by Joan Smith
MURDER AND MISDEEDS
Joan Smith
Chapter One
“If I had known it wasn’t to be an engagement party, I would not have chosen a theme of hearts and flowers,” Sir Reginald said with a moue.
He gazed forlornly down the length of his small, bijou ballroom, which had been transformed into a bower of bliss for the expected betrothal. He had gone to inordinate pains and to great expense to import every flower he could get his hands on, to say nothing of the hundreds of gilded hearts glittering amid the foliage. Not only did flowers festoon the entrance hall and doorways of the ballroom, they even hung, heads down, in nosegays from the ceiling, their stems cleverly wrapped in sodden cotton batting and covered in leaves. Nothing done for Art was too much trouble for Sir Reginald Prance.
His own elegant person, thin as a herringbone, was outfitted in a jacket of violet velvet, to indicate he was in half mourning for the loss of Lady deCoventry due to her betrothal to Lord Luten. He had had his valet trim a handkerchief with violet lace, which he planned to apply to his moist eyes when the announcement was made. In his pocket rested a bottle of hartshorn to evoke the necessary tears.
“A lady can hardly accept an offer of marriage before it is made,” Lady deCoventry replied. Her lovely lips did not form a pout. She was determined not to reveal by so much as a blink that she was disappointed at Luten’s failure to come up to scratch.
“One cannot but wonder why didn’t he offer,” Prance mused. “Surely he has been on the edge of it all week. After he saved your life in that extremely harrowing adventure regarding your stolen pearls, you have been especially nice to him.”
“Perhaps he would prefer not to marry a widow,” Lady deCoventry said, and raised her fingers to cover a well-simulated yawn. She was actually the Dowager Lady deCoventry, the relict of a gentleman old enough to be not only her papa but her grandpapa, to whom her Irish father had sold her for five thousand pounds when she was seventeen years old. After three years of marriage, her husband had conveniently died four years ago, leaving her well provided for.
“Oh, my dear! Surely Luten is not so common. He will screw himself up to the sticking point tonight when he takes you home. He is only flesh and blood after all. You look positively luminous this evening. Who could resist your exquisite beauty?”
He allowed his eyes to play over Corinne’s manifest charms. Luten called her Black Irish, whatever that might mean. In any case, her hair was black as a raven’s wing and looked delightful against the ivory cameo of her delicately carved face, with those big emerald eyes and full lips. Her toilette, he thought, was not quite up to the standard of its wearer. Corinne had a slight tendency to over-ornament herself. The diamond necklace was quite sufficient, without that brooch. He blamed this excess on the dearth of garniture available to her in her impoverished youth. But it scarcely mattered, for friends without flaws were boring after all.
“I didn’t come with Luten. Coffen will take me home,” she said, smiling thinly at her cousin, Coffen Pattle.
“Have the waltzes with Luten,” Sir Reginald said. “They will put him in the mood. You must not fail us, my pet. Tout le monde is awaiting the announcement.”
When Sir Reginald Prance spoke of tout le monde, he really meant the particular friends of the Berkeley Brigade. This set of young Whig aristocrats, so called because they lived on Berkeley Square, were the acknowledged leaders of the ton. The nucleus consisted of Lady deCoventry, Prance, and Coffen Pattle, with the dashing Marquess of Luten their unofficial chief.
“Tarsome fellow,” Coffen said, rubbing his ear. Coffen presented a surfeit of flaws to endear him to Sir Reginald. His appearance was in sharp contrast to the elegance of the other members. His short, stout body was covered in a rumpled jacket. Even his cravat pin was poorly chosen. His modest pearl disappeared against the white linen of his cravat. Beneath a tousle of mud-colored hair, a pair of blue eyes peeped innocently out from his ruddy face. “Where is Luten anyhow?” he asked, looking around.
“One of his footmen brought him a message a moment ago,” Prance replied. “Probably from the House. He went into my study to read it. Some new machinations from Mouldy and Company for us to thwart, no doubt.”
