Murder While I Smile

by Joan Smith

  Coffen considered this a moment, then said, “A good idea, before he tells you. Mean to say, a bit of satisfaction in giving him the boot at least.”

  “It is all very sad,” Prance said, subduing the smile that wanted to peep out, “but don’t be overly hasty, dear. Wait and hear what he has to say. Would Yvonne want to go on seeing me if she had a carte blanche from Luten? Methinks not.”

  “It appears she found Luten unsatisfactory, Prance, and has chosen you over him. There is a feather for your cap.”

  “Call me a macaroni!” he said. “Shall we go to Bond Street? I like to buy myself something exquisite when I have been embittered by love. It exorcises the demon, jealousy.”

  “Hers don’t need any exercising. It’s strong enough,” Coffen muttered.

  Prance sighed. “Exercise it to death,” he said, to avoid lengthy explanation. “I had thought I would be buying myself a new snuffbox or cravat pin this morning, but as events turned out, I shall help you choose yourself a bibelot instead. It must be a luxury, to make you feel better. I recommend the new foaming soap from Vienna, if you haven’t tried it yet.”

  “Rubbish. Soap ain’t a luxury,” Coffen said. “Dashed insult.”

  “Your ignorance is immaculate, Pattle. I do not refer to the cleansing quality. Foaming soap is sybaritic, like covering oneself with whipped cream.” He gave a shiver of remembered bliss. “But perhaps you have a point. Losing Luten requires a more extravagant pampering. Perfume, a bonnet. No, I have it—jewelry! There is nothing like gemstones to cure a wounded spirit. I saw the prettiest little butterfly brooch at Rundell and Bridges, gold filigree with diamonds spotted on the wings. Only ten pounds. I coveted it but could think of no place to wear it.”

  “It sounds delightful,” Corinne said, though she did not for a minute think a diamond butterfly would assuage her pain and anger. She went for her bonnet and pelisse.

  She didn’t buy the diamond butterfly, nor the foaming soap, nor anything to assuage her sorrow. She didn’t want things. She wanted Luten.

  Prance’s French chef, André, prepared a light luncheon for the group. Prance was so enthralled by all the excitement of the day, he ate half a serving of chicken ragout, which was the largest meal he had taken in months.

  “And now I must be horrid and ask you both to leave,” he said when the meal was over. “I must make a grand toilette for my afternoon rendezvous.” He added waggishly, “Tu comprends, n’est-ce pas?”

  He accompanied Corinne home. “I shall try to discover what was afoot with Yvonne and Luten yesterday,” he assured her. “Don’t do anything rash until you hear from me. Luten is too good a parti to cast off for some paltry reason.”

  “I do not consider infidelity a paltry reason. I think you just fear the competition, Reggie.”

  “Too cruel! But I forgive you. I was feeling in just the same savage mood myself yesterday, and today I am chirping merry. A bientot!” He waved farewell and returned home.

  Mrs. Ballard was in the saloon when Corinne entered.

  “Did you have a nice morning, dear?” she asked.

  “Yes, lovely, thank you. You got my message that I wouldn’t be home for lunch?”

  “I just had a sandwich in the morning parlor. I plan to go over the linen cupboards this afternoon. The sheets are wearing thin.”

  “Let me know what we need,” Corinne said.

  Mrs. Ballard rose and left the room. Corinne sat on alone a moment, wondering what she was to do with the rest of her day, of her life. She was staring into the cold grate when Black came pelting in. A smile split his saturnine face at the good news he was bringing.

  “He’s coming!” he said. Soon her pale cheeks would be pink with pleasure. “Just hopped out of his rig, carrying flowers. I’ll get the door.”

  Corinne sat frozen to the sofa, not moving a muscle, but inside, she was a seething cauldron of tumult. Far from pleasing her, the flowers were an added insult. They were as good as a confession. Luten never brought her flowers, except occasionally a corsage for evening. If he thought a bunch of flowers was going to make her take him back now that Chamaude had opted for Prance, he was mad.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Luten essayed a smile as he entered the saloon; it dwindled to uncertainty when he saw Corinne’s squared shoulders and stiff face, her green eyes lit with anger.

