by Joan Smith
It was after nine o’clock when Brougham called in person at Berkeley Square. “Our friend Daugherty went to a tavern and is still there,” he announced.
“That’s not much help.”
“I haven’t got to the cream of it yet. He sent a note—to Yarrow.”
“By God, I’d like to get a look at that!”
“It might be possible. Yarrow was just entering his carriage with his lady when the note was delivered. He read it and put it in his waistcoat pocket. I mentioned he’s attending Melbourne’s ball. If only there were some way to read that note.” He directed a meaningful glance at Luten.
“I’ll take care of it,” Luten said. He felt the old excitement pounding in his blood. If Yarrow had the note, he’d get hold of it if he had to knock the bastard senseless and steal it. Really he couldn’t think of any other way to do it. It would give him infinite pleasure to knock Yarrow down. If he couldn’t strike someone soon, he felt he would burst.
He darted upstairs, called for Simon, and made a fresh toilette. Simon was vastly relieved to be back in his master’s favor. He attended most solicitously to cravat and jacket, recommending the new dark green from Weston, with the diamond cravat pin. “To match the pin to the jacket lacks originality,” he said.
“If Prance ever heard you say that, he’d commit suicide—or murder.”
Before leaving, he picked up the blue box holding the engagement ring. It made a lump in his jacket. He extracted the ring and slid it into his pocket. With luck, it would be where it belonged before he returned.
Chapter Twenty-three
An autumnal mist clung to the ground as Corinne went out to the carriage to join the stream of carriages wending their way through the West End of London, their lamps glowing like earthbound moons in the darkness. At those houses where parties were in progress, lights blazed at every window. The sight had seemed magical to Corinne when she first arrived in London. It excited her still, but on that evening she failed to notice it. When Harry’s carriage reached Melbourne House, his liveried footman leapt down and opened the carriage door. Gold-laced footmen in powdered tail wigs lined the steps of the house, ready to offer assistance.
Inside, guests stood in line to be announced before entering the painted ballroom. Below them, the rich sheen of silks and satins glowed beneath the chandeliers. Jewels twinkled on white breasts and wrists; stars and orders decorated the gentlemen’s darker jackets. Feathers from ladies’ turbans reached ceilingward in an exotic, waving forest. The dying strains of violin and cello echoed below the buzz of conversation, and the miasma of a hundred perfumes wafted on the air.
“Lady deCoventry and Lord Gaviston,” the announcer called. Heads turned in interest to view the new arrivals, and conjecture whether a match was in the offing.
“I always feel I ought to sing or do a jig when he says that,” Harry said.
He made no secret of the fact that he was there to chase after other women. As a bachelor, he had a great interest in debs. As soon as they entered the ballroom, he said, “I know you only asked me to bring you because Luten is busy, but I don’t have to stick like a barnacle, eh? I want to get my name on Lady Eleanor’s card before it is filled up.” Lady Eleanor Cartwright was the latest in a long line of flirts.
“Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll join Prance and Coffen. They have just come in.”
Corinne was with her old and best friends when the comtesse arrived. They were all surprised to hear her partner announced as Monsieur Lachange. Looking, they saw a handsome gentleman with dark hair. Coffen soon recognized him.
“That’s the fellow who called on Chamaude the night we met Yarrow at her place,” he said. “Knew he was a Frenchie.”
“The one who exchanged your Poussin,” Prance added. “Yarrow could hardly bring her himself. This must be the cicisbeo he’s chosen for public outings. Handsome! Yarrow is mad, choosing someone so much younger and more attractive than himself. She is looking lovely this evening, is she not?”
Corinne stared across the room and had to admit the comtesse looked very pretty in a burgundy gown, the same one she had been wearing the evening they had met. The jewelry was the same, too. The necklace still looked like paste.
“A tad pale,” Coffen said. “I wonder she don’t use rouge.”
“That is her theatrical training coming out. Those mile-deep eyes look best against pale skin,” Prance said dreamily.
