Murder While I Smile

by Joan Smith

“Oh, it is famous. See, there he is, with Lord Luten.”

  Prance had the pleasure, never to be surpassed in his lifetime, though the prince’s approval ran it a close race, of being besieged for no fewer than five autographs. And the books were not gifts; they had been paid for. Flushed with success, he finally allowed himself to be led from the store, glowing like a Derby winner. To put the cap on his excitement, he encountered Robert Marchant outside the shop and could retaliate for yesterday’s slights.

  Prance accosted Marchant. “You notice who is in the window today, Marchant?” he asked, trying to appear debonair, and only succeeding in sounding like a boasting schoolboy.

  Marchant glanced sideways and said, “Oh, it is your verses, Prance. Congratulations.” He raised his hand, which held a copy of the familiar morocco-bound volume. “I picked up a copy last night. Inwood recommended it highly. Haven’t had a chance to dip into it yet. You heard about poor Inwood?”

  Prance noticed then that Marchant was wearing a black band on his curled beaver and a black ribbon around his sleeve. Luten, Corinne, and Coffen nudged closer.

  “What about him?” Prance asked. He assumed the crape had been donned for some ancient relative and didn’t associate it with Inwood’s misfortune.

  “Dead. He was killed last night.”

  “Good God!” Prance gasped, his face blanching. “I was talking to him right on this spot not twenty-four hours ago. What happened to him? A duel, a tumble off his mount?” he asked, choosing the two misadventures most likely to snuff out a healthy young life so quickly.

  “He was shot to death last night outside his own house. He had rooms on Craven Street, just around the corner from Whitehall Street. His wallet and watch were taken.”

  “By Jove, I’ve been attacked by highwaymen myself,” Coffen declared. “You mind, Corinne. You was with me last spring, only they didn’t kill us.”

  Marchant shook his head. “It just goes to show you the city isn’t safe to live in. The highwaymen aren’t satisfied with terrorizing travelers. They are moving into town—either that or the footpads have turned to murder. I mean to raise the issue in the House. Townsend must do something—put more officers on the street and hang the bloody scoundrels.”

  The others listened while Marchant and Prance discussed the murder. Nothing was known of Inwood’s attacker or attackers, as he had not survived to tell the tale. His body had been found early in the morning by a dairyman bringing his milk to town. The authorities thought the body had been dead for several hours. Common sense suggested that death had occurred when he was returning from his night’s revels. Marchant mentioned that Inwood had planned to attend the newly constructed Drury Lane Theatre with some of his friends.

  “I wanted to go with him, but I was invited out to dinner. The timing of poor Inwood’s death, of course,” he continued, assuming his sonorous speech-making voice, “could not be worse. We were to vote on the contract for the rockets today. Now there will very likely be a tie. The chairman will cast the deciding vote. He does not vote unless there is a tie. The Commission has an uneven number of members so that a tie could not occur if we were all present. Well, I had best be off.”

  He took a few steps, then turned around and said, “Perhaps you’d autograph this copy for me, Prance? I was hoping to meet you.”

  “If you want to step into Hatchard’s ...”

  “I’m in a bit of a rush. Why don’t you take it, and I’ll send my footman around to Berkeley Square for it later.”

  “Very well.” Prance accepted the book with an air of condescension befitting the holder of Hatchard’s bow window.

  As Marchant left, Luten drew Corinne aside. “I know you’re not going to like this, but I—”

  “You’re going to discuss Inwood’s death with Brougham. I understand. Do you suspect it has to do with the rocket contract?”

  “As Yarrow is the chairman who has the deciding vote, I fear so.”

  “Really? Surely you don’t think Yarrow had him killed!”

  “I shouldn’t think so.”

  “Then who?”

  “Someone who has invested heavily in Gresham stock and wants to make sure Gresham gets the contract. You know who I mean.” She assumed he was referring to Chamaude. “My hope is to delay the vote. You can cadge a drive home with Prance?”

  “Of course. Hurry, Luten.”

  Coffen borrowed Reg’s rig to take his Poussin to Mercier’s gallery for authentication. Corinne continued walking with Prance, who had no notion of leaving the environs of Hatchard’s in the near future.