  “A peace offering,” he said, proffering the bouquet. “I am sorry I missed our date last night.” She took the flowers without thanking him and set them aside. Her eyes raked him from head to toe. “You may be sure I had a very good reason.”

  “I am sure you had, Luten.”

  “Something came up, after I called on Brougham.”

  She directed a gimlet stare at him and said, “Would that be before, or after, you called on the comtesse?”

  His eyes sparkled warily. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Because I would like the answer. I know you were with her.”

  “Have you been spying on me?” he demanded, trying to muster a tone of anger. It proved inordinately difficult. He knew she had him dead to rights.

  “Only inadvertently. Actually it was Prance who wanted to go to Half Moon Street yesterday afternoon when Chamaude canceled their meeting. Now we know why! Coffen felt she would not let him in and decided to follow. I went with Coffen. We all saw her trunk stowed on your girl-hunting carriage.”

  He blinked and drew a deep breath. The infinitesimal twitching of his lips and the strain in his voice when he spoke revealed his unease. “The only reason I took my unmarked carriage was because she didn’t want Yarrow to know it was me with her.”

  “And you, no doubt, didn’t want your fiancée to know what you were up to.”

  “I can explain—”

  “Can you also explain why you took her to a country inn the day before?”

  “We had tea,” he said, in that drawling voice that always infuriated her. His glare of icy hauteur challenged her to disprove it.

  “Is that what the light-skirts call it nowadays?”

  His guilt was fast hardening to anger at her intransigence. “It was not a love tryst, if that is what you think,” he said coldly.

  “You read me like a book, sir. That is exactly what I think! A man doesn’t hustle a woman like that off to a country inn just for a cup of tea.”

  “I wanted to quiz her about the Watteau and Yarrow.”

  “You could have done that at her house. What did you want to quiz her about yesterday that it took you till six o’clock in the morning? Don’t bother to invent a story, for I shan’t believe a word of it.”

  “I don’t have to invent a story! Brougham felt she had evidence that would help us convict Yarrow.”

  “Why choose you for this juicy assignment?”

  “Because I knew her before.”

  “Because you were her lover before and still are! Do you expect me to believe that Brougham ordered you to make love to her to discover her secrets? I knew the honorable members have few scruples, but I didn’t know they were expected to prostitute themselves for the good of the country. If that is the case, I fear I haven’t the stomach to be your wife.”

  “I didn’t make love to her!” he shouted, then took a long, deliberate breath to calm his nerves. “I took her to Colchester to get her daughter. She was frightened out of her wits. Do you think I would take advantage of a lady in that condition, even if I wanted to, which I didn’t?”

  “I don’t know what you would do. I no longer feel I know you, but I am coming to know her uncommonly well after hearing Prance rant about her prowess on the chaise longue.”

  “It is Yarrow who is the greater villain of the piece.”

  His defense of Chamaude was the last straw. “It is you who are the fool. Where do you think Marchant got her copy of the Rondeaux? She is in it up to her ears. She may pull the wool over your eyes, but she does not fool me. I won’t sit still for it—to be made a laughingstock in front of my friends.”

  �
��Is that what worries you, what people will think?”

  “No, what I think—that I cannot trust the man I intended to marry.”

  “I have done nothing wrong!”

  “We obviously differ on what constitutes wrongdoing. You have been seeing that French strumpet behind my back, lying to me! And now you dare to tell me she is innocent!”

  “I don’t say she is innocent. It was my duty to discover what I could.”

  “I cannot imagine your duties were so stringent that you couldn’t have dropped me off a note telling me you could not keep our date last night. Nor why you went haring off this morning without a word.”

  “I wanted to give Brougham what I had got and have the rest of the day for us.”

  “Unless Brougham decides you are required to hold the comtesse’s hand again.”

  “She’s left London—for good.”

  “Has she indeed?” she asked, her head ringing with anger.

  “Yes, this is the last place she’d bring Sylvie.”

  “Liar! Prance had a note from her this very day, inviting him to call at Half Moon Street. He is with her this minute. You had best dart after him, or he will be cutting you out.”

  “What? That’s impossible!”

