by Joan Smith
Luten directed a mock scowl at Corinne. How else did Prance know what carriage he had been driving? Prance’s butler was not a spy. They went into the untidy saloon, removed assorted debris from the sofas, and sat down. Coffen gave them a glass of wine, and Luten outlined what he had learned of the comtesse and Gresham and Yarrow.
“The comtesse is a schemer,” Coffen said. “I’ll take my Poosan to an art dealer tomorrow and make sure it ain’t a fake.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Luten agreed.
Prance did not object to this slur on his beloved’s character. He liked his friends to have a few interesting faults. “If it is still in your possession by tomorrow,” he added. “What else have we planned for the day?”
“Corinne and I plan to go on the strut on Bond Street,” Luten said. Corinne looked at him in surprise. He had not mentioned it to her.
“May we join you?” Prance asked. “Or is this a pas de deux?”
“Pas du tout,” Luten replied. “Let us all go. Pattle can bring his Poussin along, and we’ll stop at Mercier’s to have the painting authenticated.”
They finished their wine and left, waiting outside until they heard Coffen slide the bolt.
“Very odd, that burglary,” Prance said musingly. “I mean to say, a prigger entering the house when there were lights on and only making off with a few tawdry bits and pieces. Highly unlikely.”
“Coffen is much too careless,” Corinne said. “I wager Jacob left the door wide open.”
“At least they didn’t get the Poussin, or I should have to suspect the comtesse said a careless word to someone.”
“Or had it stolen herself,” Corinne added.
Prance shook his head. “Luten has given an account of his afternoon, my pet. There is no further need for you to be jealous of Yvonne.”
“Good night, Prance,” she said coolly, and taking Luten’s arm, they returned to her house, while Prance darted across the street, smiling to himself. What was Yvonne up to, the sly piece?
“Why did you invite him and Coffen to join us tomorrow, Luten?” she asked. “I am beginning to get the notion you don’t want to be alone with me.”
“You wrong me. Every way you wrong me, my sweet idiot. I just want to see Reg’s face when he sees the Rondeaux in Hatchard’s window.”
“Luten, you didn’t! How did you arrange it?”
“You’ll have to help me get rid of the hundred copies I bought—while you suspected me of dangling after Yvonne.”
She colored up prettily. She was not only embarrassed for mistrusting him, but proud of Luten for his generous gesture.
“How do you plan to be rid of them? He has already given a copy to everyone we know and fifty-odd people we scarcely know.”
“I count on your help. Dry matter burns well,” he said. “But use an upstairs fireplace, in case he drops in during the conflagration. The covers are slow burners, and the leather smells like burning flesh.”
Black held the door open as they came up the steps. “I trust Mr. Pattle lost nothing of great value, your ladyship?” he asked.
This, of course, was officious in the extreme, but she replied, “No, nothing of great value.”
Black lifted his heavy eyebrows and said waggishly, “Did you figure out what was in the bag the fellow carried out of the house?”
“What do you mean? Black!” she exclaimed. “Did you see the burglar?”
“I didn’t know he was a burglar,” he said, half-proud of being able to identify the man, but unhappy that he had not apprehended him. “I mean to say, he knocked and went in without waiting for Jacob to admit him. I figured he was a friend, though I did wonder when he left with that bag, along with the picture.”
“Left with the picture?” Luten asked. “He didn’t steal the picture.”
“No, milord, he brought it with him, didn’t he?”
“What picture?”
“I didn’t see it. ‘Twas all wrapped up in brown paper. It was the same size as the one you had delivered this afternoon. I figured there’d been a mix-up at the comtesse’s house and he was exchanging it.”
“No,” Corinne said, “he took silver candlesticks, a brass vase, and a little statuette.”
“That’s what would have been in the bag he carried out.” Black nodded, satisfied.
“Why the devil didn’t you go after him?” Luten demanded.
“He was a gentleman, wasn’t he? Wearing a dandy jacket and cravat, though I did think it odd he came on foot and carrying that big parcel.”
