by Joan Smith
“He’s so besotted he’ll leave it off at the door when she don’t let him in, gudgeon.”
After making a right turn onto Curzon when he should have turned left, and having to turn the carriage around in midstreet, Fitz finally reached Half Moon Street. It wasn’t Prance’s carriage standing outside the door that caused Corinne to stiffen like a shirt left out in an icy wind. Of Prance’s rig, there was no sign. It was Luten’s infamous hunting carriage just leaving the door that turned her to ice. As the carriage turned the corner, two heads were visible at the window. One of them was Luten’s; the other was a lady’s head, with a capuchin hood drawn over it to conceal her profile. The heads were close together, giving an air of intimacy. The small trunk tied to the roof indicated an overnight journey.
Corinne’s heart pounded so violently in her chest she feared it would break her ribs. Her lungs collapsed, hardly allowing her to draw a breath.
“Follow them,” she said in a hollow voice to Coffen. Her hands clenched into white-knuckled rigidity.
“That I’ll not,” he declared. “It ain’t what you think, if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking.”
“It is exactly what I think, and you obviously know it, or you would do as I ask. You’re just trying to protect him. If you won’t take me, let me down and I’ll hire a hackney.”
“There ain’t a one in sight. I wonder if Prance saw them. Must have seen the hunting carriage parked in front of her house. Dash it, we’ll have a duel on our hands. That would suit Prance down to the ankles.”
He paid no heed to her protestations but just lowered the window and hollered out, “Home, Fitz. And spring ‘em.”
The carriage picked up speed until they were jostling along so swiftly that it proved impossible for Corinne to leap out the door as she was sorely tempted to do when she spotted a hackney cab going the other way. Within minutes, they were back at her front door.
“I’ll never forgive you for this, Coffen,” she said. Her eyes blazed like green fire in her pale face.
He knew it was Luten she was angry with and felt sorry for her. “A glass of wine will settle your nerves,” he said, and just shook his head at Black’s questioning gaze as the butler admitted them.
Black was speechless with excitement to see his beloved so distraught.
“Bad news, madam?” he inquired in Lord Blackmore’s most solicitous tone.
She lifted her chin. “Certainly not. Bring us brandy at once.”
“The brandy is already there, your ladyship. Sir Reginald is awaiting you in the saloon. He requested it most forcefully.”
“Is Mrs. Ballard down yet?” Corinne asked. It would really be the end if she had to smile at Mrs. Ballard and pretend nothing was the matter at this moment of crisis.
“Yes, milady. She has gone to visit the deCoventrys.”
“Good.”
Sir Reginald was pacing the small saloon, with a glass of brandy in his left hand, his right hand shading his eyes, which were moist with delighted grief. He looked at Corinne and said in a dying voice, “Betrayed, and by one we loved like a brother.”
“Are you being more than one person again?” Coffen demanded. “Thought you was over that foolishness.”
He gave a sympathetic glance at Corinne. “Ah no, Pattle. Methinks I am not alone in my agony. It was the ‘brother’ that led you astray. I meant only one close to our hearts.”
“If you are referring to Luten’s betrayal of me—of us both,” Corinne said in a voice rough with emotion, “you need not mince your words. We saw him driving off with Chamaude and her trunk. I daresay Simon is rushing Luten’s trunk to the love nest in his other carriage. Pour me a glass of brandy, Coffen. A large glass.”
Coffen poured a glass for them both.
“Then we can speak frankly,” Prance said, and lifted his coattails to perch on the edge of a chair. He crossed his legs and leaned forward eagerly. “You must know, dear heart, I share fully in your feelings. I, too, have loved and lost. I didn’t go to her door when I saw Luten’s hunting carriage there. I was desolate. Well, you know the feeling, as if the sky—nay, a mountain—has fallen on your poor head. Odd he went, when he thought I would be there.”
“That’s it, then. It was Prance he was after,” Coffen said to Corinne.
