Murder While I Smile

by Joan Smith

  Coffen went in a daze of glory to stare at a series of paintings. The royal hands, well shaped and well manicured, gestured as they pointed out details of chiaroscuro and color, of composition and what he called “integrity of rendition.” In the case of Rembrandt, this seemed to refer to the face of an ugly old woman, which was really all that could be made out in the painting. Some of the other pictures were so finely rendered that you could see on the table a drop of water that had fallen off some flowers. Dandy flowers they were, in all shapes and colors, but wilting a bit.

  “Very well done, that,” he said, pointing at the droplet, when the prince asked for his opinion.

  “Veritable trompe l’oeil, though not so crass as a fly on the nose, what?”

  Coffen bit back the instinctive “Eh?” that rose up in his throat. He bowed again and said, “Not a bit crass, Your Majesty.”

  His Majesty’s eyes turned occasionally to include Prance and Corinne. When the paintings had all been praised and the prince turned to Prance, Prance sensed his moment had come, and he was as nervous as a deb at her presentation.

  “Sir Reginald, your Rondeaux have a place of honor in my library,” he said. “I enjoyed your poems immensely. So you are the new poet I have been hearing so much about.” His rheumy eyes gleamed with approval as they made a tour of Prance’s toilette.

  “I have the honor, Your Majesty,” Prance replied, feeling it was a pompous speech. His voice sounded all hollow and grave.

  The manicured fingers reached out and patted Prance on the shoulder. “A singular achievement,” he said with a smile of unmatched condescension. “The Round Table Rondeaux are delightful. A tale of King Arthur in verse. What an ingenious notion.”

  The phrase dux bellorum died aborning. If the Prince of Wales called the dux King Arthur, then King Arthur he was.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he whispered.

  “Excellent work. We must not let these ancient English myths die out. They are the very cornerstone of our traditions. They must be reinterpreted for each generation. If you write another book, Sir Reginald, you may dedicate it to us,” he said.

  Of course, angels did not really sing. Lightning did not flash, and thunder did not roll, but that was how Reggie perceived the world. He bowed gravely and said, “It would be an undeserved honor, Your Majesty.”

  “What is your next subject?” the prince inquired. Prance’s mind went blank. He stared, with still that ringing in his ears. “Will it also be a medieval tale?”

  Unable to speak, Prance just bowed again and mumbled, “Your Majesty.”

  “We look forward to your next composition,” the prince repeated. The rheumy royal eyes turned to Prance’s cravat. “Very elegant, Sir Reginald. I have not seen that arrangement before. What is it called?”

  Prance had slaved over the arrangement. He had planned to call it the Prancer, but at that moment, his only wish was to honor his prince. “The Carlton, sir, if you permit?”

  “We are honored.” Prince George gave him a roguish smile, laughed, bowed, and allowed Yarrow to lead him away.

  While Prance enjoyed his moment of triumph, Corinne scanned the room for some agreeable company. Finding none, she glanced to the doorway, where she saw a dark head standing a little above the throng of bald pates, grizzled heads, and feathered turbans. Luten! And looking, as usual, as if he had just stepped out of a bandbox. Now, what on earth was he doing here? And why had he not told her he was coming? The comtesse! She looked all around but saw no sign of her. She noticed that Luten was also looking about, probably for herself. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves and went forth to meet him.

  “Luten,” she said, not acknowledging his bow with a curtsy. “What are you doing here?”

  His slender eyebrows arched in a quizzing way. “Need you ask? Whither thou goest, my pet. Ah, I have just caught Prinney’s eye. I had best go and make my bows. These princelings take a pet so easily. Don’t go away. I shall be right back.”

  She watched as he went forward to do the pretty with Prince George. The contrast between the two gentlemen was remarkable. The prince so fat and common-looking in his garish outfit; Luten so leanly noble in a sedate jacket of dark green. The First Gentleman of Europe’s smile was somewhat strained. The meeting was brief.

  When Luten came back, Corinne returned to her question. “How did you wangle an invitation?”

  “I dropped in to speak to Yarrow while I was at the House this afternoon and dropped a few broad hints. The invitation was waiting for me when I got home.”

  She was gratified to hear that Luten had really been at the House and had been at pains to join her in the evening’s outing. She was still curious to discover why he had called for his hunting carriage, but disliked to quiz him, especially at the prince’s party.

  Coffen spotted him and came hastening forward, his brow crumpled with curiosity. “Told you not to worry,” he said to Corinne, who gave him a sharp poke in the ribs.

  They discovered Prance across the room, staring like a moonling at the prince’s back, and joined him.

  “We can have a glass of wine now. It’ll buck us up,” Coffen said, and stopped a passing footman to snare four glasses. He sipped the red liquid, frowned, and sipped again. “What kind of wine is this?” he demanded.

  “It’s not wine. It’s maraschino,” Corinne told him. “A cherry liqueur.”

  “Dandy stuff,” Coffen said, and emptied the glass.

  “We are to dedicate our next book to him,” Prance announced in a hushed voice.

  “Are we indeed? I wager Byron was not invited to do that,” Luten said.

  Prance looked around the room, fearing he might espy his nemesis, but he was soon assured of his absence. Other guests came forward to chat, and after a deal of lively bantering, during which Prance stood mute and Coffen downed two more glasses of maraschino, an extremely meager repast of anchovy sandwiches, crackers, and cheese was served. The prince was on another diet. Soon the prince led his claque to the card parlor, and the guests were free to leave.

  “We are to dedicate our next book to the Prince Regent,” Prance said again, still in that unreal voice that sounded like an echo.

  “I am very happy for us, but perhaps now that you’re outside, you can drop that persona and become you again, Prance,” Luten said. “The royal we is not contagious.”

  “A fine gentleman, the prince. I did not hear him spouting of Childe Harold. What we poets must do is keep alive the English myths, and never mind the pashas and banditos. Now, what should w— I write about next? My patron is eager to know. It should be something to reflect on him, don’t you think?”

  “Have you considered Punch and Judy?” Luten suggested. “A fine old English tradition, and Princess Caroline is well suited to her role.”

  “It is not a joke, Luten. I shall be writing for the prince—and for posterity.”

  “Famous! I shouldn’t be at all surprised to see the Rondeaux in Hatchard’s window tomorrow.” Over Prance’s shoulder, he winked at Corinne, who felt a sudden warmth invade her.

  “That would be asking too much,” Prance said modestly. But he’d drop around and have a look all the same. “Shall we tackle a rout? No, I believe I shall go home and give some thought to my next oeuvre.”

  “I could do with another glass of that masherino,” Coffen said, looking about for a footman.

  “Let us all go home,” Corinne said. “You have had enough to drink, Coffen, and we have all had enough of crowns and crownets for one night. We came in my carriage,” she added, looking to Luten.

  “Prance and Coffen can take it home. It is time we lovebirds had some privacy.”

  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?” B
lack 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 André 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?”