Murder While I Smile

by Joan Smith

  He found himself in a narrow, paved walkway between Melbourne’s and the house next door. It took a moment to get his bearings. The French doors at the end of the ballroom gave out on the backyard. He’d have to sneak up quietly and hope the yard offered some concealment. He also needed a blunt instrument. A shaft of moonlight slanted down through the wisps of mist between the houses, silvering the cobblestones. One stone jutted up. He nudged it with his foot and found it loose. He jiggled it out, picked it up, and hefted it. It would do the job. He crept forward quietly.

  A stand of lilac bushes concealed the back of the house. He smelled the cigar smoke before he spied Yarrow through the branches. Light from the ballroom illuminated the courtyard in a pearly light. Yarrow was pacing back and forth along its length with his hands locked behind his back and the cigar in the corner of his mouth. He seemed worried.

  Luten crept forward, toward the near end of the courtyard. When Yarrow reached it and turned around, he’d strike the back of his head. He should have worn a mask, in case he was seen. He put the cobblestone down, removed his handkerchief from his pocket, and tied it round the lower part of his face, then picked up the stone again. Peering through the branches, he saw Yarrow striding toward him. His brow was furrowed, his eyes narrowed in thought, his whiskers jiggling as he chewed on the cigar. As he reached the edge of the paving and began to turn around, Luten lunged forward and struck the back of his head, gauging the force to knock him out without killing him. Yarrow fell forward with a grunt and lay motionless. The cigar fell from his mouth and rolled over the paving stones.

  Luten turned him over on his back and delved into his waistcoat pocket. The first one held his watch. He tried the second and felt a crisp corner of paper. He drew it out and rose to leave. Then he stopped. Yarrow seemed to be completely unconscious—but when he recovered, he’d have a good notion who had done this. Luten felt his inside jacket pocket and removed his purse. A prigger would take the watch and that ruby ring on his little finger as well. He took the watch but couldn’t wiggle the ring off his fat finger.

  When Yarrow emitted a groan and began to stir, Luten rose and hurried back behind the bush, down the alley to the open window, still wearing his mask. Unfortunately, it was more difficult to enter the window than to exit. He couldn’t reach his arms up twelve feet. He worried that Yarrow would rouse up and come after him if he made any noise. He was about to leave and go around to the front door again when a head peered over the window ledge.

  “Give us your hand,” Coffen said, and leaned out the window. “Did you get it?”

  He pulled down his handkerchief. “Yup.” He stuffed the note, wallet, and watch into his pocket.

  Coffen’s stubby arms could not quite make contact with Luten’s hands. Prance reared up beside him. His longer arms could make contact, but he hadn’t the strength to pull Luten up. Between the two of them, they finally managed it, with Luten digging his toes into the bricks of the wall for leverage.

  “Close the window and draw the curtains,” Luten said. He saw that Corinne was there as well, looking a little frightened, which he took for a good sign of concern. Someone had lit one small lamp.

  “What does it say?” Prance demanded.

  Luten opened a small piece of paper. It looked like a corner torn from a journal. He took it to the lamp and read aloud: “Can’t do it tonight. I’m being followed, but a mate will handle it.” There was no signature, not even an initial.

  “Do what?” Coffen asked.

  A frown grew between Luten’s eyebrows as he studied the scrap of paper. “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “Hardly worth knocking Yarrow out for.”

  “It must be important. Yarrow hired Daugherty to murder Boisvert.”

  Luten drew out Yarrow’s wallet and opened it. It held a wad of bills but no written notes. He drew out the watch, too, a handsome Grebuet hunter with Yarrow’s crest engraved on the back.

  “You’d best dump that lot,” Coffen advised.

  “I can’t leave them here. If Melbourne’s servants find them—well, we don’t want to saddle Lady Melbourne with having to explain it to Yarrow.”

  “We’ll split the loot up,” Coffen suggested. “One of us take the watch, one the wallet.”

  “What foolishness,” Corinne scoffed. “No one is going to search us. Give them to me. I’ll put them in my reticule.”