  As Luten was driven to Whitehall, he thought about the ramifications of Inwood’s death. If Chamaude was selling off her pictures to invest in Gresham’s company, and she learned Inwood was voting for Congreve, then she might have her colleague, the tall Frenchman, get rid of Inwood, knowing Yarrow would cast the deciding vote for Gresham. What he did not know for certain was which bid Inwood favored. He felt Chamaude’s aim was to make enough money to be free of that old slice Yarrow once and for all, now that he had served his purpose, and to set herself up in style in that house on Grosvenor Square that Yarrow had mentioned. Amazing what a pretty woman could accomplish if she had no scruples and kept her wits about her. But he still didn’t know why she had suddenly decided to switch Pattle’s Poussin last night.

  Brougham had not yet arrived at Whitehall. Luten left a note telling what had happened to Inwood and what he suspected, along with directions that Brougham was to receive the note the minute he arrived. He then drove to Brougham’s house, where he discovered that Brougham had left for work ten minutes before.

  His next stop was Half Moon Street. The comtesse would have no reason to suspect he knew of Inwood’s death. He wouldn’t mention it or the rocket contract, but he would try to cozen his way into her confidence. The lady was open for a dalliance, if he was any judge of the fair sex. He would use the excuse of putting an offer on the Watteau. It would be a fine balancing act to keep the comtesse interested, without Corinne hitting the roof. She was already suspicious. To further complicate matters, he wasn’t driving his hunting carriage today. If he took Chamaude out, it would be in his own rig, which half of London would recognize. No, he’d have to send John Groom off to exchange it for the unmarked carriage and hire an anonymous team from Newman’s Stable.

  Prance eventually accompanied Corinne home in a hired hackney. He had conceived the brilliant idea of inviting the comtesse out for a drive and walking her past Hatchard’s.

  Coffen dropped in at Corinne’s house an hour later. “Reg will be mad as a gumboil that I didn’t get his rig back to Hatchard’s in time. He hates taking hired hackneys.”

  “He didn’t mind today.”

  “Aye, he’s merry as a grig about seeing his book in the window. I wonder what ails Hatchard. The book is a clinker, ain’t it?”

  “I fear so, but you didn’t hear it here.”

  “Well, my Poosan ain’t. Mercier tells me it’s the genuine article,” he said with satisfaction. “You’ll have to help me decide where to hang it.”

  “Oh, in your bedchamber, surely, where you can see it every morning and evening.” And where she would never have to see it again.

  “Not sure I want a suicide picture staring me in the face before I’ve had my morning tea. I’ll think about it.” He helped himself to a glass of wine. “Seems we ought to be doing something about poor Inwood,” he said.

  “Luten was wondering if he was going to vote for Congreve’s rocket.”

  “Very likely.” He had thoughtlessly carried a copy of the Rondeaux into the house with him. He opened it, furrowed up his brow, and rubbed his ear.

  “Here’s an odd thing,” he said, and showed Corinne the flyleaf of the book.

  She read, ‘To Lady Chamaude from an admirer, Sir Reginald Prance.” She sat staring at it a moment in confusion.

  “That’s the book Prance gave Chamaude,” Coffen said.

  “Yes, I realize that. But where did you get
it?”

  “Reg gave it to me before I went to Mercier’s. It’s the copy Marchant gave him to sign. Marchant didn’t buy a copy at all. She gave it to him—the comtesse. Poor Reg. We’ll not tell him about this, eh? Bruise his feelings.”

  “But this means Marchant called on Chamaude. Where else could he have got this?”

  “Aye, I mind he said he bought a copy last night, and he went out for dinner. He must have gone to Chamaude’s and taken it home with him. They’re friends, or cohorts. Clear as a pikestaff she’s influencing him to vote for Gresham. We ought to tell Luten.”

  “You had best drive to Whitehall, Coffen. It would look odd for a lady to go. Take the book, and tell him where you got it. He’ll understand what it means.”

  “Yes, by Jove. And mind you don’t tell Reg.”

  Reggie’s sensitive feelings were the least of Corinne’s worries. But the cloud had one silver lining at least. It would prove to Luten that the comtesse was a cunning, low conniver.