  She saw his concern, and her anger soared even higher. He was furious that Chamaude was seeing Prance. “It seems the comtesse was not so impressed with your attentions as you thought,” she sneered.

  “She can’t be here!”

  “She is here. I saw her note to Prance. Perhaps she found the love nest dull without you.”

  “Something must have happened.”

  “Yes, like myself, she has had a change of heart, but I’m sure you will soon find yourself another light-skirt, now that you are free. If you had ever bothered to give me an engagement ring, I would have the pleasure of returning it.”

  “And if you had ever bothered to make the announcement, you would likewise have the pleasure of rescinding it.”

  “How very remiss of us both. One is led to wonder whether either of us ever had any intention of going through with this farce of a wedding.”

  “Speak for yourself!”

  “I shall. Your actions speak for you.”

  He drew the jeweler’s box from his pocket and slammed it on the table. “One of us intended to go through with it. I bought the engagement ring this morning.”

  “For whom?” she retorted.

  “Go to hell,” he growled, then he turned on his heel and stalked from the room.

  The little blue velvet box sat on the sofa table. Corinne was sorely tempted to open it, but she was angry enough to subdue the urge. She didn’t even touch it, but called Black and said, “Would you please return that box on the table to Lord Luten, Black.”

  Black had no compunction in opening the little box. “Whew!” he exclaimed, lifting the ring out. “There’s a dandy bit of sparkler. Ten carats at least.”

  Corinne examined it beneath lowered eyelashes. “A vulgar, showy thing,” she sniffed. “You may throw out that bouquet of flowers while you are here.”

  “Happen Mrs. Ballard would like it,” he said.

  “Throw it in the dustbin.”

  “Just as you like,” he said, and carried it and the ring down to the kitchen, where Cook shoved the flowers into a water jug and enjoyed them while Black retailed what he had heard abovestairs, passing the ring around for the servant girls to try on and ooh over.

  “Dandy fireworks abovestairs,” he said, “and his lordship hasn’t even heard about young Harry yet. There will be another gnashing of teeth and rattling of thunder.”

  “It’s the Irish in her,” Cook said. “They never can stand too much peace and quiet. It’ll pass. You’ll see.”

  Abovestairs, Corinne sent a note off to Grosvenor Square, asking Harry to take her to Lady Melbourne’s ball that evening. Her pride demanded that she be seen out with a dashing buck, enjoying herself, and no one was so likely to infuriate Luten as Harry. She knew she would have a miserable evening, but she would not let Luten think he had wounded her.

  When she gave the note to Black for a footman to deliver, he said quietly, “He’s had his carriage brought round and left in a hurry. His regular crested carriage.”

  She knew she should tell him she was not interested in the comings and goings of Lord Luten, but her curiosity prevented it. It saved her a deal of window watching.

  “Did you return that box, Black?”

  “Yes, milady. He would have had it before he left. That would be why he was in such a pelter.”

  “Thank you.”

  She was still in the saloon, reliving every moment of their meeting and thinking of a dozen cutting things she should have said, when Prance was announced. His shoulders drooped.

  “That lady’s heart is harder than a paving stone,” he said. “After sending for me, Yvonne wouldn’t see me. She left word with that wretched butler that she had to leave suddenly, but she was there. I could hear her. I don’t understand. The woman is a wanton, toying with my love.”

  “Pity. I was hoping you would cut Luten out. It is only his money she is after, Reg.”

  “I believe she has settled on Yarrow after all. He was there. I could hear him talking in a loud voice in the saloon, while I was arguing with the butler. Yarrow has managed to get her an invitation to Lady Melbourne’s ball this evening. She said something about a girl called Sylvie. Has Yarrow been carrying on with someone else, I wonder? Am I merely a pawn in her game?”

  “Sylvie is her daughter. Luten said he took Chamaude to Colchester to fetch the girl. He seemed surprised to hear that Chamaude is back in town.”

  “I wonder if all this flurry of romantical activity on Yvonne’s part has to do with trimming Yarrow into line, forcing him to introduce her more fully into Society, or she would find a patron who would.”

  She told Prance all about Luten’s visit and about the engagement ring.

  Prance was a connoisseur of jewelry. The ring diverted his attention. “How many carats? What cut was the stone?”