  Coffen considered it for a moment, then said, “Can’t. You’re a lady.”

  Luten reached behind the curtains, opened the window, tossed watch and wallet out onto the paved walkway, and closed the window again.

  “Let us see if Yarrow has come back in yet,” he said. “We shan’t all leave at once. Corinne, we’ll go first. You two follow us in a moment.”

  If Luten had not asked her to go with him, she would have been furious. Her Spanish pride did not go without an argument, however.

  “You and Prance go ahead,” she said. “Coffen and I will follow in a moment.”

  “It’ll look more natural if you go with Luten,” Coffen said. “You’ve already stood up with me once. Nobody would do it twice on purpose.”

  “Very well,” she agreed, and strode out before Luten could put his hand on her elbow.

  They went along to the ballroom, where their eyes immediately flew to the French door at the end of the room. It was closed. A quick survey of the area showed them Yarrow had not come in.

  “I hope you didn’t kill him!” she said.

  “No, he was grunting. He’s just catching his breath before he returns.”

  “Let us stroll past the French door and see if he’s still out there.”

  “I’d rather not show my curiosity.”

  “I’ll go,” she said, and walked off before he could stop her. A strange nervousness had seized her, and it had nothing to do with Luten’s infidelity. She kept seeing in her mind’s eye the haunted face of Lady Chamaude.

  The music had stopped. Couples and groups moved about the floor; some stood chatting. She worked her way between them. The light from the ballroom fell on the paved courtyard; she could see there was no one there. Luten strolled through the mingling throng at a nonchalant pace and joined her.

  “He’s gone,” she said. “He’s not in here, but he’s not out there. I wonder if he’s called for his carriage. He wouldn’t leave without his wife, would he?”

  “That depends on where he’s headed. Let us find out if his carriage was called.”

  They went out into the entrance passage, and Luten said to the butler, “I wanted a word with Lord Yarrow. I can’t seem to find him. Hasn’t left already, has he?”

  “He has, your lordship. He called for his carriage a moment ago and asked me to notify Lady Yarrow that he would send his other carriage for her at midnight.”

  “His other carriage? Then he didn’t go home. Gone to his club, I expect?”

  “Very likely, though he said he had a touch of megrim. He had stepped out for a breath of air and came in at the front door. He did look poorly.”

  “Thank you. I’ll catch him tomorrow at the House.”

  Luten and Corinne turned toward the ballroom but lingered outside the door.

  “What did that note say, exactly?” she asked. Luten repeated the message. “What is this mate going to handle? Luten, I have a feeling it has something to do with the comtesse.”

  Any mention of that name between them was bound to cause friction. Luten’s jaws locked, then he said grimly, “Surely we have more important things to discuss now than the comtesse.”

  “She was speaking to me earlier, before you arrived, about her... dealings with you.”

  “How pleasant for you! You mustn’t believe a word the woman says. She’s a consummate liar.”

  “Never mind that! I know she is in trouble. My aunt Moira has the sight, Luten. I know you laugh at such things, but I have the most horrid feeling that something is going to happen to her. We’ve got to protect her.”

  “Protect her! Tha
t’s a new wrinkle. I thought you would be happy to see her dead.”

  “Not dead!” she exclaimed. “I never wished her dead! I feel ... I don’t know. I feel sorry for her, and I’m sure that criminal mate is going to harm her. Let us see if she’s all right.”

  “I’m more concerned to discover what Yarrow is up to.”

  “Follow him, then. See if he really went home. I’m going to watch Yvonne.”

  The comtesse’s Christian name sounded strange on her lips. Luten was accustomed to hear Corinne speak disparagingly of “Chamaude.” It was contrary that now, when his own distrust of the Frenchwoman was at its height, Corinne should suddenly have become her champion. Yvonne had taken him on a wild-goose chase, pretending she was afraid of Yarrow, that she wanted to get Sylvie away from his clutches, yet she went running back to London the moment she had escaped him. As to those papers, he had not heard yet whether they were genuine.

