by Joan Smith
Damme! How was he going to get back in the saddle? He needed that left foot to hoist himself aboard Nellie. After considerable difficulty, he mastered the knack of mounting from the other side and rode back to the Abbey, his knee aching like a bad tooth. As there was no sign of life there he rode on home to Berkeley Square, fortunately without incident. Bad as his head and knee hurt, it was his pride that had taken the greatest blow. The others were counting on him. Luten had seen him take off after the Bee. He'd be expecting him to come home wreathed in triumph. Poor Mrs. Huston would be expecting to have her diamonds back.
His watch told him it was after two o'clock, but there were still lights burning at Corinne's house, which told him the whole gang were waiting for him. And after such a long time, they'd think for sure he'd taken the Bee to Bow Street, had him arrested and all the rest of it. He felt a dashed fool as he half crawled, half fell out of the saddle. The lump on his head had grown so big he couldn't keep his hat on. When it fell to the ground, he hadn't the strength to pick it up. The few yards to Corinne's front door stretched ahead of him like a journey across a tractless waste.
If it hadn't been for Black's vigilance, he didn't think he would have made it. Black was watching and came rushing out to meet him and pick up his hat. "Just put your arm around my waist, Mr. Pattle, and let me assist you," he said. He half carried, half dragged Coffen into the house.
The others heard Black darting out and went to see what was happening. When they saw Coffen's condition, Prance and Corinne hurried forward to help. Luten came limping behind them, wincing at every step. He had forgotten his cane in the excitement.
Coffen didn't consider himself a sensitive man, but he felt a warm tear ooze out of his eyes when his friends gently laid him on the sofa, covered him with a blanket, rushed off for brandy and a cold compress for his forehead and sent a footman running for a sawbones. He couldn't have been treated better if he were a Prince. He felt loved and cherished, which made it all the harder to confess his failure.
Corinne gasped at the ugly purple lump on his forehead and whispered loud enough that he heard that she hoped poor Coffen didn't have a concussion. The rogue in Prance wanted to say, "How could one tell?" but he suppressed the snide remark. To atone for his mischievous thought, he said, "I shall take him home with me. We can't leave him in the hands of his own savage servants. They'll have him in his grave."
"I'll have him taken to my place," Luten countered. "We're half set up for an invalid there since my trouble."
"He's not to be moved! He's staying here," Corinne said in a voice that brooked no interference.
They were fighting over him! Coffen was flattered, and hoped that Corinne stuck to her guns. He liked staying at his cousin's. But would any of them want him when they heard the truth? He pulled himself up on his elbows and said in a choked voice, "He got away. I didn't catch him."
Corinne knelt beside him and patted his arm. "That's all right, Coffen. You're home alive, and that's all that matters. I'll take care of you until you're better. Now have a sip of this brandy and rest until the doctor arrives." She held a glass to his lips while he took a few gulps. It felt good, like liquid fire burning down his gullet.
"I just don't want you all making a hero of me when I let the Bee get away."
"You were very brave. Even heroes don't always succeed," she said, squeezing his fingers in a loving way. When he was able to hold his glass himself, she got a cold compress from Black and held it to the bump on his forehead.
The brandy revived him enough to sit propped up by pillows and tell his story before the doctor arrived. Luten related the tale of Ned Sullivan and the hackney that had formerly been Lord Horner's carriage.
Prance, perched on the arm of a chair, said, "It's a busy little Bee, n'est-ce pas? Quite apart from the actual purloining of the letters and other feats of discovery vis-à-vis Lady Callwood and the brooch, only look at all the effort it has gone to in the details. Buying Horner's carriage under an alias at Newman's stable, littering Lady Callwood's Queen Mab with dead bees, hunting out a likely driver for tonight's escapade, selling him the rig, writing that note. The man has an infinite capacity for detail. I always feel it is in the details that one discovers the true genius, whether it be that one fleck of impasto in a painting to highlight the eye, or one of Adam's superb medallions, or–”
"We get the idea, Reg," Luten said.