  “Emerald cut. Black says ten carats.”

  “Magnificent! And not any of the Luten entailed collection either. It must have been a sore temptation to you.”

  “Not in the least.”

  “I am a beast to even suggest such a thing, but... the ring does not sound like you. Such a gaudy ornament would sit more naturally on another lady’s finger. You know to whom I refer, I think.”

  “Then why give it to me?”

  “To make a point, perhaps. Luten’s pride dislikes being bested, even in a jilting. He must have the upper hand, always. The ring implies his innocence, putting you in the wrong. He could always buy another for Yvonne.” When he saw the tears gathering in her eyes, he rushed into an avalanche of apologies. “Forgive me, my heart. It is mere speculation. I should be muzzled like the rabid cur I am.”

  She blinked away the tears. “No doubt you’re right. Did I mention I am going to Melbourne’s ball this evening with Harry?”

  Prance pulled a moue. “I had hoped you would go with me.”

  “Will you be going?”

  “It seems it is the place to be this evening. Byron is bound to be there. He and Lady Melbourne are close as inkle-weavers. We ought to have gone together, Corinne, to bear each other company in our gloom. To think of seeing Yvonne with Yarrow, and Byron swarming about, being stroked by all the ladies. I am not sure I am up to it.” He looked for encouragement. When Corinne did not urge him to attend, he had to urge himself. “Of course, it will be amusing to see how Yvonne behaves to Luten.”

  “Do you think he’ll go?”

  He gave a sly smile. “I wager he will when I tell him Yvonne is going. I’ll call and drop him a hint as soon as he returns.”

  Luten drove posthaste to see Brougham to discuss Chamaude’s return to London.

  “Demmed odd,” Brougham said, frowning. “It was all a hoax, then. Well, I warned you the lady was lethal. Wise of you to take a
roundabout way home.”

  “Has there been any word from Bow Street on Boisvert’s murder?”

  “A well-known felon by the name of Daugherty was seen in the vicinity. He’s for hire for any sort of dirty work, if the price is right. Townsend has picked him up, but we haven’t got anything out of him.”

  “It might be interesting to release him and see where he goes, who he gets in contact with.”

  “It’s an idea. I’ll send for Townsend and let you know what happens. You’ll be at home?”

  “Waiting on nettles.”

  Brougham gave him a quizzing grin. “As your lady friend lives just across the way, that shouldn’t interfere much with your romance.”

  “What romance? I have been given my congé, Brougham.”

  “It’ll pass. The course of true love never runs smooth.”

  Luten had a good deal to think about as he sat in his saloon, sipping claret to calm his nerves, while he waited to hear from Brougham. The open ring box sat on the table beside the wine decanter, taunting him. He had to devise some plan to win Corinne back. He knew from past experience that her volatile temper flared like one of Congreve’s rockets and soon settled down. He admired that openness in her.

  His own tendency was to nurse his grievances in silence. For four years he had sulked over her rejecting his first offer, made too soon after her husband’s death. He had behaved deplorably, snipping and sniping at the poor girl. And she had risen to every barb, giving him back what he deserved. A wan smile tugged at his lips. They had both enjoyed every minute of their little tiffs. But this was different. When diamonds and flowers can’t console a lady, the matter is serious indeed.

  When this Yarrow business was finished, he’d call on her again and try persuasion. Meanwhile, he pondered Prance’s brief visit, announcing in the most casual way possible that Yvonne was attending Lady Melbourne’s ball. What was the meaning of that? Should he attend himself, to keep an eye on things?

  He only left his study to sit down, alone, to dinner. As soon as he was finished, and he ate virtually nothing, he went back to his study. It was from there that he saw Harry’s carriage drive up to Corinne’s house. His heart thumped in anger. He waited and watched as the two came out the door together, laughing and holding hands like young lovers. Harry was demmed attractive. She had always had a soft spot for him. When Prance had told him that Corinne was attending Lady Melbourne’s ball, he assumed she would be going with Prance and Pattle. Not a word about Harry. They were all conspiring against him. He was suddenly eager to attend the ball himself, but he had told Brougham he would be at home, awaiting word on Daugherty.