Murder While I Smile

by Joan Smith

  * * * *

  Before calling on the comtesse, Prance visited his little conservatory to select a bouquet. Provence roses, of course, would be the basis, but they must be set off with interesting greenery and presented in a vase. He had a surfeit of interesting vases; the only difficulty was to choose the most suitable. He settled on a tall, elegant vase of Murano crystal that sparkled like her eyes. With his clasp knife, he removed every thorn by hand from the rose stocks. When one of them pierced his finger, he squeezed a few droplets of blood and deposited them on a rose petal. It seemed symbolic, but of what, he was not quite sure. A promise that he would gladly spill his blood for her, perhaps? A few drops anyway.

  He rearranged his poetic toilette, exchanging the saffron kerchief for one of a pale indigo, which was a more romantic shade. When all was ready, he carried the vase to his carriage and directed his coachman to drive carefully, to avoid damaging the roses and spilling the water.

  The worst Prance expected was that Yarrow would be visiting Yvonne, in which case his own conversation would sparkle so brightly that she would realize she was wasting her time on that aging crock. It was also possible that the comtesse would not be at home, in which case he would wait until she arrived, or leave the posies and return if she was to be gone for hours. What never crossed his mind was that he would actually see Luten lead Yvonne from the doorway, she concealed under a dark hood, he peering up and down the street in a furtive manner before hustling her into his hunting carriage.

  The enormity of it quite took his breath away. Luten betraying not only his fiancée but his best friend as well. Prance had thought Corinne ridiculously jealous, but he now realized that she knew Luten better than any of them. Her feminine instinct had caught the whiff of lust in the air between Luten and Yvonne. For lust was obviously all it was in Luten’s case, of course. He was taking pains to make sure Corinne didn’t discover his stunt, which meant he still wanted to marry her.

  As much as Prance thrived on drama, this was more than he had bargained for. What was the gentlemanly thing to do in this circumstance? Corinne must be shielded from the awful truth, of course. That was paramount. But Luten must also be brought to his senses—and he must pay the price for this treachery.

  He wondered just how far the affair had gone. Were they even now on their way to a romantic tryst in some country inn, away from London’s prying eyes? It was clearly his duty to follow them. He must do it at a discreet distance to avoid being seen and recognized. Hiring a hackney cab would help, but it would never keep up with Luten’s team. As the rig turned the corner, he noticed that the hunting carriage was not drawn by Luten’s blood nags but by a hired team. He was certainly taking no chances of being recognized!

  Prance followed along behind as the carriage turned west on Curzon Street, then north on Park Lane. There was enough traffic that keeping his presence unknown was no problem, though the fast pace was hard on the roses. He expected the carriage would continue out of town via Edgeware Road and was surprised when it turned east again on Upper Grosvenor Street and continued on to Grosvenor Square, right into the heart of polite London, where everyone would recognize him. What consummate folly!

  When the carriage drew to a stop, Prance remained at the corner. In a rare fit of good luck, an empty hackney cab passed by, and he hailed it. His coachman was ordered to take his own carriage to the mews. Prance withdrew into the shadows of the corner as the hackney drove past Luten’s carriage. He saw Luten assist Yvonne from the carriage. They were going into the house! No, they stopped and just stood, looking and pointing out various features.

  Prance studied the house to make sure he could recognize it again. Smallish, brown brick, white columns and pediment, two windows on either side of the doorway. He glanced at the landscaping, and his eyes beheld the To Be Sold sign. His heart fluttered painfully, like a wounded doe’s. Luten was buying her a house! He was setting Yvonne up as his mistress on the very eve of his marriage to Corinne! Prance’s aspirations had never extended to buying Yvonne a house. Luten must be extremely serious about the woman. And of course, he had the cash on hand, or would have as soon as he sold that little property his cousin had left him. The unfairness of it! This was really doing it too brown. He would not get away with this!

