by Joan Smith
“It might,” Coffen said. “ ‘Twas Henry Fogg who got Fanny in touch with the Morgate Home. Very likely Fogg had no notion what was going on there. If Fanny found out and told him, Henry might have threatened to get the place closed down. With his high connections, he could have done it. There’s a solid motive for Clare to kill him. The house would be turning a good profit.”
Luten listened, then said, “Or was Henry in on the setup, perhaps demanding a higher percent of the profits? He wasn’t an elder son; he had only a small income, but he lived well. He’d need a fat purse to sit down to cards with Prinney’s crew.”
“Perhaps he stole the profits, and Clare went after him, they fell into an argument and Fogg was killed,” Corinne suggested.
“But then how do we account for the missing ring and the lock of hair?” Coffen pointed out. “Unless they’re red herrings.”
“It would take a cool head to shoot a man, then set about leaving false clues,” Luten thought.
Corinne frowned at this idea. “Do you think Fanny herself might have done it?” she said, in a tentative voice. “If Henry took her to that home without her knowing what sort of place it is, then found out– Well, I, for one, would not much blame her.”
“No females were ever seen at Henry’s flat,” Coffen reminded her.
“That’s easily enough explained,” she said with a scoffing shrug. “She dressed in men’s clothing.”
“Where would she get it?” Coffen asked. “The only men who get into the place are Harper and Clare.”
“Someone might have left off men’s clothing for the bazaar.”
“Not likely they’d leave shoes and a hat and all the bits and pieces,” he countered. “I’m going to get into that house in Lambeth and look for clues. I mean to have another go at Fanny as well.”
“I wonder if that’s wise,” Corinne objected. “Clare might suspect something if you keep calling on her.”
“All he’ll suspect is that I’m sweet on her. Anyhow I don’t imagine he’s there every day. Since he was there yesterday, I doubt he will be today.”
“It might look less suspicious if I go with you,” Corinne said.
“I figure she’d be more likely to talk if we was alone.”
“Then I’ll speak to Beth. I daresay Clare’s tale of placing her in a vicarage is a lie. Oh dear! I hope he isn’t planning to put that child into his bawdy house!”
“Where is Prance this morning?” Luten asked.
“He’s gone to try his luck quizzing the other tenants at the Albany,” Corinne said. Coffen stared at her, waiting to hear the name Lord Byron. She ignored him. “Are you not going to offer us coffee, Luten?”
“By all means.” He rang and gave Evans the order.
Coffen was thrown into a fit of frustration. Luten’s coffee was excellent. With luck, there might be some hot buns or muffins served with it. On the other hand, he had had a good breakfast, and his nerves were urging him to Lambeth in search of clues. By the time the coffee came and was drunk, he would have wasted half an hour. He rose and said, “I’ll be toddling along now. I’ll report when I get back.”
When Luten was alone with Corinne he said, “And what have you been doing all morning, miss?”
“Earlier I was helping Prance choose his donation for the auction ball,” she replied. It was not a lie, but she felt guilty for not mentioning the more interesting part of that visit. The longer her acquaintance with Byron went on, the harder it seemed to tell Luten about it. She must screw up her courage and tell him today.
Luten assumed her worried expression was due to embarrassment. She had been praising Clare, only to discover he was nothing else but a panderer. “If Clare is really doing what Coffen thinks he is, we shan’t be attending his do,” he said.
“I should think not! Surely Coffen is mistaken. I can’t believe it of Clare. He seemed so concerned, so generous. I feel like a fool.”
Luten took her hand in his. “It is your innocence that’s led you astray,” he said in a gentle, approving voice. “I wouldn’t have you any other way, my dear.”
The flush that suffused her cheeks was half guilt. How innocent would he think her if he discovered she was allowing the infamous Lord Byron to flirt with her? She’d tell him now, this very instant, while he was in this good mood. She was about to speak when Evans arrived with the coffee. She’d tell him over coffee. Conversation was easier over the taking of a civil drink. It seemed the fates were against her. While she was pouring it, Prance arrived. She couldn’t tell Luten in front of him. He would be bound to put his spiteful oar in.