“The picture—this has something to do with Chamaude,” Corinne said.
“I’d swear that picture Coffen has is the same one we saw in her saloon,” Luten said. “What did the man look like, Black?’
“Tall and well built. A good-looking fellow, from what I could see. Youngish, stylish.”
“Harry!” Luten exclaimed. This matched the description of Corinne’s in-law, Lord Gaviston, who had been known to pocket a trinket or two in his time.
“Nay, it weren’t Lord Harry. This lad who came tonight has never visited any of youse before or I’d know him,” Black said.
“We’d best tell Coffen,” Corinne said.
“Allow me to fetch him, milady,” Black said with a gracious smile. “You must be fagged.”
“No, we’ll go back and have another look at that Poussin,” Luten said. He grabbed Corinne’s hand, and they darted across the street.
Coffen answered the door himself, holding a poker in his hand. “Oh, it’s you,” he said. “I feared it might be the burglar back for another go at my stuff.”
“Where is that picture, Pattle?” Luten asked.
The picture was retrieved from behind the chair and taken into the saloon to be examined, while Luten told Coffen what Black had seen.
“This is my picture, right enough,” Coffen said, fingering the nick in the frame.
Corinne said, “Why would the fellow have carried along a big, bulky parcel when he was doing a spot of burgling?”
A triumphant smile quirked Luten’s lips. “Because he wasn’t doing a spot of burgling,” he said.
“He got away with my brass jug and silver candlesticks,” Coffen reminded him.
“Window dressing. What he came for was to exchange the pictures.”
“Then he’s a fool, for he didn’t do it. I still have my original.”
“Who is to say you had it before his call? You hadn’t opened the parcel.”
“That don’t make any sense, stealing a copy and leaving an original.”
“It does if Yvonne originally gave you the copy and feared you would know the difference.”
“Why would she think I know the difference now, if she didn’t think it a few hours ago? She knew you and Prance would see it. You know about art, if I don’t.”
“He’s right,” Corinne said.
“So am I,” Luten insisted. “She planned to palm off the forgery, but something changed her mind.” After a frowning pause, he added, “Or someone.”
“Yarrow?” Corinne said. “He found out what she was up to and made her exchange the pictures? And who would she use for the job but her other suitor, the tall, handsome Frenchman we saw calling on her the first evening we were there. You weren’t there, Luten,” she added. “You know who I mean, Coffen.”
“I do. Not his name, nor where he lives, but I’d recognize his phiz if I saw him again, the scoundrel.”
“Chamaude is using Yarrow to authenticate her paintings, then selling copies,” Corinne said. “You ought to warn Yarrow, Luten.”
Luten cocked his head and pointed a shapely finger at the Poussin. “He already knows, to judge by this evening’s work. But to be sure, we’ll take this to Mercier’s tomorrow for authentication. Come, let us go. Lock the door behind us, Coffen.”
“I will, and I’ll take my Poosan to bed with me. Dashed Frenchies.”
Corinne could not fail to notice Luten’s cheerful mood as he accompanied her home.
“I have no idea. It seems we have stumbled into another imbroglio.” He cast a playful smile at her. “Do you think it will leave us time to plan our wedding?”
Corinne felt a shiver of apprehension up her spine. She trusted Luten, but she could not trust Chamaude. “We could get a special license and do it up in a hurry, before the comtesse decides to substitute a different bride,” she suggested, and listened eagerly for his reply.
He smiled insouciantly. “Oh, I think I would notice the difference, after a day or two.”
“Luten!”
He was about to kiss away her little fit of pique when Black opened the door. “Tomorrow morning. Ten-thirtyish,” Luten said. Then to Black’s deep chagrin, he kissed the countess.
Chapter Nine
Luten called on Corinne at ten the next morning. She had breakfasted and was having a second cup of coffee with Mrs. Ballard, bringing her companion up-to-date on such aspects of the Chamaude affair as would not dismay a simple village vicar’s widow. Any mention of the comtesse’s attempting to steal Luten away was avoided. It was of the Poussin that they spoke.