“Mouldy and Company” was the Brigade’s derogatory name for the reigning Tory government, against which they waged unholy war for reform in the House.
“I hear the fiddlers scraping up for a waltz,” Coffen said. “Shall I haul him out of the study?”
“Not on my account,” Corinne said with an air of the utmost indifference, and scanned the room for an escort handsome enough to annoy Luten.
Before she found one, Lord Luten himself appeared in the doorway. Prance gazed at him in despair. How the deuce did Luten invariably manage to look so elegant? He spent scarcely a moment with his tailor, yet he turned out magnificently. Nature had given him a head start, of course, and his valet, the inestimable Simon, was an acknowledged wizard. That cravat was absolute sleight of hand. Luten was tall and lean, with a good set of shoulders on him. His jet-black hair grew in an interesting point on his forehead. His cool gray eyes were saved from severity by an enviable set of lashes. His strong nose and square jaw lent him a masculine air, but it was his thin lips that added that lovely touch of arrogance Sir Reg envied, and that Luten was not even aware of. Unconscious arrogance was the very cream of arrogance.
Trust Luten not to come forward, or even to beckon. He just tossed his head commandingly to summon his minions. Corinne ignored him, until Coffen put his hand on her arm.
“He looks worried. Best come along,” he said. “It must be important.”
“Hurry! I cannot delay supper. My ice sculpture is melting!” Prance exclaimed, and darted forward. Cupid’s bow and arrow were very fine. He should have settled for a heart, but it was too pedestrian.
“What’s afoot?” Coffen demanded, when they reached the doorway.
“Susan’s been kidnapped,” Luten said in a hollow voice. After shooting this verbal cannonball at them, he turned and retreated to Prance’s study. The others looked stupefied for a moment, then hurried after him and closed the door.
Prance had kept a rein on his originality in this serious chamber. It was a severe room with oak paneling and the usual desk, chairs, and cabinets. A gentleman needed one room in which he could play at being a serious man of affairs. Luten sat on the corner of the desk and the others stood around him.
After the first stunned silence, Corrine asked, “When? How did you find out?”
“A note from Jeremy Soames came to my house a moment ago. As it was marked ‘urgent,’ my butler had it sent here.”
“What does Soames want you to do?” Prance asked.
“He doesn’t say, but of course, I shall go to Appleby Court at once.” His eyes darted uncertainly to Corinne.
Prance looked around in alarm. “Tonight? But my party—”
“A lovely party, Reg. Sorry I must leave, but Susan—”
“I’ll go with you,” Coffen said.
“Yes, of course, we must all go,” Corinne said. “Little Susan is like a sister to me,” she added hastily, lest Luten take the absurd notion she was going on his account.
To say Susan was like a sister was a slight exaggeration. Corinne’s mind roamed back to the past. She had spent her year of mourning at Appleby Court, in East Sussex, after her late husband’s death. It was there that Luten had proposed to her, three years before. And she, like a fool, had rejected him. She had wanted a period in which to enjoy her new freedom. His pride had been sorely bruised. The refusal had led to three years of snipping and sniping between them, before the affair of the stolen pearls had brought them together.
There had been a strange sequel to her refusal.
In a fit of pique, he had turned around and offered for his cousin, Susan Enderton, who had also refused him. That bizarre week sometimes seemed like a dream, but it was no dream that Luten was terribly upset at Susan’s being kidnapped. His lean face was pale and drawn. Was it possible he really loved Susan? That his offer hadn’t been made in a fit of pique, but that he had loved her all this time? Was that why she, Corinne, hadn’t received the expected offer tonight?
When she turned her attention again to the conversation around her, she realized she had missed a good deal. Prance was saying, “I can’t leave my own party. It would be too outré, but I shall join you and Pattle at Appleby Court tomorrow.”
Coffen said to Luten, “The rest of us can go together— you, Corinne, me.”
Again Luten glanced at Corinne, then quickly averted his eyes. “I’m taking my curricle. It’s faster,” he said. “It only seats two. You can come with me if you like, Pattle.”
“What about Corinne?”