Coffen scowled. “Not them sturm dung eyes again!”
“Sturm und Drang, ignoramus. It means storm and stress.”
“Well named. She does look stressed. If that lady’s a day under forty, I am a monkey’s uncle.”
Prance eyed him askance. “C’est possible,” he murmured.
While they watched the comtesse, she was making a visual survey of the ballroom. When she spotted the Berkeley Brigade, she nodded and smiled. Prance made an exquisite bow that acknowledged her presence while suggesting his state of pique, yet still (he hoped) declaring his interest in continuing their affair. It was a great deal to ask of a bow. When he looked at her to see if it had succeeded, her eyes had already turned to Coffen, who gave a curt nod. Then to Corinne, who lifted her chin in the air and looked away.
Vexed as Corinne was with Chamaude, she had caught a glimpse of the lady’s expression and felt mean for her own curtness. Prance was right. There were storm and stress in those dark eyes and that pale, haunted face. It could not be easy, living by one’s wits and on one’s fading beauty. Being French was another barrier to social acceptance. London held so many ersatz French aristocrats that even the real ones, and apparently Chamaude had married a comte, were suspect
She remembered, too, how the comtesse had winced when Yarrow clamped his sausage fingers on her arm. Coffen said she looked like a baited animal. And now she had, apparently, settled on the fat old toad for her patron. No wonder she had made a play for Luten, when he crossed her path. Corinne could understand, but she could not yet forgive, or forget. She felt the rankling anger would be there so long as Lady Chamaude and she inhabited the same planet.
“They are striking up a minuet,” Coffen said. “Shall we stand up and jig it, Corinne?” Corinne scanned the ballroom before answering. “He ain’t here,” he said, meaning, of course, Luten.
Dancing with Coffen was a trial endured for friendship’s sake. He seemed to have four left feet, every one of them attracted to her toes, like iron filings to a magnet. While she and Coffen struggled through the minuet, Prance assumed a dramatic lounge against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, his quizzing glass raised to watch the comtesse and Monsieur Lachange perform a graceful dance. The glass was a detriment to actually seeing at a distance, but he liked the looks of it. When the set was over, no rush of gentlemen darted toward the comtesse and her partner. They went alone together to sit against the far wall. Corinne and Coffen joined Prance.
“I’m going to ask her to stand up with me for the next set,” Prance said. “Look how everyone is ignoring her.”
“They don’t know her,” Coffen said.
“Or worse, they do,” Corinne snipped. She saw Lord Yarrow and his fat wife, who did not look at all invalidish but only peevish. They stood with a group of friends, talking.
“Yarrow might acknowledge her, at least,” Prance continued. “He could introduce her to some people, or see that Lady Melbourne did. What is the point of getting her an invitation if he does not sponsor her a little?”
Harry came to Corinne for the second set. “Might as well get our duty dance over,” he said. “I caught Lady Eleanor for the first set. I cannot stand up with her a second time or the quizzes will have us engaged.”
The comtesse seemed grateful to Prance for dancing with her. She also seemed very sad, almost frightened.
“I’m sorry I had to cancel our meeting this afternoon, Rezhie,” she said, peering at him with her soulful eyes. Tonight they looked navy-blue, with gold flecks.
“Postponed, surely, Yvonne?” he coo
ed.
“It is over,” she said. “You must forget me.”
“Tell me to forget the sun or moon, forget music, poetry— all else that is worth living for—but never to forget you.”
She acknowledged this high-flown compliment with a sad smile. “You left out art—paintings, I mean. That was my undoing.”
Her wistful voice, the faint wobbling of her bottom lip, inflamed him to folly, even while he noted that she had been up to some chicanery with the sale of her paintings.
“Let me see you tonight, after the ball,” he implored.
“It is too late for that, Rezhie. Let us just enjoy this last dance.”