  “What did she want with Prance this afternoon?” he asked. “You said she sent for him.”

  “She didn’t see him after all. Yarrow was with her. They were speaking of Sylvie. Arguing, he said. Perhaps they’ve had a falling out.” She felt again that nauseating certainty of danger. “You said she had some evidence that would incriminate him, Luten. Perhaps that’s what they were arguing about.”

  “But why would he bring her tonight if—”

  “If he means to harm her, he would hardly do it at Half Moon Street, where he is known to visit daily. Her calling Prance might have been an attempt to flee.”

  “I helped her flee yesterday, and she fled straight back to Half Moon Street.”

  “Yarrow must have some hold over her, have her dancing to his tune. She despises him, Luten. She could find another patron if all she wants is money. Reggie would take her on in a flash.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t say Luten would!”

  “I don’t know about that,” she said dismissingly, as if it were of no interest to her. “If you won’t help her, then I shall speak to Reg.”

  She peered into the ballroom but could see neither Reggie nor Coffen. Accompanied by a protesting Luten, she went to the library, to the small parlor where Luten had climbed out the window, then to the refreshment parlor. It was at the wine table that they finally met Prance.

  “Punch, at Melbourne House. Who would have thought it?” he said. “And it is not even good punch.”

  “Where’s Coffen?” Luten asked.

  “He’s gone haring after Yarrow, to what end, I cannot even imagine. Searching ‘clues,’ he said. He was loitering about the front hall and saw Yarrow call for his rig. Coffen sent for his at once. God knows whether Fitz will succeed in following Yarrow. They are probably both in a ditch by now, or held up by footpads, Coffen’s usual fate.”

  “Reggie,” Corinne said, “I think Yarrow means to harm Yvonne. Will you help me watch out for her?”

  “With the greatest pleasure, my pet. But surely she and Yarrow are the best of friends. Why should he harm her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “She has a feeling,” Luten said, smiling tolerantly.

  “I don’t see what harm can befall her when Yarrow has left, but if it pleases you...” Prance’s attitude was similarly condescending. “What would you have me do?”

  “I don’t know,” she said again. “Just help me watch her.”

  “Avec plaisir.” He put his hand on her elbow and led her into the ballroom, where the comtesse had finally found a partner, an aging roué, Lord St. Clair.

  Coffen returned half an hour later and informed Luten that Yarrow had gone to White’s Club and was playing whist with his cronies. When Corinne heard this, her fears were somewhat allayed—but there still remained the question of what job Daugherty’s mate was handling that night for Yarrow.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  At eleven-thirty Corinne saw Monsieur Lachange lead the comtesse from the ballroom. Watching from the doorway, she saw them calling for their carriage. The gentleman put her mantle over her shoulders, then they stood waiting for the carriage. Again, or still, Corinne felt that numbing sense of danger. But what danger could the comtesse be in? She had willingly returned from Colchester, according to Luten. Was it Lachange who meant her harm and not Yarrow after all? She pondered this a moment. Lachange, a friend of Boisvert, angry at his death ... Luten had said Yarrow arranged Boisvert’s murder. Perhaps Lachange was the man he used.

  Luten suddenly appeared at Corinne’s elbow. “You can relax now. She’s leaving,” he said, with satisfaction.

  “So am I. I’m going to follow her.”

  “This is nonsense!”

  “I’m following her. I’ll ask Harry to take me.”

  Seeing her determination, Luten said nothing but beckoned the butler and asked him to send his carriage around at once.

  “Thank you,” Corinne said coolly.

  She got her wrap, then they stood together in silence, with a row of potted palms between them and the comtesse. From the occasional glimpses the moving fronds allowed, Corinne could see the comtesse was deathly pale. Anxiety pinched her pretty face into a mask of pain. She smiled wanly at Lachange, then reached up and kissed his cheek, which seemed to suggest they were good friends. Or at least the comtesse thought so. When the butler called them forward to enter their carriage, Lachange walked Yvonne to the door but returned again, alone.

  “Why isn’t he going with her?” Corinne asked, her voice rising in alarm.