“I always feel such a boor, interrupting you lovebirds. So nappy to see nothing has arisen to shatter your bliss,” he said, slanting a quizzical glance at Corinne. She knew him well enough to know he was referring to Byron, wanting to know if she had told Luten about that visit.
“Don’t be silly, “ she said, and spoke on to avoid the name Byron, “Did you learn anything at the Albany?”
“One fellow gave us a description of Fogg’s caller.” She winced at that “us,” but Luten didn’t appear to notice. “He had seen the chap there two or three times, so it seems he might be our man. Unfortunately, he couldn’t give us a name. The description might fit dozens of bucks. It confirms the description we got from the lad across the hall. “A well-built gent, brown hair, handsome, youngish.”
Luten’s eyebrows rose. “It could be Lord Clare,” he said.
“Lord Clare!” Prance exclaimed. “Oh I hardly think–”
“You haven’t heard Coffen’s news,” Luten said, and told him.
Prance sat with his legs crossed and his chin on his knuckles, listening. When Luten was finished, Prance set his full cup aside and paced the room, to aid conjuring with this new notion. “I wonder if Henry knew about Clare’s side line? Perhaps he had just discovered it, and threatened to expose him.”
“Or knew all about it, and wanted a share of the profits,” Corinne suggested. “But then we’re left with the missing ring and lock of hair, which indicates a love interest.”
“Why not a romance between Clare and Henry?” Prance asked, darting a sly glance at Corinne, to see if she even understood his meaning. She was surprised, but not confused.
“Is Henry not the father of Fanny’s child– child to be, I mean?” she asked.
“She never actually said so,” Prance pointed out, “though one is led to wonder how else she got him to recommend her to Reverend Harper.”
“Coffen plans to visit Fanny again,” Luten said. “Perhaps he can find out from her. After I have Coffen’s report, I’ll have a word with Clare.”
“Why put him on his guard?” Prance asked. “Would it not be wiser to gather our proof first, then confront him?”
“We’ll hear what Coffen has to say. He has a knack with clues.”
Prance’s pacing had taken him close to the doorway. Corinne wished he would leave now. He turned suddenly. “I daresay you two would enjoy a few moments alone. So difficult to have a proper courting, what with politics and poets, eh Corrie?” he asked archly.
Luten observed his fiancée’s lips firm into a grim line. “Not at all,” she said firmly.
“What, is Luten not even a little jealous of Byron’s attentions to his lady?” He hadn’t absolutely decided to drop the news at this time, but some devil got into him. That instant when Luten’s brows drew together and Corinne’s lips fell open in dismay was almost worth it. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“Oh by the by, Byron says to give you his regards, Corrie,” he rattled on, wondering if his voice sounded as strained to them as it did to him. “And his offer to bear you escort should the need arise still stands. He will personally bring you a copy of his earlier poem, that you were teasing him about. You know, the English Bards and Scots Reviewers.”
“I wasn’t teasing him!”
Prance waved a white hand. “Flirting then. Whatever you choose to call it.” He flickered a glance in Luten’s directi
on, saw that his face had frozen into a dangerous mask, and made hastily for the door. “I must go now. A bientôt.”
Having sown the seeds of contention, he fled. He lingered in the hallway, adjusting his curled beaver at the mirror, hoping to hear the argument begin. All he heard was an ominous silence. As Evans was holding the door with a certain air of impatience, he was obliged to leave.
A thin, unpleasant smile settled on Luten’s lips. His nostrils flared, his eyes glittered dangerously. “Well, my dear, you forgot to mention you’ve acquired a new flirt, and such a dashing one. Caro Lamb will be jealous of you,” he said in a polite tone, but with an edge of steel. Every atom of him wanted to shout and scream, but that was not his way. For years he had cultivated an air of disinterest where Corinne was concerned, and it came back readily now. Concealing his emotions came more easily to him than revealing them. It had taken an effort to utter those little endearments he had lately allowed himself.