"Of course you do. And the fellow is every other inch a gentleman as well. I mean he does always give back to the lady the item offered for sale. He didn't have to give Mrs. Huston Phoebe's letter. Do you know, I find myself half admiring him."
"The man is a wretch!" Corinne howled. "I won't hear a good word about him in my house. Only look what he's done to Coffen."
"This so-called gentlemanly streak is only to insure compliance from his future victims," Luten explained again.
"Well, in any case, I trust you now admit it has nothing to do with Napoleon," Prance sniffed.
"I daresay you're right," Luten mumbled. "I can't imagine that French spies have ferreted out the Huston's secret shame."
Coffen, sipping at the brandy and wishing he had some food to go with it, said, "Speaking of details, did anyone remember to see to Nellie?"
“Black took care of your mount," Corinne replied. "He, too, is a genius in the details. I don't know what I would do without him." Black, listening at the keyhole, smiled in infinite satisfaction. How sweetly the words fell on his listening ears, swelling his heart with joy.
Coffen winced as a fresh needle of pain pierced his knee. When it passed, he said, "I daresay the scoundrel's too clever to sell Mrs. Huston's diamonds any time soon. Mean to say, they could be a clue. We could inquire at Stop Hole Abbey, see if we can get a line on somebody trying to sell them to a fence, since we know what they look like. Or Mrs. Huston does at least."
Luten said he would have someone look into it. When Doctor Croft arrived the onlookers withdrew to the morning parlour. They all sat silent, thinking, until Prance looked up and said, "Have we met our match, Luten? Is this to be our first failure?"
"This is one we must solve," Corinne said firmly. "I take Coffen's accident as a personal insult."
"Which is very foolish of you," Prance chided. "The word accident, by its very nature, precludes any personal animosity. Accidents are a matter of chance, fortune, mishap. The Bee didn't personally attack Coffen. One can hardly hold a grudge against a stone wall."
"Don't be pedantic," she scoffed. "The accident wouldn't have happened if Coffen hadn't been chasing the Bee."
"Then what do you suggest we do?" Prance inquired.
"We wait for him to strike again, as he surely will," Luten said. "And next time, we leave nothing to chance. We cover every possible contingency, if we have to call out every Bow Street Officer in town, and the Guard besides."
Corinne sighed and said, "I forgot to offer Coffen something to eat. He must be concussed, or he would have asked for food."
"How very feminine of you, my pet," Prance said. "You can still surprise me after all these years. Don't glare. I meant it as a compliment."
Black came to inform them that the doctor was leaving. As they went into the hall, Corinne said to her butler, "Bring the sandwiches, Black, and some of that plum cake."
He silently gestured to the hall table, where the silver tray, well laden, sat in readiness. His reward, more welcome than money, was a smile from his beloved and a pat on the hand. He lifted the tray high and followed Luten and Prance into the room while Corinne had a word with the doctor before joining them. She was relieved to know Coffen would recover from the head bump and the leg was not broken. The medicine Croft had given him to ease the pain would make him sleepy. He would call on the morrow to see how his patient was going on.
"Oh Coffen, you're sitting up," she cried, when she was saw him. "Is that wise?" As she drew closer, she saw that his pantaloons had been cut away. A bandage ran from above the knee to the ankle. "What on earth—"
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"It ain't busted. Just badly wrenched. It had swollen so big my trouser leg was strangling it. Croft said not to put any weight on it for a week or so. Would you happen to have a spare cane about you could lend me, Luten? Or them crutches you were using a while back?"
"Yes, I'll send them over."
"Good. I wouldn't want to have to be carried home on a litter." His blue eyes peered hopefully at Corinne as he spoke.
"You're staying here tonight," she said. Then she passed him the sandwiches and poured tea.
As they all sat, eating and drinking, Prance said, "With you two limping, it begins to look as if the onus has shifted to moi. Dear me. How often the old sayings prove true. Misfortunes come in three's. Three of you hors de combat."