  The hackney circled the block, while Prance wrestled with his conscience over telling Corinne. She, he felt, was the only chance of bringing Luten to his senses. He might drop Yvonne if Corinne threatened to break their engagement. Or he, Prance, might tell Yvonne that Luten was engaged. She obviously didn’t know, or she would not have been throwing her hankie at Luten right in front of his fiancée during that visit. But would a mere engagement be enough to stop Yvonne? A battle between Aphrodite and... well, another Aphrodite. Or was the judgment of Paris a fitter metaphor?

  When he passed the house again, Luten and Yvonne were returning to the carriage. Had he not bought the house, then? Were they just looking for a suitable love nest? The hackney cab was heading in the wrong direction to follow them. Prance had the driver circle back and continue after the hunting carriage. It now proceeded north on Edgeware Road, as he expected, and on out of town via the Maida Vale Road to St. John’s Wood, where it drew into a half-timbered inn.

  Prance had seen enough. He asked the hackney driver to take him to Berkeley Square, where he ordered his butler to draw the curtains and tell any callers that he was not well. He required solitude and silence to work out this monumental moral dilemma, and perhaps a glass of brandy and a little browsing through Dante to dull the sharp edge of pain occasioned by this monstrous betrayal.

  No more to gaze into those Sturm und Drang eyes for a glimpse of paradise. The view now would be tainted with a brimstone tinge of hell. The fire in his veins had turned to ice. Would he ever see the stars again? “Without hope, we live in desire,” he read, and realized again the genius of Dante Alighieri, for his desire was not only alive but enhanced by Yvonne’s carrying on. Say what you like, where women were concerned availability was the strongest aphrodisiac. If she accepted one lover while under Yarrow’s patronage, would she not accept another? Rather fun, actually, to have an affair with Luten’s mistress. The rogue in him enjoyed a cynical little smile. He would not have to feel guilty, when Luten was being such a wretch.

  Between the brandy and the quantity and quality of the mischief all around him, he soon felt well enough to call on Coffen. He had to share all this with someone or he would burst, and of course, he could not whisper a word to poor Corinne. Though if Coffen or some kind friend did not let the whole thing out, he would be greatly surprised. No matter, that was not his responsibility.

  Chapter Eleven

  Luten had a busy afternoon. After spending an hour in flirtation with Yvonne, hinting that he was interested in a liaison, he had to smuggle her home, then dart off to visit Brougham, where he learned that the Ordnance Committee had given the rocket contract to Gresham. Due to Inwood’s death, Yarrow had cast the deciding vote. Brougham had demanded a meeting with Lord Liverpool, the prime minister, who assured him that every aspect of the contract had been looked into, by the Tories, of course, and Gresham’s rocket, while a little more expensive, was the superior weapon.

  “Your first love was science, Brougham. Which do you think the superior weapon?” Luten asked.

  “My instinct tells me Congreve’s, but that is only because the Tories have chosen Gresham’s.” A trace of a burr clung to Brougham’s speech. “I mean to delve into the matter as soon as I get a moment free. Pity I hadn’t done it sooner, but they kept the whole business quiet.”

  “You’re an old hand at manipulating the press. If we leaked word that the contract was given to the wrong company, we might raise a public hue and cry.”

  Brougham explained, “It would take time, and I’ve no proof as yet that Gresham’s design is inferior. I was with Liverpool for an hour. He said the Duke of York had personally come out in favor of Gresham. The royal nod pretty well settles it.”

 
“We are all aware of York’s character, or lack of it,” Luten replied. “The Parliamentary Enquiry found him guilty of allowing his mistress to sell army commissions and promotions, and sacked him a few years ago. It’s a scandal that Prinney reappointed him to his position. He’d sell his title for money. I wonder what Yarrow promised him in return for recommending Gresham.”

  “Yarrow is close as inkle weavers with Prinney. That kind of talk will land you in the Tower, Luten, unless you can find something to substantiate it.”

  “Then I’ll damned well find something.”

  “It had best be ironclad.”

  “This book proves Chamaude was entertaining Marchant,” Luten said, holding out the copy of the Rondeaux Coffen had given him. “And Marchant was on the Selection Committee. Inwood’s murder is highly suspicious, to say the least.”