“Why would he need Prance? It was Bow Street and Brougham he said he was after,” she retorted. “He went flying straight to her to warn her of danger. He has smuggled her out of town for safekeeping. He’s certainly bought a love nest for her. Why else did she take a trunk? That is why he agreed to drive me past that house on Grosvenor Square. He knew we would not see anything incriminating. He had already set her up somewhere else.”
Prance was much struck with this ingenious perfidy. “Such a sly deceiver! One ought to have known that when Luten set out to confound us, he would do the thing to the hilt. I feel it is in part my own fault. I sensed his indignation last evening when I was regaling him with how Yvonne and I had—” He gave a missish smirk. “You know.”
“We know. Twice,” Coffen said, with a look of deep loathing. “You’re making a mountain out of a mole hole. He could be taking her anywhere—to visit a sick friend, very likely. Anything might be in that trunk. Food, or medicine, or some of her pictures. And you needn’t go thinking he’s taken her to that country inn again—” Prance coughed sharply. Coffen turned red as a beet. “That is—”
Corinne turned on him like a virago. “Again? You mean he has taken her there before? You, my best friends, knew it and didn’t tell me?”
“Dear heart! We didn’t know the whole,” Prance said, leaping up and hastening forward to put an arm around her shoulder. “Though I did try to give you a tiny hint in my note. Your true, faithful friend.” She looked at him with a wildly distraught eye.
“When did he take her to an inn?” she demanded.
“Yesterday. Last night he explained that he was just leading her on, trying to discover something about Gresham.”
“And I, for one, believe him,” Coffen said. “Innocent till proven guilty,” he added, when two hostile pairs of eyes skewered him. “This is England, after all.”
“Patriotism, the last resort of the scoundrel,” Prance sneered. “What, pray, has English jurisprudence to do with all this?”
“We’re all English, ain’t we?”
“I happen to be Irish,” Corinne said coldly.
“So you are. Forgot. Still, they don’t hang a man without a trial in Ireland, do they?”
“You have obviously never read a history book,” Prance said. “Don’t try to defend him, Pattle. He said last night he would not call on Yvonne again. He lied to us all. That, in my humble opinion, puts him beyond the pale. He need no longer be treated as a gentleman.”
“You never had a humble opinion in your life,” Coffen said, but he knew he was outnumbered and outargued, nor did he have much heart to defend Luten. Dashed shabby behavior. “Well, I warned him,” he said.
Prance gave Corinne’s shoulder a last consoling pat, then sauntered to the fireplace and drummed his fingers on the mantel. “I wonder if he even notified Bow Street. We ought to do it, if he hasn’t.”
“He might have done,” Coffen said. “Mean to say, there was time. We came back here, had a glass of wine, waited a quarter of an hour for your carriage to come and go.”
“Were you following me?” Prance asked, pleased but pretending to be annoyed.
“We was the second time you went, but Fitz—you know. There was plenty of time for Luten to go to Bow Street and take them back to Shepherd’s Market before calling on Chamaude. Boisvert’s place is only a step from Chamaude’s. Likely Townsend was with them in the rig.”
“There were only two people. He didn’t go to Bow Street,” Corinne said. “He went to warn her, before Bow Street learned of the murder.”
“Don’t see why he’d have to warn her if she did it, or had it done,” Coffen said.
“Warn her that the body had been
discovered, I mean.”
Prance thought for a moment, then said, “He’s smuggling her off to safety, then he’ll report it.”
“There’s no knowing the ins and outs of it,” Coffen decided, “but we ought to run down to Bow Street in case it slipped his mind. I hate to think of poor Boisvert, rotting on that truckle bed. There might be rats about.”
Prance shuddered. “Please, spare us your overwrought imagination.”
“It ain’t right. I’m off, Prance. Are you coming with me?”
“I cannot leave poor Corinne alone. Misery likes company. Odd how one falls into cliché at moments of tragedy. We shall comfort each other in our distress.”
“I’d as lief be comforted by a tiger,” Coffen muttered.
“Much liefer!” Prance said, with a twinkle that suggested he was rather enjoying his tragedy.
“I know a Job’s comforter when I see one. You’re coming with me, my lad. Let Corinne have her cry in peace.”