“Good morning, ladies,” Luten said, when Black showed him into the morning parlor. It was a small room, but cheerful with sunlight splashing through the east-facing window and onto the table.
He thought his fiancée looked particularly delightful in a green worsted walking suit with a fichu of Mechlin lace at the collar. It did not occur to him that it was similar to the outfit in which Yvonne had looked so delectable the day before. Mrs. Ballard, as usual, wore mouse-gray to match the gray hair beneath her widow’s cap.
“You’re early. It’s only ten o’clock,” Corinne said. “Sit down and have some coffee, Luten. Coffen won’t be ready a minute before ten-thirty.”
“I thought we’d go on ahead in my rig and meet them downtown. I left word with Prance, as there was no answer at Pattle’s. Jacob is sleeping it off, I expect.”
“Very likely. I shall just get my bonnet, then.”
Luten exchanged a few pleasantries with Mrs. Ballard before joining Corinne. One was always expected to inquire for her health, though she had never been sick a day in her life so far as he knew. Perhaps it was just that she was difficult to talk to.
A night’s sleep had repaired Black’s humor.
“I’ll keep me daylights open for mischief whilst youse are gone,” he said, in quite a civil manner, as he held the door for them.
“If the Frenchman comes back, follow him,” Luten said.
“Not likely he’ll show his phiz hereabouts, is it?”
“No, not likely,” Luten agreed, and left, topped—again—by a butler.
It was a beautiful, balmy autumn day. The sky was that deep azure blue of a tropical clime, with not a cloud to be seen. The sun was already warm. By noon, it would be hot.
“A lovely day for a wedding,” Luten said, looking about.
“We should have taken the curricle, to enjoy that sun.”
“The closed carriage gives more privacy. That seems a short commodity, between Black and Ballard and Prance and Pattle.”
“And Brougham,” she added, suppressing the name Yvonne as she settled into the luxury of deep blue velvet squabs and silver appointments.
“And Brougham. He has dibs on my company for this afternoon, which is why I hoped we could steal a few moments together this morning. I asked my driver to take us to Hyde Park. It should be fairly private at this hour.”
“What we really ought to do is go to Southcote Abbey for a week, just the two of us. Well, the three of us. I could not go without Mrs. Ballard, but the abbey is big enough for us to lose her.” She looked hopefully to Luten.
“A tempting notion,” he said, but his diffident tone suggested the temptation would be overcome.
She waited a moment, then said, “But? What prevents it?”
“This Yarrow and the rocket business. If we can prove corruption, it will go a long way toward unseating Mouldy and Company. My thought was that while I work on this, you could make the wedding arrangements. Nothing lavish, I expect, as this is not your first—that is—”
“As I am a widow,” she said bluntly.
“Well, yes. That was my meaning,” he admitted, with a sheepish smile. “But if you wish a big wedding, I have no objection. Saint George’s, Hanover Square, perhaps?”
“Certainly not,” she said, rather sharply. She could not say exactly why she was annoyed, although his refusing to go to the abbey had something to do with it. It was unlike the suave Luten to bring up that she had already been married when they were discussing their wedding, but it was only the simple truth after all. No, what annoyed her was his putting politics first and fobbing her off with making the wedding arrangements, so that she would not object to his absence from the courtship.
“You don’t have to snap my head off. Shall we choose a date?”
“You already know the date I wished was September the fourteenth, my parents’ anniversary. As that is only a few days away, the only way we could marry on the fourteenth is if we got a special license.”
He frowned his dissatisfaction. “That doesn’t give us much time.”
“Quite enough for a small wedding, befitting a widow.”
“You will want to acquire a trousseau fit for a bride.”
“And more importantly, you will be at the party’s beck and call,” she snipped.