  Mrs. Ballard came downstairs, and they began to discuss wedding plans. The dame was concerned that she would lose her post after the marriage and was reassured that her mistress would still require a dresser.

  Chapter Ten

  Luten was kept waiting longer to see Lady Chamaude than he expected. The boulevardier-butler showed him into a small parlor, poured him a glass of wine, and withdrew. The desk in the corner suggested Yvonne used this room as her study. While awaiting his summons to enter the saloon, Luten made a quick examination of the papers on the desk, a few bills and one half-written letter. It was from Manchester—Gresham? No, a female called Sylvie. The subject appeared to be gowns, but it was interesting that Yvonne had connections in Manchester, where Gresham’s armaments plant was situated.

  The paintings on the wall were also of some interest to him. One was a watercolor of the Louvre; another was of a young girl done in the style of Greuze, the French genre painter from the last century. In this picture, Greuze (if the artist was Greuze) had restrained his love of melodrama. The girl was not mourning the loss of her sparrow or canary but smiling.

  Something in that smile held an echo of the young Yvonne he had known a dozen years ago. Was this a portrait of her? The face was fuller, the eyes less large and lustrous and more innocent, but it was possible. The loss of weight might have given the eyes more prominence, and the trials of her life since then explained the loss of innocence. Greuze was still painting at the turn of the century, when Yvonne would have been this age.

  He had not been working in England, however, and Yvonne claimed never to have returned to France. Had she returned, and if so, did it have any significance? Had she been, and was she still, working for France? Perhaps hoping to recover Chamaude’s estate by doing a spot of work for Napoleon in England? It would explain why she tolerated Yarrow as her lover, when it was clear she despised the man. Yarrow knew all the secrets of the Horse Guards—and he was Chairman of the Ordnance Committee. Luten thought of his message to Brougham and hoped Brougham had managed to get the awarding of the rocket contract delayed.

  His mind flew to the rockets and a spasm of alarm shook him. Was Gresham supplying some inferior sort of weapon, one that would not do its job? He examined the picture for a signature; if it was not a Greuze, all this conjecture was futile. The signature was stuck off in the bottom right corner, most of it covered by the frame. The letters were indecipherable. And to quiz her about the picture would only alert her of his suspicions, for she knew that he knew something of art.

  The door opened without warning, and the butler was back. As Luten was bent over, studying the picture, he said, “Is this a portrait of Lady Chamaude?”

  The butler’s dissipated face revealed nothing but disdain as he tossed his narrow shoulders in a Gallic shrug. “Madame will receive you now in the saloon, melord.”

  When Luten was led in, he had the distinct impression that Yvonne had been crying. With his suspicions on the boil, he even wondered if she had rubbed her eyes into redness to engage his sympathy. She wore a draped robe of sky-blue, which would have looked more at home in the boudoir. It clung to the outline of her extremely curvaceous body. She had certainly kept her figure! The violet smudges beneath her eyes suggested a sleepless night. Her coiffure was tousled, attractively so, as if she had run her fingers through her curls in a fit of abandon. An English lady would not have received any gentleman but her lover in such a beguiling state of disarray.

  “How kind of you to come, Luten,” she said, offering both her dainty white hands. He noticed that the wedding ring formerly on her left hand had been replaced by a sapphire. She did not rise to greet him but lay stretched out on a sofa, propped up with pillows. He had to bend over to take her hands. She obviously expected him to kiss them. He dutifully raised her right hand to his lips in the familiar gesture. How soft and smooth it was. A hand that had never done any manual work. The musky scent of French perfume hovered about her.

  “You must ignore my dishabille,” she said, in her alluring accent. “I fear I have suffered a disappointment today.”

  “I am sorry to hear it, Yvonne,” he said, drawing a chair up beside her. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Ah no, it is for me to deal with. The petite house I had hoped to purchase—it has been sold, and after I parted with so many of my old friends to gather the monies to buy it,” she said with a moue. “I mean the paintings from the Chamaude collection,” she explained, when Luten frowned at that vague “friends.”

  “That is a pity, but there will be other houses on the market.”