"You're bosky," Coffen said. "There's just two of us, me and Luten."
"You forget Lord Byron."
"Byron ain't one of us."
"Of course not, but he did bring us into this mess. And for that matter, he was involved in our last case."
"You're right about one thing anyhow," Coffen said. "You're going to have to stir your stumps and nip down to Brighton tomorrow, Reg. Somebody's got to look for clues there. Brighton's definitely a part of it."
"And Lady Jergen is another," Prance pointed out. "It can't have escaped your notice that yet another victim is a friend of hers."
Luten said, "It's someone in her set. Someone who knows the same ladies as she does and has ferreted out their secrets. She wouldn't keep sending victims to us if she were the guilty party. What we have to do is discover more about the set she runs with. Byron mentioned meeting her at Melbournes."
"That brings in the Devonshire House set," Prance said. "Strange to think of two such unlikely sets being connected via Lady Jergen. The Devonshire household is irregular to be sure, what with wives and mistresses all living together as one happy family, but one can hardly credit that the richest duke in England is involved."
"I'll call on Lady Jergen tomorrow and quiz her," Luten said. "You might come along, Corinne. Two sets of ears are better than one."
They were still talking when Black appeared at the door carrying a cane and a pair of crutches. He had eavesdropped and darted across the street to procure these items from Luten's butler to astound his beloved with his efficiency. "Will Mr. Pattle be wanting his lordship's Bath chair as well, milady?" he asked Corinne.
"Thankee, Black," Coffen said. "I'll see how I go on with the crutches first."
The sleeping draft soon began to take hold. As Coffen's eyelids began to sag, Corinne removed the cup from his hand before the tea tilted on to her sofa. There was no need to worry about his pantaloons. Although Doctor Croft had carefully slit them up the seam, Coffen's valet wouldn't know how to repair them. They decided to get Coffen to bed while he was still able to hobble. With Black on one side, Prance on the other and the cane to assist, he was taken upstairs and put to bed by Black, wearing one of Black's nightshirts. It was a foregone conclusion that his own valet would be no use.
When Prance returned belowstairs he asked Luten his opinion about the trip to Brighton. "Yes, I think you should go," Luten said.
"Shall I call on you in the morning to discuss what inquiries I should make? It's late, and I can see Corinne is longing for her bed now."
Luten looked at his fiancée. Between worry for Coffen and the lateness of the hour she did look fatigued. The darkening smudges beneath her eyes made her appear vulnerable, and more beautiful to him. Her fluttering around Coffen reminded him of how she had nursed himself after his accident. That gentle, womanly streak had come as a delightful surprise to him. It was almost worth the busted ankle to have discovered it.
"We'll let you get some sleep now, my dear," he said to her, and placed a light kiss on her cheek before leaving. This was an indulgence he didn't usually allow himself in front of others. Under her influence he, too, was beginning to mellow in his personal relations.
* * *
Chapter 16
While Prance wended his reluctant way to Brighton the next morning, Luten and Corinne called on Lady Jergen to see what they could discover of her circle of friends. She appeared to be on intimate terms with the whole of polite London. While they were there Lady Callwood paid her friend a visit. She was a perfect vision of beauty, swathed in a fur-trimmed mantle and fur hat that gave her somewhat the air of a saucy Cossack.
"You'll never guess what I'm doing for Guy Fawkes night," she announced with a reckless smile. "Going to the Pantheon! Callwood would kill me if he knew. He has no use for the place. Of course it is déclassé but they're having a huge show of fireworks outdoors at midnight, and Callwood will likely be at this club till all hours. I do hope he doesn't change his mind and want me to attend some dull party with him."
"Who is taking you?" Lady Jergen asked. "You can't go to a place like that unattended."
"Of course not. I'm going with a large and respectable party. Lord Deveril has reserved a table for twelve. I hinted to his good lady and she invited me. Why don't you get someone to take you, Adele? That nephew of yours will be there, I expect."