“She could come tomorrow with Prance, if she feels it necessary to come at all.”
“I shall go tonight,” she said, glaring at Luten.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he replied. “A lady can’t be much help. Just one more to worry about, with a kidnapper on the loose.”
Her Irish temper broke. “Susan is like a sister to me,” she repeated. When Luten lifted his well-arched eyebrow in derision, she added, “I expect I know her better than any of you. A lady is more likely to notice little details amiss.”
“I am quite as familiar with Susan as you or anyone else,” Luten said.
“What sum do they ask for her return?” Coffen asked.
“Soames didn’t mention it, but her dowry is twenty-five thousand. I expect whoever snatched her is well aware of it.”
Coffen squeezed his face into a frown. “By the living jingo, we must find her before the money is handed over. Twenty-five thousand! I’m off.”
“It was a lovely party, Reggie,” Corinne said, pressing his fingers. “Sorry we must dart off.”
“Say no more,” Prance said with a wave of his white fingers. “Naturally Susan’s safety must take precedence over a party.” It did seem hard, but he had to maintain his reputation for exquisite manners and sensibility.
Since it seemed there would be no wedding arrangements to engage his talents, he would amuse himself by finding Susan, and perhaps instigating some romance between her and Luten, to vex Corinne. The rogue in him enjoyed these games. Ill natured, but there you were. He, too, had his flaw. He drew his lace-edged handkerchief between his fingers, then raised it to his nose to inhale the delicate scent of lavender water—not Steakes, but a superior brand smuggled in from France at an inordinate price.
Chapter Two
Prance followed his guests to the door to see them off. Luten lived just two houses up the street, in the grandest mansion on the block. Corinne lived directly opposite Luten, with Coffen next door to her. Before crossing to her own house, she said to Luten, “I know you don’t want me to go, but—”
Luten lifted an eyebrow and said ironically, “But Susan, whom you haven’t seen in three years, is like a sister to you.”
“She has often visited me. And I shall go to her now, in her time of need.”
“Very noble, but I would prefer to rescue only one lady at a time. You have already used up your turn, Countess. You will recall that the shortest route to Appleby Court is via Hounslow Heath, a well-known haunt of highwaymen. If you must come, wait until morning.”
The butler handed him his hat; he reached out his hand and took it without looking at the man, placed it on his head, allowed his cape to be dropped on his shoulders, his cane put in his hand. Then he turned on his heel with a great flurry of the cape and strode out without saying good-bye.
“I must remember that exit for our next drame,” Prance said, smiling fatuously. “Shakespeare’s famous ‘Pursued by a bear’ is nothing to it. ‘Possessed by demons’ is more like it. Even when he is in a state of distraction, one can always count on dear Luten for that touch of the theater in his doings.” He offered Corinne his white fingers, where an amethyst the size of a small cherry twinkled. “I shall be with you anon, dear heart. Promise you won’t find Susan before I arrive.”
“Let us go, Corinne,” Coffen said impatiently. “Mind you don’t wear any jewels or take much money with you. Highwaymen. I mean to tie my blunt up in a handkerchief and stuff it into the toe of my boot.”
“That is the first place the scamps look,” Prance informed him.
“In the crown of my hat, then.”
Prance sighed wearily. “That cunning hiding spot will take them all of three seconds to discover. I have a false bottom built into the seat of my traveling carriage.”
“There’s not time to rebuild the carriage,” Corinne said. “I must change and pack a few things. We’ll take some footmen to act as guards.”
Coffen turned to Prance. “Pity you can’t come now. We’d be safer with another carriage along. The scamps are less likely to attack a caravan.”
Prance gave little thought to actually rescuing Susan Enderton. He weighed the delights of his party against the frightening pleasure of darting through Hounslow Heath by moonlight. When he considered the amount of time and money invested in his party, and the delightful consternation he would cause when he announced Susan’s kidnapping, he said, “Too farouche to shab off. I must stay here to keep an eye on things.”
Coffen nodded. “Looks like it is only you and me, Corinne. Shall we be off? If we hurry, we might catch up with Luten. That’ll be two carriages. And Luten is a famous shot.”