  “Yes, I do have an inkling that he favored Congreve. That is the way the rumors fly.”

  “I’ll search his office. He may have left some notes that indicate—”

  Brougham shook his head. “Too late. It has already been cleared out. I went to have a look. Turner, the new MP from Yorkshire, was already installed. He was not forthcoming as to what happened to Inwood’s papers.”

  “Turner was moving in the very day of Inwood’s death? That reeks of chicanery.”

  “Perhaps not. Space is at a premium.”

  “I feel in my bones Chamaude exerted her influence on Yarrow to vote for Gresham. She’s getting a cut from Gresham.”

  “But if Yarrow is not getting anything—well, he’s not the first gentleman to have his head turned by a pretty lady. He’ll look a fool but not a traitor. What you ought to do, however, is unmask this comtesse. We can’t have her exerting a malign influence on a member of the Horse Guards. You said she might have been in France since her arrival?”

  “And possibly arranging the odd murder as well, but it is only a suspicion that she was back in France. That painting in her study that I mentioned—I wish we could get a look at the signature on it I ought to have offered to buy it.”

  “It wouldn’t prove anything. She has only to say she wasn’t the model. It didn’t look that much like her, you said.”

  “True, and I didn’t want to alert her that I’m on to her. I have every intention of unmasking the comtesse. And I suggest that you get a team of engineers up to Colchester to go over Gresham’s rocket with a fine-tooth comb, to make sure it works.”

  “Aye, and I’ll make sure I wipe my nose next time I sneeze as well. I didn’t come down in the last rain, Luten.”

  “Sorry, Henry,” Luten said with a charming smile as he rose to take his leave. “I keep forgetting you’re the wise man of the party. You’re such a young wise man.”

  “There’s naught to do in Scotland but sit and think and grow wise,” Brougham replied with a laugh, pleased with the compliment.

  “And eat oatmeal.”

  * * * *

  Like Prance, Luten required solitude and silence to ponder the matter at hand. Unlike Prance, he did not seek it at home but in the privacy of his office at Whitehall. If he could get Yvonne arrested for selling forged paintings, that would at least put her out of commission for the nonce, hopefully until this war was over. She had asked him to write to his friend in Somerset and inquire whether he was interested in the Watteau. To speed matters up, he had told her that the gentleman had asked him to scout some pictures for him and the answer was a foregone conclusion.

  He assumed that she would send the picture off to whoever made her copies for her, secure in her mind that the buyer was well removed from London and knew little of art. To discover who the forger might be, Luten had set a footman to watch her house and follow her if she left, or if she sent a servant out on an errand. Winkle was to report to him at once if he discovered anything of interest. Winkle was a good lad who had done this sort of work for him before. He would dress himself up as a dandy and drive a gig to the corner of Half Moon Street and busy Piccadilly, with a view of Chamaude’s house. There he would remove the bolt from a wheel of the gig, which could quickly be replaced to allow him to follow anyone leaving her house. Meanwhile, he would watch the comings and goings while ostensibly awaiting the arrival of the wheeler.

  In a little over an hour, Winkle came tapping at his door, big with news. He looked so elegant in his blue jacket and curled beaver that no one would ever suspect his humble origins, until he opened his mouth.

  “Boisvert!” he exclaimed triumphantly.

  “What about him?”

  “A footman went to visit Boisvert. He was carrying a big parcel wrapped in brown paper. Looked the right size for the picture you mentioned.”

  “Who’s Boisvert?”

  “A French artist. He has what he calls an ay-tell-eeay in Shepherd’s Market,” he said, struggling over the French word. “A ratty little place between Curzon and Piccadilly. Not far from Half Moon Street. The fellow didn’t even take a carriage. He went on shank’s mare.”

  “Shepherd’s Market. I know the place.”

  “The footman took the parcel in and come out whistling ten minutes later. Went back to Half Moon Street empty-handed.”

  “You’re sure he didn’t see you?”

  “Nay, he never looked behind him. I got the wheel back on the gig and followed him at a distance, drove past as he was going into Boisvert’s, then drove the rig around the corner and walked back. Met up with a race-track tout that was selling tips on the races, so as to look natural, walking two by two.”