She clenched her jaw and said, “Cry? I hope I am not such a ninnyhammer as to cry over Luten and that hussy. Good riddance.”
“That’s the spirit!” Coffen said bracingly. He put a hand on Prance’s elbow and drew him from the room by main force.
“I pity Luten when he drops in unwittingly at the full meridian of her wrath,” Prance said sotto voce as they left. “She’ll attack him, tooth and nail. There’ll be nothing left but bones, hair, and blood on her nice carpet.”
Black saw them out, then darted upstairs and brought down the softest blanket he could find, to place lovingly over his mistress’s shoulders to quell her trembling. He had overheard the whole conversation from his listening post in the hall. At such moments as this, he was in his glory, tending to her needs, supporting her, planning how he could bring the lovebirds together again. His love was so pure he would happily endure the agony of seeing her marry, if that was what she wished. He would admit no callers this day save Luten, whom he would inform how the land lay in advance of announcing him. He would keep even the servants from pestering her with their petty problems.
He would order soup and an omelette for her dinner, to save her the labor of cutting up and chewing mutton. He was entirely confounded in his intentions when she called for her carriage five minutes later and said she would join Mrs. Ballard at the deCoventrys. His mistress seldom called on her in-laws, and with the exception of Lord Harry, they never called on her.
Lord Harry featured somewhere in it, Black figured. Actually young Harry was Lord Gaviston, now that his older brother was dead, and he was the heir. Luten had no love for the handsome young rascal. Jealous as a green cow. Aye, that was what the minx was up to, making him jealous. He admired her dauntless spirit in the face of such adversity.
Chapter Eighteen
As it turned out, Harry was not at home and Corinne had to sit for half an hour exchanging barbs with his mama, whom she despised nearly as thoroughly as the matron despised her. Under a veil of religiosity, the elder Lady deCoventry was a seething vessel of venom. After half a dozen barbed questions and equally sharp replies between the two, the burden of conversation fell on Mrs. Ballard’s frail shoulders and from there to the ground. The half hour seemed an eternity, but at last it was over.
“I was surprised to see you land in,” Mrs. Ballard said, lifting an eyebrow in question after they left. “I know it pains you to visit there, where you and George were so happy.”
“I was hoping to see Harry, but it is no matter. I left a message with the butler.”
Mrs. Ballard gave her a roguish smile. “Luten won’t like that.”
“Then Luten may lump it.”
Mrs. Ballard was by no means the sharpest knife in the drawer, but she deduced that all was not well with the lovers, and said no more on the subject. She recounted instead the various ailments to which the elderly Lady deCoventry was heir until they reached home. Corinne went directly up to her bedroom. Black whispered a word in Mrs. Ballard’s ear. The dame lifted her fingers to her lips, made tsking sounds, and promised she would not disturb the mistress.
“A sup of soup and an omelette in her bedroom for dinner,” Black said.
“Of course, and tell Cook the same for me, Black. No need to set up the table for one.” She would gladly have eaten in the kitchen with the servants, for she was one of those ladies who felt she owed the world a debt by the mere fact of taking up a few square feet of it.
Black was astonished when her ladyship came downstairs at the usual seven o’clock, dressed for the evening. She wore a particularly dashing gown of bronze silk with a gauze overskirt and had drawn her hair high on her head. She was ablaze with diamonds and looked like a very angry queen or empress. Her chin was up, her eyes sparking, her shoulders back.
“Was there a message for me, Black?” she asked.
“He’s not home yet, your ladyship. I’ll let you know the minute he arrives.”
“I am expecting a note from Lord Harry—that is, Lord Gaviston. You may bring it to me at dinner, if it comes.”
“A glass of sherry while Cook finishes up your dinner?” he suggested, smiling to cover his chagrin.
It was a rare day when Black failed to read his mistress’s mind. He had to dart to the kitchen for a word with Cook, then send Jackie, the backhouse boy, upstairs to warn Mrs. Ballard to come down at once; he had to dart back to unlock the silver chest to get out the cutlery. Cook did him proud. The raised pigeon pies she slipped into her oven to reheat, along with a ham and cold mutton, eked out the soup and omelette to provide a tolerable dinner. It hardly mattered; Corinne only played with her food. She was on thorns, wondering when Luten would come.