“I would hardly call him a flirt,” she replied, equally cool on the surface, though the blood was throbbing in her head.
“Indeed. And what would you call him?”
“Hardly more than an acquaintance. I’ve only met him a few times.”
“What is a few? Two times, three, a dozen?” Luten felt his voice rise, more in anguish than anger. He knew it was too good to be true, that he was finally to marry her. Fate itself was against it. First this demmed busted ankle, now Byron, the most adored man in the country. How did you compete against a demi-god like that? And he had to go and discover Corinne.
“Certainly not a dozen.”
“The romance developed quickly.”
“There is no romance, Luten.”
“Then the request for his poem was a lure cast out to entice him?”
“I didn’t ask for a copy of his early poem. We merely discussed it. I mentioned I had never read it.”
“You might have asked me. I have a copy of it in my library.”
Her anger grew to meet his. “And when might I have asked you? Should I have barged in on one of your important meetings with Grey and Grenville and Brougham? You’re hardly aware of my existence since you’ve had this lure of the Prime Ministership held out to you, so don’t bother pretending you’re jealous!”
“I see you every day, usually three or four times a day. You might have mentioned meeting Byron, I think, as it obviously looms large in your mind.”
“Larger in yours than in mine, Luten. I didn’t want to disturb you when you have so much to think of.”
“How very thoughtful of you, my dear,” he said with a sneer. “It would not have disturbed me had you not kept it a deep, dark secret. No, miss, you wanted to have your cake and eat it too. Keep me on the hook against the extremely unlikely chance of bringing Byron up to scratch. It might have been more thoughtful had you discouraged that Don Juan, but then one hears he is irresistible—to a certain sort of lady.”
Corinne rose. “I don’t have to listen to this. It’s an insult.”
Panic seized Luten, and he uttered about the most foolish words he could utter. “If you walk out that door, don’t bother to come back.”
She stared at him with green fire blazing in her eyes. “Then I shall leave this behind,” she said, drawing off the diamond engagement ring and placing it on the table by her cup. “Byron thought it ridiculously large, a diamond weight to hold me down. I feel much freer without it. Good day.” She dropped a suggestion of a curtsey and swept out, with tears stinging her eyes and her heart pounding in her throat.
He wouldn’t let her go. Surely he would stop her. This was ridiculous! She didn’t slow her pace, but kept walking. Evans handed her her shawl, held the door and she went out, across the street and into her own house, where Black had the door open for her. Black didn’t say a word, but he knew from her expression that something extraordinary had happened. She sat on the sofa, numb with disbelief. “A certain sort of lady!” How dare he say such a thing to her!
She should have told him from the beginning. But what was there to tell? She hadn’t done anything wrong. It would only sound like boasting if she had told him. And anyway it was all Prance’s fault. Oh what was she to do?
* * *
Chapter 17
Prance kept an impatient eye glued to the window to see how long it took Corinne to come bolting out of Luten’s front door. Three minutes. That could not have been much of an argument. He gave her ten minutes to recover, then went to call on her, fully expecting to be greeted by tooth and claw, and possibly flying vases. He felt miserable when he found her, not drenched with tears or throwing vases about as he expected, but white-faced and dark-eyed, staring into the grate like a lost soul.
“My dear, I am devastated at what I have done!” he said, casting himself at her feet and grabbing her hands. How cold they were! He began chaffing them.
She wrenched her hands away angrily. “Quit showing off, Prance,” she said. “You did it on purpose, and don’t bother to pretend you didn’t.”
“It’s true,” he admitted straightaway, as he rose and brushed off the knees of his trousers. “I don’t know what came over me. I ought to be horsewhipped. My love of drama foresaw and could not resist all the delightful intrigue of a lovers’ quarrel, perhaps using Byron to make Luten jealous and bring you two together again.” He wisely refrained from mentioning the duel he had been envisioning.