Prance could only do as the goddess commanded. He did enjoy the dance, with a sort of bittersweet, mournful contentment, fully aware, as he sighed and gazed, what a handsome picture they made. Their parting, he now admitted to himself, was for the best. Yvonne was beginning to show her age, and if she had chosen Yarrow over him, she did not live up to the promise of her eyes. She was hopelessly mercenary.
Unwilling to give up his histrionics so soon, he invited her to the refreshment parlor for a glass of wine after the set. He felt a spurt of alarm when he saw Corinne there with Harry. There was no counting on Corinne’s Irish temper to behave itself.
Unfortunately, Harry saw him and beckoned him over. He went warily, bringing Yvonne with him.
“Harry,” he said. “How are you enjoying being the elder son?”
“It helps with the ladies,” Harry said, smiling.
Prance then turned to Corinne. “You have met Lady Chamaude, Corinne.” Corinne nodded coolly. He introduced her to Harry. That Harry displayed not a jot of interest in the comtesse told Prance the lady was past it. Her charms were best enjoyed in a darker room.
After a moment’s edgy silence, Prance turned to Harry and began to discuss politics. “When are you going to take your seat in the House, cawker?”
Corinne looked at the comtesse and felt again a stab of pity. “A nice party,” she said.
The comtesse’s face softened to gratitude. She turned away from the gentlemen and spoke in a low voice, which was either full of genuine agitation, or wonderfully simulated.
“Forgive me, Lady deCoventry,” she said. “I didn’t know about you and Luten, the first day you called. I am in some distress at the moment. I needed someone I could rely on to help me. My daughter—”
“Sylvie, I believe?”
“Yes.”
“How old is she?”
“Eighteen.”
“That old! Oh, I’m sorry. I—”
The comtesse shook her head. “It is no matter. I just want you to know that what I have done, I have done for her. One needs someone she loves more than herself. I am sorry we could not have been friends, Lady deCoventry, but lady friends were never possible for someone like me. I hoped you would be different, as you are too young and beautiful to be jealous of me.”
Corinne was insensibly flattered and wondered why the comtesse was suddenly confiding these personal matters to a virtual stranger, practically confessing to some wrongdoing. Uncertain what to say, she reverted to the daughter.
“Your daughter must be a great solace to you. I’m sure she is beautiful.”
“No, she has been spared that, thank God. She takes after her papa. Not Yarrow! It happened before I met him. An old friend from France. She is a bookish girl, well raised. I think you would like her.”
Corinne assumed that the girl’s father was a married gentleman. She sensed that a request was about to be made. Would she sponsor Sylvie into Society? Her spine stiffened.
The comtesse studied her for a moment with those sad eyes, then said in a wary voice, “But this is nothing to do with you. I only wanted to apologize.”
Then she turned suddenly and left the room. She looked small and lonesome and terribly vulnerable, walking away with her head high, pretending not to care that no one spoke to her. Corinne thought she had been on the verge of tears. It was cruel of Yarrow to have brought her here if he did not mean to sponsor her. The ton, jealous of its preeminence, could be brutal to interlopers. Why on earth had he done it? Why had she come? Was it to pave the way for her daughter’s acceptance into Society?
She turned to Harry. “Dance with her, Harry,” she said.
“Who, Yarrow’s mistress? What the deuce do you care about her?”
“Just do it—for me.”
“Very well, but this puts you in my debt.” He hurried off and caught up to the comtesse.
“What was that all about, pray?” Prance asked.
“I don’t know. A fit of conscience, I expect. Dance with me, Reg.”
They were about to leave when Luten came into the refreshment parlor, with Coffen trotting at his heels in an effort to keep pace with Luten’s long legs. Corinne’s first instinct was to turn her back on her faithless lover and leave, but she saw the tension on his face, in his whole stiff body, and remained to discover what was afoot. Luten directed one long look at her, but said nothing, not even good evening.
“What’s up?” Coffen asked.
“We have a little job to do,” Luten said, and moved away from the other guests to talk in private. The Berkeley Brigade followed like lambs.
