by Joan Smith
It was not until Coffen had dropped them off at Berkeley Square that they could speak of more private matters.
“I’m sorry I was so horrid about Yvonne,” Corinne said, as they sat side by side on the striped sofa. “If you had told me the truth—”
“I tried. You didn’t believe me.”
“You didn’t tell the whole truth. You never told me you were taking her to inns and to Colchester.”
“You wouldn’t have believed it was just business.”
She gazed deeply into his eyes. “Was it just business, Luten?”
“Is it ever just that, between a man and a woman? Knowing something of her past life, I felt sorry for her. It is a man’s instinct to help a lady in distress.” Luten saw the mistrust growing in her eyes and decided that was enough truth for one night. What she really feared was that he loved Yvonne, and he hadn’t.
“I’m not sure I can trust you, when you say things like that,” she said.
“I don’t trust you and Harry, when you’re together. He’s the first one you turned to.”
“He’s an old friend!”
“Yvonne was an old friend. If we can’t trust each other, then what hope is there for us? We can’t go about tied to each other like those unfortunate twins born in Siam. I love you. I had, and have, no intention of being unfaithful to you, unless you are unfaithful to me.”
“Marriage is impossible,” she said. “I don’t know who ever invented such a stupid institution.”
“Nor do I, but until someone comes up with a better way of raising children, it seems we are stuck with it. So is it a bargain?”
“How romantic!” She gave him a saucy look. “I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll help you,” he said, and drew her into his arms for a scalding kiss and a much more romantic proposal.
When Coffen came tapping at the door later, Black just shook his head. “This ain’t a good time, Mr. Pattle. You understand.”
“Making it up, are they?”
“They’ve got over that hump. I’m wondering if I ought to throw a bucket of water over them,” he added roguishly.
Pattle gave him a frown. “Mind your manners, Black. You’re talking about a lady.” On this setdown he returned to his own house to ponder the mystery of romance, which always seemed to elude him.
The next few days were busy ones. Monsieur Lachange called on Lord Luten, whose name did not publicly arise in connection with the tragic case of Lord Yarrow and the comtesse. Lachange proved, upon close examination, to be even younger than Luten had thought.
“I want to thank you for trying to help Lady Chamaude,” Lachange said. “I don’t know how you did it—I ask no questions—but I cannot believe Yarrow personally killed her. He hasn’t the courage, but he is morally responsible. I doubt they will hang him. It is unknown for a jury of a lord’s peers to do so.”
“He’ll spend the rest of his life behind bars at least,” Luten said with satisfaction.
“Small enough punishment for the years of agony he has caused. He has held Lady Chamaude a virtual prisoner for years. I know she was deathly frightened of what he would do when he forced her to attend that party.”
“Why did he make her go?”
“I thought he just wanted to keep an eye on her. He knew she was desperate to find her daughter. I believe she suspected all along, and now, of course, I realize he wanted to get her away from Half Moon Street to murder her. Yet in his own evil way, he loved her. Dog in the manger. If he couldn’t have her, no one could.”
“It was Yarrow who removed Sylvie from Mrs. Yonge’s?”
“Yes, he became nervous when Lady Chamaude began seeing you and Sir Reginald and hired one of his henchmen to bring Sylvie to London. He told Sylvie her mama wanted her. He feared that, between the two of you, you would help Lady Chamaude escape his clutches. He needed something to keep her in line and knew her daughter was the likeliest thing. But he went too far. When he threatened to harm Sylvie, the comtesse spat out all the pent-up years of hatred—then he knew he must kill her.”
Luten just shook his head. When he spoke, it was of other things. “We’ve been looking for Sylvie—put advertisements in the journals, questioned Daugherty. Bow Street has him in custody again for the murder of Boisvert.”
“Sylvie is with me and my mama,” he said. “Yarrow had hired a woman to guard her. He told the woman she was a lunatic. He kept Sylvie locked in a room in St. John’s Wood. When the woman read of Yarrow’s arrest, she unlocked Sylvie’s door and fled. Sylvie came to me. We have been engaged for a year. We shall marry at once. I met her when I began taking the comtesse to Colchester to visit. Her ladyship approved the match.”
“You have known Lady Chamaude a long time?”
“Since I was a child. She was a friend of Mama. We émigrés stick together. Lady Chamaude had a few faithful friends, but unfortunately we were powerless against Lord Yarrow. That is why she sold Mr. Pattle that forged Poussin, the one I exchanged for the original. She was desperate for money, you see, and the forgery was very good, but she feared in the end that Yarrow would find it out and make trouble for her. They were bickering over everything by that time. He may have threatened—I don’t know.
“He knew Yvonne had used Boisvert in the past. When the Watteau disappeared from her walls, he went to spy on him and presumably saw the Watteau, as he had Boisvert killed.”
“Who sent Gresham to Boisvert?”
“The comtesse suggested it, to help Boisvert. Like the rest of us, he was always in need of money. He wanted to remove his atelier to a better address.”
“What will you and Sylvie do for money?” Luten asked.
“I make my living as a French tutor and translator. There is still the Watteau—-the original—to be sold,” he said. “And a few lesser pieces. We don’t need much. We hope to set up a small day school in some town far removed from London.”
“There is a pretty painting in a small waiting room. A Greuze, I believe, of a young girl.”
“A Greuze? Ah no, that is a painting of the comtesse when she was a girl. Boisvert did it fifteen years ago in Brighton. It is good, non? He was under the influence of Greuze at the time. I know Sylvie wants to keep it.”
“Of course. Let me know if I can help,” Luten said.
“You were interested in the Watteau, I think?”
Luten didn’t think Corinne would want that constant reminder of Yvonne in their home, nor did he. “I can find a buyer, if you like.”