She was just pushing her spoon around in a dish of syllabub when Black came and handed her a note on a silver salver. She read it and smiled a cold smile.
“I shall be going out with Harry tonight, Mrs. Ballard,” she announced.
Mrs. Ballard drew her bottom lip between her teeth. “What shall I tell Luten if he calls?”
“Just tell him I am out with Harry. No need to give him the destination. I don’t know where we will be going. Some rout or other, I expect.”
She had invited Harry to Drury Lane and had a fair notion that Luten would seek her out there when he heard who she was with, but she didn’t want to make it easy for him. Harry, her favorite in-law, arrived just before eight o’clock. His manner had assumed some tokens of the dignity that now rested on his young shoulders, since the death of his elder brother made him heir to the deCoventry title and estates. His enlarged allowance had also improved his toilette. The deep cinnamon jacket he wore fit him marvelously well. In the folds of his immaculate cravat, a largish diamond in a claw setting sparkled. He wore his dark hair a la Titus and looked every bit as handsome as Luten, though not so distinguished.
When he spoke, she saw the old devil-may-care Harry still lurked somewhere inside him.
“I got your message, Corrie. No need to smuggle notes to me. Mama is not hounding me to offer for you, now that I shan’t need your blunt.”
“My fear was that she would think I was chasing you. She asked me quite pointedly if I was still single at my age.”
“She don’t know us very well, does she? What’s up, that you are sunk to seeking my escort? Has Luten gone partridge hunting?”
“No, he is after other game this season.”
Harry lifted an eyebrow. “I see! There’s a rumor afoot that you two were getting shackled. I’ve been watching the mail for my invitation.”
“Don’t waste your time. There will be no wedding.”
“On the outs, eh? What is my role, to make him jealous? I’ll end up with my daylights darkened and my cork drawn.”
“You needn’t worry. Luten has a new lady these days.”
“Anyone I know?” he asked with a flash of interest.
“I sincerely hope not. A Frenchwoman—an older woman, much too experienced for you, Master Harry.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” He drap
ed her mantle over her shoulders. “Who are we going with?”
“Reg and Coffen might be there. I don’t know for sure. It might be just the two of us. It is my box, in any case.”
He proudly led her out to his carriage, another symbol of his elevated status. She looked a question at Black as he held the door for them. He gave a minute shake of his head and a commiserating look. They knew each other well enough to know the messages had been received, understood, and appreciated, without a word being exchanged. Luten was not home yet.
The box was empty when they arrived at the theater. Corinne had no recollection, after the play was over, of what they had seen. She had a vague notion it was something by Shakespeare. Presumably a comedy, as everyone in the audience seemed to be laughing. The roars echoed in her ears like thunder. She opened her lips and laughed along with them, to keep from crying. Between the noise and the stifling miasma of a hundred perfumes and her anger, she soon developed a ripping headache.
She remembered that Prance and Coffen had arrived at the first intermission. As they were not surprised to see Harry there, she knew they had spoken to Black. Prance, who prided himself on his exquisite manners, had scolded Coffen into discretion. The name Luten did not arise throughout the evening, but his absence cast a long shadow in the box.
During the second intermission, Prance whispered to Coffen, “We’ll go out for supper afterward to tire her out. The later we get her home, the better. Her poor pillow will be drenched this evening.”
Coffen screwed up his eyes, blinking away a tear. “Brave little soul,” he said in an unsteady voice.
“Luten ought to be horsewhipped for this stunt.” Prance was beginning to think that as Luten had stolen his mistress, he had every right to steal Corinne. And she was in just the mood, at the moment, to be stolen away by someone. Of course, she was just using Harry to annoy Luten. He was like a brother to her. She often said so, but Luten didn’t quite believe it. Wouldn’t he snarl and lash his tail if he came home to find Corinne engaged to himself? It would nearly be worth the trial of having a wife for the pleasure of seeing Luten bested.