Chapter Twenty-four
Luten lowered his voice and said, “Brougham tells me Yarrow has a note in his pocket from the man who murdered Boisvert. It’s a longish story. I’ll fill you in later. The note could put Yarrow behind bars.”
“His pocket, you say,” Coffen said. “Looks like a job for Corinne. Stand up with him, slip her dabs into his pocket, and snitch it.”
“No,” was all Luten said, but he said it with that authority that brooked no argument.
“He never dances,” Corinne said. “Could someone spill wine on him and help him brush it off? Rifle his pockets while you are about it.”
“Spilling wine. Sounds like a job for Pattle,” Prance said, glancing to see if his gibe was appreciated. It wasn’t.
“It would only alert him we’re after the note,” Luten said. “We have to knock him out.”
“How?” Coffen asked. “Mean to say, can hardly brain him with a blunt instrument in Lady Melbourne’s ballroom. Bound to be seen. Anyone got any laudanum we might slip into his glass?”
No one had come supplied with a sleeping draft.
“We’ll have to get him out of the ballroom,” Luten said. “Any ideas?”
“Tell him you want a word with him in private,” Coffen suggested.
“And announce that I am the one who coshed him?”
“Not a bit of it. I’ll be hiding behind the door. I’ll cosh him, with pleasure.”
“I’ll still be the one who lured him into the room. I’d be expected to prevent you from escaping, or identify you at least.”
“I’ll knock you out as well.”
“It’s early yet,” Prance said. “Why don’t we just keep an eye on him, and if he wanders off by himself, we slip after him?”
“We can’t wait. He might burn the note. Someone keep an eye on him while I try to figure out a plan,” Luten said.
“I’ll do it,” Coffen said. “Nobody ever notices me.” He sauntered out of the room. As he said, no one noticed him.
The three who were left behind suddenly fell silent. None of them could think of anything to say. Prance and Corinne were both angry with Luten, and he was fully aware of it.
“I wonder if Byron is here,” Prance said, looking around.
“I heard he’s gone to Eywood with Lady Oxford,” Corinne replied. “Lady Caroline has been sent to Ireland to recover from the grand affair, you know.”
Lady Oxford, whose brood of children were collectively known as the Harleian Miscellany due to their various fathers, was an aging but still lustful countess.
“Pity,” Prance said. “I had hoped for a word with him about my revolution poem.” Luten paid them no heed. He stood deep in thought.
“We’ll leave Luten alone to think, R
eg,” Corinne said. “They are just starting the waltzes. You and I will dance.”
Luten shot a dark look at her. “Why not with Harry?” he asked in a tight voice.
“Oh, I have already stood up with him. If we have another dance, folks will say it is to be a match. We’re not ready for that—yet.”
She led Prance off. Luten said as they left, “Keep an eye on Yarrow.”
“I shouldn’t be much surprised if Yvonne would help us,” Prance said, when they were beyond Luten’s hearing. “I was afraid to mention her name when you two were within striking distance of each other. What do you think?”
“She’s Yarrow’s mistress. She would hardly help us.”
They met Coffen at the doorway, big with news, and followed him back to Luten.
“Yarrow just stepped out to blow a cloud,” he announced. “We’ll not get a better chance.”
“Is he alone?” Luten asked.
“Yes. His wife has gone to the card parlor, and he slipped out the French door at the end of the ballroom. We’d best take a different route. That one’s too public.”
“There’s a door from the library,” Luten said. “I’ll go out that way. I’ll go alone.”
The others watched as he darted to the library, to find more than a dozen guests resting there by the grate, enjoying champagne. He left in frustration and continued down the hall a few paces until he found a closed door. It opened into a small, unlit waiting room. There was no door to the outside, but there was a window. He raised it, looked down at the ground twelve feet below, and threw one long leg over the windowsill. Luten was just over six feet tall. By hanging from the sill by his fingertips, he managed the drop to the ground without spraining an ankle.