Luten looked at her in a sober, penetrating way. He reached across to her banquette and seized her two hands in his. “It is important, my dear,” he said gently. “You know this is the work I’ve chosen. I have been given undeserved wealth and considerable power. If I don’t use it to better England, then I am merely a parasite, a cipher. This is the Whigs’ chance to knock the Tories down and begin the reforms we’ve planned. Don’t make it difficult for me. You have always approved of what I do.”
“I know,” she said, feeling the full weight of his charge. It was selfish and foolish of her. And in the bottom of her heart, she knew it wasn’t really his work that bothered her at all. It was that beautiful, predatory French comtesse, lurking in the background, waiting to pounce. “It’s all right, Luten, but I don’t want to go ahead and plan our wedding alone. When this rocket business is straightened out, we’ll plan it together.”
“Along with Prance, of course,” he added, smiling his relief. “One trembles to think what extravaganza he’ll want to mount. He spoke of a Venetian masque party for our engagement.”
“I haven’t heard anything about the masque since he fell in love with the comtesse.”
“He can usually entertain two follies simultaneously.”
“Yes, but he has the Rondeaux in his dish as well, to say nothing of our being invited to dedicate our next oeuvre to the prince.”
The moment’s uneasiness passed, and they were soon back on a familiar footing. When the carriage was passing through a private stretch of road, they stole a kiss.
At ten-thirty the carriage turned in to Piccadilly. “There is Reggie’s rig,” Corinne said. “Coffen is with him. Let us get out and meet them. I want to see Reggie’s face when he sees Hatchard’s window.”
Prance and Pattle dismounted, each carrying a copy of the Rondeaux. Prance had outfitted himself as a poet for the nonce. He was letting his hair grow long enough to dangle over his brow in artistic abandon. It was clear at a glance that he had been curling it in papers. It was usually bone-straight, but today a curl wantoned in the breeze. In lieu of a cravat, he wore a Belcher kerchief of saffron yellow at his throat.
“Ah, there you are! I had the deuce of a time getting Pattle out of bed and the oil washed out of his
hair.” They exchanged greetings, then Prance said, “Shall we take a stroll down Piccadilly?”
“Glutton for punishment,” Coffen muttered. “Knows perfectly well what’ll be in the window. That Harold Child of Byron’s.”
Prance managed to hold his pace to Coffen’s as they advanced. He had no intention of gazing into the window. Just a quick glance from the corner of his eye to ascertain the favoritism being show to Byron. A glance was enough. The image of the Rondeaux was indelibly etched in his memory. He recognized the slender red morocco-bound volume, with the gilt trim. He first thought it was just one copy. He glanced again and saw a windowful of the familiar shape and color. He could no longer feign indifference. He stopped and stared, then turned around and looked at the others in disbelief. A beatific smile illuminated his lean face.
“This is the prince’s doing!” he exclaimed. “Oh, how excellent a thing it is to have a royal patron!” A customer came out, clutching a copy of the Rondeaux. A squint into the shop showed him half a dozen customers, some of them leafing through his book.
“About time!” Corinne said, exchanging a smile with Luten.
“Something fishy here,” Coffen murmured, and was ignored.
“Shall we go inside?” Luten suggested. “You might want to autograph a few copies, Prance.”
The dream continued inside. The clerk whispered to a young lady who was buying the book that the author was in the shop.
“Would he autograph a copy for me?” the lady asked eagerly. She did not fail to observe that the dashing Lord Luten was of the party and hoped to scrape his acquaintance.
“I’m sure he would. He is most agreeable,” the clerk said. Prance had been in the shop a few times buttering up the clerks and rearranging the few copies of his works for maximum visibility on the shelf.
The lady bought a copy and went mincing forward, with many a bashful smile at Lord Luten, who praised her excellent taste. Others noticed the hubbub and soon discovered its cause.
“The author of the Round Table Rondeaux is autographing copies of his book.”
“The Round Table Rondeaux! What the devil is that? I never heard of it.”