  “Good work, Winkle. Did anyone else call on the lady?”

  “A handsome-looking gent went in earlier and was still there when I left. Tall, dark.”

  “The mysterious Frenchman!”

  “He looked like it, though I didn’t hear him speak at all.”

  “You’ve done good work, Winkle. You can go home and await further instructions. Have a few ales on me,” he said, and handed Winkle a golden coin.

  “Do I keep on me fancy duds?”

  “Yes, best be ready for another assignment, but don’t go back to your old post or she’ll suspect you.”

  Luten was feeling the weight of conscience where his fiancée was concerned and decided there was no reason he couldn’t take Corinne with him to visit Boisvert. In fact, he would ask Boisvert to do a portrait of her. That would please her and get himself into the atelier. He assumed Boisvert was capable of painting a decent picture if he was the artist who was doing the forgeries for Yvonne. While Boisvert discussed costume and setting and so on with Corinne, Luten planned to ferret around the studio to see what he could discover.

  At Berkeley Square, Corinne was becoming impatient at being virtually abandoned by her fiancé at this romantic period of her life. She had thought they would get down to serious wedding plans when Luten returned from the country, and instead of that, they had hardly seen each other. She had seen Reggie dart over to visit Coffen. When the knocker sounded, she thought it was them calling on her. She was surprised and delighted to see Luten shown in.

  After a somewhat perfunctory embrace, for Black was watching like a hen guarding its chick, she said, “You had a call from Coffen?”

  “Yes, with Chamaude’s copy of the Rondeaux that mysteriously ended up in Marchant’s hands. It was very helpful. I fear Gresham got the contract, however. Yarrow cast the deciding vote.”

  “At her instigation, I warrant!”

  “Very likely. But enough of that. We have more pleasant things to discuss. I would like to give myself a wedding present.”

  She looked a question. “I am reluctant to ask what,” she said.

  “A portrait of you, as you look now, all brightly radiant and happy.” He gazed at her, smiling softly, until an answering smile stole across her lips.

  “Lawrence?” she asked, naming the foremost portrait artist. “Let us have one done of you, too. A pair for the family gallery.”

  “Lawrence, certainly, for our formal portraits for the gallery at Southcote, bu
t I would like something more informal for my own sole enjoyment. Brougham mentioned to me this morning a fellow who does good work. Has a little atelier in Shepherd’s Market.”

  “Shepherd’s Market? Can he be any good, working out of that squalid place?”

  “Perhaps he can come here to do the actual job. I thought we might drop around there this afternoon and have a look at his work. If we don’t like it, we need not hire him.”

  Corinne was flattered that he wanted her likeness and agreed to go at once.

  * * * *

  Prance, watching the comings and goings from Coffen’s window, said, “The deceiver! There he goes off with Corinne, and she smiling, unaware of his treachery. Friendship is full of dregs, Coffen.”

  “So’s wine. What of it?”

  “I always admired Luten, but as the poet says, ‘Friendship is constant in all other things, Save in the office and affairs of love.’ “

  “More Dante?”

  “No, fool, Shakespeare.”

  “I never thought I’d hear you call Shakespeare a fool.”

  “Nor will you, though I hate all mankind. I am become a misanthrope.”

  Coffen gave him a wary look. “Miss who?”

  “Misunderstood.”

  “You mean Miss Underwood, Prance. Your mind’s going on you.”

  “So it is. There is no point sighing over the problem like Tom o’ Bedlam. To work!”

  “You’re right. Thing to do, charge Luten with it. Can’t tell Corinne. It would break her heart. She’s my cousin—I’ll be the one to tackle Luten, but you must come with me. You’re the one saw him with the comtesse.”

  “With my own eyes. This is a dark day in the annals of friendship. You must deliver an ultimatum, Pattle. He never sees Yvonne again, or we tell Corinne.”

  “He’ll have to see her once to pay her off. Diamond bracelet, I fancy. After all, he’s only been out with her once.”