“My blessings on you, children,” Prance said. He found nothing worthy of emulation in their exit as they scuttled across the broad flagstoned pavement to Corinne’s small but elegant yellow brick mansion, protected by an iron railing.
Before parting, she and Coffen discussed the details of the trip.
“Will you bring Ballard with you?” Coffen asked. Mrs. Ballard was Corinne’s companion, an obsequious cousin of her late husband.
“No, there can be no impropriety in my visiting Appleby without a female companion. I am a widow after all, not a green girl, and you know they aren’t accustomed to much company at Appleby. The trip should not take more than three hours.”
“I wager Luten will be there in two. He seemed pretty cut up, didn’t you think?”
“Yes,” Corinne said, and fell into a silent pondering.
Luten’s state suggested that he was in love with Susan. If he were to marry anyone other than herself, then Susan was about the only lady Corinne could approve of. She was sweet and innocent, unlike Luten’s usual high flyers. Susan had just turned seventeen that year after deCoventry’s death, but her provincial upbringing made her seem younger. She had looked to Corinne as a model, asking questions about London and beaux and balls. Mrs. Enderton had been alive then, but she was a country lady and could not give Susan the sort of information the girl wanted. Corinne had not been exactly a second mother to the girl, more like an older sister.
When Mrs. Enderton had died, Susan had taken over as mistress of Appleby Court, with her mama’s brother, Otto Marchbank, handling the estate business. Corinne had visited Appleby Court twice, and Susan had visited her three or four times in London—but not for some time now. It must be a year since her last visit. How quickly the time flew! Could Susan have found a beau in the last twelve months? Her beauty, her sweet disposition, and her dowry of twenty-five thousand would have made her entirely desirable. Could it be her cousin Jeremy Soames? It was he who had written to Luten.
“Will you be ready in an hour?” Coffen asked. “I’ll have to pack and send for my traveling carriage. I’ll take my team of four. Fitz won’t like being roused out of bed at such an hour.” Coffen’s groom, indeed all his servants, had their master firmly under their collective thumb. His house was pretty well run for their convenience.
Remembering the highwaymen, Cori
nne said, “Tell Fitz to bring a pistol.”
“Since that time we was held up right in London, I always make sure there is one under the coachman’s box.”
Corinne darted into the house, calling to her butler as she ran, “Send Mrs. Ballard up to me at once, if you please. I am leaving for Appleby Court immediately with Mr. Pattle.”
Black was not surprised at the trip, but he was surprised that her ladyship had left Sir Reginald’s party so early. What occurred to Black was that one of her chums had become involved in a duel and was being smuggled out of town before the law got hold of him. Someone had made a slighting remark about her ladyship, very likely. Her friends would not allow that to go unpunished. This being the case, Black was highly desirous of accompanying his beloved mistress to Appleby Court to see her name was avenged. Sir Reginald Prance, he fingered for the likeliest one to be caught up in a duel. Coffen was too good-natured and Lord Luten too sensible, despite his toplofty ways.
“I can dress myself, Mrs. Ballard,” Corinne said when her mousy companion came bustling into the bedroom. “I want you to have a small trunk brought down from the attic. Pack me a couple of muslin dresses—my new rose sprigged and the blue one. And one—no, two gowns for evening wear. I shall not be going out or entertaining.”
As she spoke, she removed her jewelry and pulled off the jonquil-colored gown she wore. “Will you put my jewels away for me? I shan’t be taking any with me.”
When she explained where she was going, Mrs. Ballard said, “I’ll pack your good cashmere shawl. Many’s the evening I have sat shivering in that drafty place. But won’t there be any parties? Miss Susan is at that age—”
Corinne daubed at her eyes and said in a choked voice, “She’s been kidnapped, Mrs. Ballard.”
Mrs. Ballard gasped in alarm. “Oh my goodness. The poor child! I did wonder at your setting out in the middle of the night. That would be why Lord Luten’s footman went darting out of the house. He was going for the carriage.”