She just looked at him in disgust. What could you do to a man who frankly acknowledged he was a born trouble maker? She knew him well enough to know he really couldn’t help himself. “I don’t want to hear Lord Byron’s name!” she said.
“But only think, my pet. Luten has already heard it. If he doesn’t see any sign of his competition, he’ll think you only imagined or at least exaggerated Byron’s interest in you. That would give him the last laugh.”
Luten’s words rang in her mind, “The extremely unlikely chance of bringing Byron up to scratch.” And he had said it in such a hateful tone, too. “You’re a devil incarnate, Reg.”
“I believe I am some kin to old Nick, but I want to do the right thing. Now that I’ve done the wrong thing, you know, my conscience is pinching at me.”
“Well it might! I don’t want any help from you, not now or in the future.”
“Think what you’re saying, Corrie! You’re already persona non grata at Luten’s. If you cut me as well, you’re left with only Pattle to keep abreast of things and bring about a reconciliation. I would as lief trust a cat or a dog to do the job. Luten needs you, now more than ever. And when he’s made Prime Minister, you will be the ultimate Whig hostess. A Prime Minister without a wife is at a sore disadvantage. He will certainly take a wife. If not you, then some other lady.” He peered at her to see how this notion was faring.
“Son of satan,” she hissed. “Don’t think I don’t recognize your stunt. Using the carrot and the stick on me. I’m not a mule– though I can’t say the same of Luten.” She shook her head in frustration, and gave a cynical laugh that was half a sob.
“May I take that as the first step toward forgiveness?” he asked warily.
“No. When and if Luten and I are ever back together, then I might begin to consider forgiving you at some far future time.”
He recognized this harsh speech as forgiveness. He immediately clutched her hands and showered kisses on her fingers, until she managed to wrench them free. “Now tell me all about it, every word. What did he say after I left? Evans nudged me out the door before I could hear a thing.” He slid on to a chair beside her and leaned forward eagerly to catch every word.
She gave a bah of disgust. “He accused me of treachery and deceit. I said I wouldn’t stand for such accusations. He said if I left, I need not return. I left. That’s all.”
That, in Prance’s view, was a very colorless rendition of what must have been a wonderfully emotional scene. He would have to rewrite it before spreading it abroad. “I notice you’re not wearing his ring.”
“I left
it behind.”
This was more like it! “Did you throw it at him?”
“No, of course not. I’m not a child.”
“But you are a woman scorned. Where did you pitch it? Or did you throw it at all?”
“Certainly not. I placed it on the table.”
“I see.” How utterly banal. What ailed the girl? She could make the French Revolution sound boring. He would say, “She removed the ring, cool as ice, and placed it on the table as calmly as if she were setting aside her gloves.” He prodded her for more dramatic details but all he learned was that he had called her “that sort of woman,” and apparently made some derogatory reference to Caroline Lamb, who had recently made a public spectacle of herself by cantering after Byron. Bereft of the context, it was impossible to gauge the severity of the reference. It sounded more petty than harsh. “Is he angry with me?” he asked.
“He didn’t mention you, Prance. But he knows you, and he’s not a fool. He’ll know you let that morsel drop on purpose to cause mischief.”
Prance considered this troublesome detail a moment. “True, but he can hardly blame me–to my face, I mean. It was my duty as his friend to caution him. The greater wrong was actually to you, for doing it in such a havey-cavey fashion. I have humbly begged your forgiveness. I’ll nip over now and tell him how sorry I am about everything. Offer my services to bring about a reconciliation.”
“It’s too soon for that.”
“You’re right. We’ll let him stew a bit to turn him up tender.”
“I meant he would still be too angry to think about a reconciliation. I don’t think he wants one at all.” A tear oozed out of the corner of her eye. When she brushed it away with her fingers, Prance felt truly sorry for the mischief he had caused. But he knew that, given the opportunity, he would do it over again. He couldn’t help himself. He had held back as long as he could. He was addicted to drama as some unfortunates were addicted to wine or opium. If none existed, he created it,