"I daresay Danby will be going. Perhaps I'll hint and see if I'm as good at it as you."
"You know he never refuses you anything."
While they were still chatting, Mr. Danby was shown in. Lady Callwood, never one to hang back, said, "Danby, how auspiciously you have arrived. I was just telling your aunt she should get you to take her to the Pantheon for Guy Fawkes night. They're having fireworks. I'm going."
Danby lowered his brow. "I doubt my aunt would enjoy going to a place like that."
"Oh but I would love to go," his aunt promptly informed him. "And you know Jergen would sooner slit his throat than go to a place where people were having fun. Do take me, dear. Jergen won't mind as long as I'm with you. You needn't waste your whole evening dancing attendance on your old auntie. I'm sure everyone will be there. Lady Callwood is going with Deveril's party, so it won't be just lightskirts."
Lady Callwood cast an impish smile at Danby and said, "Would the presence of lightskirts bother you, Danby?" He drew his brows together in a heavy scowl, yet his eyes were bright with mischief.
Watching the little by-play, Corinne was struck with the idea that these two were closer friends than they acknowledged. Perhaps even lovers, or ex-lovers. It was that kind of look—intimate, mischievous, teasing. Was she, in fact, urging him to go for the purpose of meeting her there? She admitted having carried on with her employer before her marriage. Now that Corinne considered it, it was odd that none of the eager debs had nabbed Danby. Such a wealthy bachelor was a rare prize on the marriage mart. Was Lady Callwood the reason?
"Actually," Luten said, "the place itself is still charming. Society should reclaim it and make proper use of it. I held a benefit there a while ago for Denise, the dancer who was retiring."
"I was there. It was a lovely party," Lady Callwood said. "A masquerade, as I recall."
"That's right. We raised a good sum for Denise."
Corinne's memories of that night were less pleasant. A valuable pearl necklace her late husband had bought her was stolen, snatched right from her throat. The court had decreed that it was entailed and was to be handed over to her brother-in-law in a few days. Recovering the necklace had brought her and Luten back together, and that made it all worthwhile.
Danby turned to Corinne. "What do you think, Lady deCoventry? If you are to attend, I shall take my aunt. You shall be the arbiter in the matter."
Her eyes flew to Luten. She would like very well to see the fireworks, but she knew Luten didn't like to take her to big public parties that could turn into brawls. "That will be up to Luten," she said.
"Oh fie!" Lady Callwood scoffed. "Make him take you. That's what I say."
"I notice you aren't making Callwood take you," Corinne replied.
"But we're married. Everyone knows a husband will never stir a finger to please his wife. A fiancé, on the other hand, must be more obliging."
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br /> "So, what is the verdict, milady?" Danby asked Corinne again.
"It must depend on how Luten is feeling," she said, and was unhappy with being made to look subservient. "His ankle still bothers him a good deal, you know," she added.
"I should be delighted to oblige my fiancée—if I feel up to it. We shall see," Luten said.
They escaped without giving a definite answer. The group chatted on a little longer. When Lady Callwood rose to leave, Luten and Corinne went with her. Danby remained behind with his aunt.
Luten accompanied Lady Callwood to her carriage. As he walked away, she lowered the window and called after him, "Have you heard from Miss Winchley yet?"
"No?" he said, his voice rising in a question.
"You will. I recommended you to her. Do help her if you can. She's such a dear."
"What is it about?" he called, but the carriage was already pulling away and she didn't hear.
He mentioned it to Corinne as they drove home. "Miss Winchley," she said. "She's some relation to you, isn't she?"
"A connection, not a relative. I wonder who she wants me to find a position for. That's what it will be."
When they discussed the meeting with Coffen later, he stared into the grate and said, "Pretty suspicious they were all so eager to find out if we'd be there, at the Pantheon." He had hobbled downstairs in a raffish scarlet robe borrowed from Black and sat in front of the fire, drinking cocoa and toasting his toes. "It'd be a dandy place for the Bee to strike again. The crowds and dominoes and all."