten outlined what he had learned of the comtesse and Gresham and Yarrow.

“The comtesse is a schemer,” Coffen said. “I’ll take my Poosan to an art dealer tomorrow and make sure it ain’t a fake.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” Luten agreed.

Prance did not object to this slur on his beloved’s character. He liked his friends to have a few interesting faults. “If it is still in your possession by tomorrow,” he added. “What else have we planned for the day?”

“Corinne and I plan to go on the strut on Bond Street,” Luten said. Corinne looked at him in surprise. He had not mentioned it to her.

“May we join you?” Prance asked. “Or is this a
pas de deux?”

“Pas du tout,”
Luten replied. “Let us all go. Pattle can bring his Poussin along, and we’ll stop at Mercier’s to have the painting authenticated.”

They finished their wine and left, waiting outside until they heard Coffen slide the bolt.

“Very odd, that burglary,” Prance said musingly. “I mean to say, a prigger entering the house when there were lights on and only making off with a few tawdry bits and pieces. Highly unlikely.”

“Coffen is much too careless,” Corinne said. “I wager Jacob left the door wide open.”

“At least they didn’t get the Poussin, or I should have to suspect the comtesse said a careless word to someone.”

“Or had it stolen herself,” Corinne added.

Prance shook his head. “Luten has given an account of his afternoon, my pet. There is no further need for you to be jealous of Yvonne.”

“Good night, Prance,” she said coolly, and taking Luten’s arm, they returned to her house, while Prance darted across the street, smiling to himself. What was Yvonne up to, the sly piece?

“Why did you invite him and Coffen to join us tomorrow, Luten?” she asked. “I am beginning to get the notion you don’t want to be alone with me.”

“You wrong me. Every way you wrong me, my sweet idiot. I just want to see Reg’s face when he sees the
Rondeaux
in Hatchard’s window.”

“Luten, you didn’t! How did you arrange it?”

“You’ll have to help me get rid of the hundred copies I bought—while you suspected me of dangling after Yvonne.”

She colored up prettily. She was not only embarrassed for mistrusting him, but proud of Luten for his generous gesture.

“How do you plan to be rid of them? He has already given a copy to everyone we know and fifty-odd people we scarcely know.”

“I count on your help. Dry matter burns well,” he said. “But use an upstairs fireplace, in case he drops in during the conflagration. The covers are slow burners, and the leather smells like burning flesh.”

Black held the door open as they came up the steps. “I trust Mr. Pattle lost nothing of great value, your ladyship?” he asked.

This, of course, was officious in the extreme, but she replied, “No, nothing of great value.”

Black lifted his heavy eyebrows and said waggishly, “Did you figure out what was in the bag the fellow carried out of the house?”

“What do you mean? Black!” she exclaimed. “Did you see the burglar?”

“I didn’t know he was a burglar,” he said, half-proud of being able to identify the man, but unhappy that he had not apprehended him. “I mean to say, he knocked and went in without waiting for Jacob to admit him. I figured he was a friend, though I did wonder when he left with that bag, along with the picture.”

“Left with the picture?” Luten asked. “He didn’t steal the picture.”

“No, milord, he brought it with him, didn’t he?”

“What picture?”

“I didn’t see it. ‘Twas all wrapped up in brown paper. It was the same size as the one you had delivered this afternoon. I figured there’d been a mix-up at the comtesse’s house and he was exchanging it.”

“No,” Corinne said, “he took silver candlesticks, a brass vase, and a little statuette.”

“That’s what would have been in the bag he carried out.” Black nodded, satisfied.