“If you hear of anyone who is interested, I can be reached at this address.” He handed Luten his card.
“I might be able to do better than that,” Luten said. “I’ll be in touch.”
His visit with Yarrow’s lawyer was unpleasant but necessary. In order to keep certain unsavory facts regarding the nature of his long relationship with Yvonne out of the journals, Yarrow agreed to turn fifteen thousand pounds over to Sylvie.
To suppress the evidence of Yarrow’s dealings with Gresham, the Tories agreed to reconsider the granting of the contract for the rockets. Gresham, after careful consideration, decided that his Armaments Works was incapable of supplying the rocket in the quantity required, and the contract was awarded to Congreve.
Sir Reginald, pleasantly embittered by it all, went into a three-day decline, had straw laid in the street to deaden the sound of carriage wheels, wrapped his knocker up in black, wore a black armband, and composed a threnody on lost love. By the third evening, his friends had ceased sending messages and flowers. He became bored with solitude and mourning.
When he saw Luten and Coffen going to Corinne’s house, he called his valet and said, “Make me presentable, Villier. I put myself in your capable hands. I require a toilette that suggests my loss, without flinging it in the faces of my friends. The black jacket and striped waistcoat, I think, and of course, the black pearl cravat pin.”
“Shall you wear a ring?”
Prance considered it a moment. “No, that would be to
o joyful.”
“Just a touch of talcum on your cheeks, milord?” Villier suggested. He had discovered that Sir Reginald not only tolerated the misnomer “milord,” but liked it very well when they were alone.
“Just so, and a hint of that lilac water from France. Now for the cravat. Not the Oriental when I am practically in mourning.”
“May I suggest the Carlton? Your patron, the Prince of Wales, particularly admired it.”
Half an hour later, a highly polished Sir Reginald duly appeared in Corinne’s saloon, where he found the rest of the Berkeley Brigade enjoying a glass of wine. He was warmly welcomed back into the world.
“Finished your epic, have you?” Coffen asked, drawing Prance a chair by the grate, as if he were an invalid.
“Ah no, Coffen. Kind of you to inquire, but no creating was possible in my emotional state, save for a little threnody in memory of her.” The hushed pronouncement of “her” left no doubt as to whom he meant.
“Sturm und Drang,” Coffen said, nodding. “Sorry for your trouble, Prance, but you can’t let it get you down.”
“I realize I have been self-indulgent. Naughty of me, but really, you know, the way I was feeling, it would have been cruel to inflict myself on Society. And how has the world been wagging while I have been hors de combat?” He darted a coy glance at Corinne and Luten. He noticed she was wearing the ten-carat emerald-cut diamond. It looked quite ludicrous on her little hand. It occurred to him that the black diamond bracelet would make a suitable wedding gift.
“About the same as usual,” Corinne said. She and Luten brought him up-to-date on their various doings with Yarrow, Sylvie, and Monsieur Lachange.
Prance gazed into the leaping flames. “The cycle of life goes on,” he murmured. “Love, death, marriage—and eventually new birth. I trust you two have not slipped off to visit the archbishop for a special license while my back was turned?”
“Oh no. Luten is not that eager to be under cat’s paw,” Corinne said, with a smiling glance at her reinstated fiancé.
“Then I am not too late to help you with the arrangements for the nuptials? You cannot refuse me! It would be too cruel. I need some distraction to ease me out of this melancholia I have been floundering in. All has been disaster for me this spring. The failure of my Rondeaux, and of my love for the comtesse. Between the two of them, they have nearly undone me.”
“You’ve got your Rondeaux into Oxford and Cambridge. I don’t call that failure,” Luten said bracingly.
“Now, that is an odd thing, Luten,” Prance said, with a questioning look. “It was not the university that bought all those copies of my Rondeaux. Nor has there been any word from Prinney. He would have asked me to autograph them if he were giving them to visiting dignitaries. Villier mentioned something about some large boxes being delivered to you the day before my poems appeared in Hatchard’s window.”
“A few items I had sent from my cousin’s estate—the one I inherited, you know. Some books on religion I promised to Bishop Farndale.”
“Ah. I have been thinking of that unexplained smoke from your bedroom chimney.”
“The rooms were damp.”
“Odd that mine were not damp.”
“I must have my roof looked at.”
“P’raps it was old King George who bought the Rondeaux,” Coffen suggested.
“Yes, he is mad after all,” Prance said, and allowed himself a small smile at his sally. “We must laugh at our own follies, or we become brutes. But enough of this lugubrious chatter. About our wedding, folks, have we decided between Saint George’s in Hanover Square and Ireland? Saint George’s would be easier for me, right here in London, where I know all the sources for what I shall require.”
“Ireland,” Coffen said.
Prance frowned. “Southcote Abbey would be an impressive site,” he suggested.
“Ireland,” Coffen repeated.
“Or your house right here on Berkeley Square, Luten?” Prance said.
“It’s to be Ireland, tarsome fellow,” Coffen said again.
Prance sighed. “Ireland. If you tell me the bride plans to wear green, I shall disown the lot of you.”
Coffen looked alarmed. “Married in green, ashamed to be seen,” he said. “That’s what my nanny used to say.”
“It would match her eyes,” Luten said mischievously, and grinned at his jealous fiancée.
“For such a sad occasion, perhaps I should wear black,” she retaliated.
“Married in black, you’ll ride in a hack,” Coffen warned. “I think you ought to wear white, even if it ain’t your first time out, Corinne. Married in white, you’ve chosen right.”
“White it is,” Luten said.
Coffen smiled contentedly; Prance frowned, and Black, wearing the face of a martyr on this sad occasion, came to the door to suggest champagne.
Copyright © 1998 by Joan Smith
Originally published by Fawcett Crest [0449224945]
Electronically published in 2011 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.