  “I shouldn’t think he gets to a party like this very often. He’ll try his hand with some of the debs.”

  “What’s keeping your rig?”

  “I can’t imagine. It’s been all of two minutes,” he replied in his infuriating, bored drawl.

  Coffen, who spent most of his time in the refreshment parlor, spotted them and came forward. “Are you two leaving?” he asked. “Glad to see you’ve patched things up.”

  “Nothing is patched up. We’re following Yvonne,” Corinne said.

  “Ah. Still have that ‘feeling,’ do you? Prance was telling me about it.”

  “Yes, stronger than ever.”

  “I’ll tag along in my own rig. Never know, another hand might come in handy if there’s trouble.”

  He called for his carriage, then went off in search of Prance, who decided to remain behind and keep an eye on Lachange. Corinne and Luten had left when Coffen got back, but he assumed they would be following Chamaude to Half Moon Street and headed in that direction, or as close to it as Fitz could manage.

  There was still considerable traffic on the street at midnight. Even in the autumn little Season, there was more than one party a night to be visited. It seemed unlikely that anything could happen to the comtesse during the short drive to Half Moon Street. Corinne was on the lookout in case the carriage stopped to allow Yarrow’s henchman to enter. She saw no suspicious dark forms loitering about the streets, however. The comtesse was nearly home. When the rig slowed down to make the turn at the corner of Curzon and Half Moon Streets, there was still no sign of a footpad.

  Busily scanning the street and roadway, Corinne missed seeing the man. If the man hadn’t had to open the carriage door, Luten might not have seen him either, for the comtesse’s carriage did not slow down. The opening door of her carriage could only be seen from Luten’s window. It flew open and a dark form leapt out, stumbled, then regained its balance and fled into the shadows of the night. When Luten jerked the drawstring, Corinne was momentarily stunned.

  “Luten, why did you—”

  Before the carriage stopped, he was out the door, chasing a shadow between two dark houses, while the comtesse’s carriage continued for a few yards, then stopped. The driver had heard the door banging to and fro and worried for the safety of his passenger. He climbed down from his perch and went to the door. He stuck his head into the carriage, then leapt back. “Sacre bleu!” he cried, looking all about the dark street.

  Corinne waited a moment, tense in every muscle, her heartbea
t pounding in her ears like thunder. Why had the comtesse’s carriage stopped? She was certain no one had got into it to harm Yvonne. Why had Luten left his own rig? Had he seen Yvonne running away? Luten’s driver clambered down from the perch and came to the carriage door.

  “Should I take you on home, milady, or wait for his lordship?”

  “We’ll wait a moment,” she said. As they were stopped, she decided to see if Yvonne was in her carriage and have a word with her to discover what was going on. John Groom assisted her down to the street and accompanied her to the carriage. She was glad for his presence. It helped to control the tightening knot of terror that was growing inside her.

  As she approached Yvonne’s carriage, she saw the driver standing in the street with a ghastly expression on his face.

  “What’s the matter?” she demanded.

  “Madame—she is blessée.”

  Corinne hastened to the carriage door and looked inside. The comtesse was lounging against the cushioned seat. “Are you all right, Comtesse?” she asked. There was no answer.

  As the groom had not put down the step, Corinne braced one foot on the coach floor, put her hands on either side of the doorframe, and pulled herself inside. The groom had lit a lamp and appeared at the doorway behind her, holding the light high. In its flickering glow, she saw the dark stain against Yvonne’s white breast, saw the head lolling at an unnatural angle, and knew her worst fears had been realized.

  “My God!” she gasped, taking the comtesse’s hands.

  The dark eyes opened, pale fingers clutched on to hers. “Milady,” the comtesse whispered.

  “Don’t talk. We’ll get you to a hospital. Or send for a doctor.”

  “Wait!” Yvonne held on to her with a strength that seemed out of proportion to her condition. “Yarrow,” she said. “He has Sylvie. Save her.”

  “Did he do this to you?”

  “His man—in carriage—”

  “He was already here when you got in? Is that it?”