  “Bien entendu, but this one was suitable for me, as to price, vous savez. My pockets are not deep. Peut-etre I shall have to sell my Watteau after all.” Her dark, glittering eyes gazed into his. He noticed that she was sprinkling her conversation with French phrases in a way she used to do years ago, when she was looking about for a rich patron. Her accent was more pronounced than it had been yesterday, too. Very seductive, that trace of French accent. Prance had a theory that gentlemen always preferred foreign women for their mistresses and English ladies for their wives. They liked the mystery of the unknown but mistrusted it for such a serious business as raising a family.

  “What price did you have in mind for the Watteau?”

  “Twenty-five hundred. It is a very fine picture.”

  Luten nodded, interested. He had been thinking about the Poussin, which had been mysteriously exchanged the night before. If Yvonne was trying to sell him the Watteau, then presumably she would sell him the original. He felt it would give him some leverage against her if he could catch her out in selling a forged picture that she knew to be forged. He must, therefore, let her believe the painting was to go to someone less knowledgeable about art than himself.

  “I have an old school friend who inherited a big house in Somerset,” he said. “He mentioned his wife wants to buy some furnishings and pictures and so on to brighten it up. Deverel could well afford the Watteau, but unfortunately he is no connoisseur. It would seem a shame to send it off to the provinces to languish unappreciated.”

  She lowered her eyes and played with the silk of her gown, so that he could not read her expression. “You have lost interest in it yourself, Luten?” she asked.

  To dilute her suspicion, he said, “Not at all. I have just had word from my bailiff at Southgate Abbey that the roof needs replacement. It cuts into my disposable income. I don’t like to leave myself short. Might Yarrow know someone who would buy it, or buy it himself?” he suggested, to conceal his interest in the matter.

  Her face tensed at the mention of her patron’s name. “I would prefer not to be further indebted to Lord Yarrow,” she said.

  Luten had to force the hopeful smile that peered at her. “Indeed?” he said. “That is good news to the bachelors of London.”

  She smiled at him from the corner of her dark, liquid eyes. There was seduction in that look, and something else that he found upsetting. It looked like sadness, and he fel
t an unwelcome stirring of pity. He reminded himself that she was a professional actress.

  “I am long past the age where I excite the interest of young gentlemen,” she said, rather archly.

  “It is ungentlemanly to disagree with a lady, but I fear I must be ungentlemanly in this matter.”

  She reached out and patted his hand with her soft, warm fingers. “You were always so sweet, Luten,” she said, in a fond, nostalgic way.

  “I could still be sweet, if you would allow.... Come, let us go out for a drive in the country. It will help you be rid of these blue devils.”

  She sat up, excitement flashing. “Dare we?” she asked.

  “You are thinking of Yarrow?”

  “He would dislike it very much, I fear. He was extremely jealous to hear you had called the other day. I did not tell him, naturellement. I believe he heard of it at the prince’s little soiree.”

  How cleverly she had pitched them in league against Yarrow, devising secrets to bind them together. “Then it is fortunate I sent for my unmarked carriage, n’est-ce pas? Your butler—is he to be trusted?”

  “I chose my own servants. They are faithful to me. We shall drive in the country, non? I prefer not to be seen in town. I daresay you feel the same?” she asked, with a teasing laugh.

  Luten managed to reply with an air of nonchalance he was far from feeling. If Corinne ever found out about this! “Oh, I am still single.”

  This business of the rockets was too important to let his own interests stand in the way. Corinne would understand. If Chamaude was influencing Yarrow to supply inferior weapons, perhaps perfectly useless ones, it could cost the lives of countless English soldiers.

  “Allow me a moment to make my toilette. I shall return tout de suite,” she said.

  She rose and glided from the room in a silken rustle, leaving behind a miasma of musk. The few moments until she returned showed Luten what a perilous course he was running, but he must just count on Corinne’s common sense. And besides, he thought, she might never hear of it. He would tell her after it was all over. His hunting carriage drew up to the door just as Yvonne returned, wearing a hooded mantle that would cover her face in the carriage. She was obviously no tyro at this sort of thing. She had slipped out on Yarrow before.