by Joan Smith
LET'S TALK OF MURDER
Joan Smith
About the Author
Publishing Information
* * *
Chapter 1
An autumn fog shrouded London that November morning as the Prince of Wales's yellow carriage bolted along Berkeley Street. The four residents of Berkeley Square who witnessed it all recognized it at a glance, despite the fog. Who but His Royal Highness would drive such an outlandish rig?
Sir Reginald Prance, who espied it from the window of his bijou drawing room where he was flipping through that evening’s invitations, was struck at the gaudiness of maroon blinds with a yellow carriage. He would have preferred deep blue blinds, to match the footmen’s livery. His neighbor across the street, Coffen Pattle, admired the superb white team of horses from the Hanoverian stud that drew the carriage. Coffen’s adjacent neighbor, Lady deCoventry, was much struck by the pair of well-built Life Guards that accompanied it.
Across the street, her fiancé, Lord Luten, watched with total absorption as the royal equipage slowed to a crawl, as if looking for an address. He grabbed his crutches and hobbled from his study to his saloon. The carriage had stopped at his front door.
Prinney was calling on him? Impossible! Although on speaking terms, the Tory monarch and the Whig marquess were arch enemies.
Being a political animal, Luten’s mind darted at once to Whitehall, where matters had been in some confusion since the assassination of Prime Minister Perceval in May. Even in his wildest dreams, however, he dared not imagine that the prince had come to ask him to form a new government, a Whig government at last. But when the corpulent Prince Regent (with assistance from two footmen) descended from his carriage, it was difficult to keep a tether on his imagination, and his hopes.
It had to be some matter of the utmost importance that brought the Prince Regent to Berkeley Square. In the normal way, Lord Luten would have been summoned to Carlton House for this meeting, but since wrenching his ankle the week before he was sunk to hobbling about the house on crutches and using a Bath chair to travel across the street.
His majesty was met at the door by Luten’s butler, Evans, who bowed graciously and murmured a greeting, but did not otherwise display his astonishment. Like his master, he had acquired the knack of concealing his emotions. He led the prince directly to the saloon, calmly announced, “His Majesty, Prince George,” as if he did it every day, before bowing and backing from the room at a stately pace.
The prince wafted a white, ring-laden hand as Luten tried to pull himself up from his chair and said graciously, “No need to rise, my dear Luten. We can seat ourselves.” His corsets emitted a creak as he wearily deposited his bulging frame on the edge of the sofa closest to hand.
Luten studied his guest, noting the unusual sombreness of his toilette. It was rare to see the First Gentleman of Europe in an ordinary blue superfine jacket without a single medal or ribbon, epaulette, gold lace or official order of any sort. His brown curls were carefully arranged and the cravat that supported his several chins was a minor work of art, but beneath the powdered cheeks his face was pale. His rheumy, bloodshot eyes revealed every one of his fifty years.
His appearance was in sad contrast to Luten. Even on crutches, he was still an impressive sight. Tall, lean, with wide shoulders, he was an elegant figure in his impeccably tailored jacket and faun breeches. Black hair grew in a peak on his forehead. Beneath finely drawn eyebrows, a pair of intelligent, long-lashed gray eyes studied the prince. His strong nose and square jaw lent his face authority. It was relieved of its customary arrogance on this occasion by a sympathetic expression.
“Can I be of some assistance, Your Royal Highness?” Luten asked in a voice tinged with pity.
“We do hope so, Luten,” the prince replied, and leaned back to catch his breath after the exertion of traveling from chaise to sofa. After a brief pause, he continued in a sober voice, “We are here on a matter of the utmost urgency, Luten.”
Visions of Bonaparte darted into Luten’s head. Had he attacked England directly? How long would it take him to get from Dover to London? “I am entirely at your disposal, sir.”
The prince bowed regally. “Too kind, my dear Luten. Our little political differences aside, we knew we might depend on you at the hour of crisis. Though whether you will be able to assist us in your present condition ...” The royal eye fell to Luten’s bandaged ankle and rested sadly there a moment.
“If you would tell me what is troubling you ...”
The prince drew a deep sigh. “That would take an eternity, we fear. You know our popularity is not what it once was, Luten.”
Luten nodded. This was a vast understatement, even for an Englishman. Prince George, who had been the nation’s golden boy in his youth, had become so unpopular he was daily pilloried in the press and boo’d and hissed on those rare occasions when he ventured into public. His handsome carriage had more than once been pelted with stones and vegetables.
Despite the prince’s faults—and they were legion—Luten felt a pang of pity. The man was now the acting monarch of England after all, since King George III had fallen prey to lunacy. One owed respect to the position, if not to the man.
Luten poured a glass of wine and handed it to the prince, who sipped eagerly. It gave him courage to continue his sad tale.
“This is absolutely confidential, my dear Luten. We know we may depend on your discretion. The fact is, there was an attempted assassination on our person last night.”
“Good God!”
The prince nodded, pleased that his hearer was as shocked and outraged as he was himself. “Quite.”
“Another lunatic, no doubt, like the Bellingham fellow who killed poor Perceval.”
“That is one explanation,” the prince said doubtfully.
“But you have something—someone else in mind, sir?”
“A man in our position has many enemies,” he admitted. “The Yorkshire cottage workers who are rioting against using the new frames for weaving, those who champion Princess Caroline, and of course the blame for all the country’s ills fall on our poor shoulders. It has even been suggested that Mrs. FitzHerbert might be involved. One enemy we can and do acquit is poor Brummell,” he said. “The man has no skill with firearms, despite having been in my own regiment, the Tenth Light Dragoons.”
Luten didn’t think the Yorkshire Luddites were responsible. Their fight was with the mill owners who were putting them out of work by using the new machinery. The prince’s disaffected wife, Princess Caroline, was a constant thorn in his side, but she was more interested in embarrassing him than killing him.
Mrs. FitzHerbert had cause for resentment, though hardly for murder. The prince had married this lady some years before marrying Caroline, knowing the wedding was illegal as it did not conform to the royal marriage laws. Since then, he had abandoned her (though the country paid her a handsome pension) and taken up with other ladies, the present love of his life being Lady Hertford, a fiftyish, plump matron. It was unlikely that her husband had done the deed, however, as he approved of the romance and received many perquisites from it. As to Beau Brummell—that, of course, was nonsense. His weapon was his sharp tongue.
“Tell me how and when it happened. Did you get a look at the fellow at all?”
“A glimpse, no more. It was dark. All we saw was a shadow of a man disappearing into the night. It happened last evening, just after midnight, in Manchester Square. We had spent the evening with Lady Hertford, in company with a small party.” He darted an arch, almost a coy smile at Luten. “She accompanied us to the door to see us out. We left with a young fellow called Henry Fogg, a connection of Isabella’s—that is, of Lady Manchester. Oh, and Byron was with us. He was not of the party
, but had delivered a message for Hertford. Something to do with buying or selling a horse. He stayed for a glass of wine.”
“Perhaps the shot was meant for him,” Luten suggested. Many husbands had reason to take a shot at this handsome rogue.
“I think it was meant for myself,” the prince said, abandoning the royal “we” in his chagrin. “Byron was quite off to one side, and it is unlikely that we would be mistaken one for the other,” he said regretfully. “The bullet missed my head by inches. I heard it sing past my ear. I have heard of your work in sleuthing, Luten. That unfortunate matter of Lord Gaviston, and just lately the business of Lord Simard’s murder, where you busted your ankle, what? I realize that with your lame wing, you will need some assistance. Perhaps your cohorts in the Berkeley Brigade, eh? But keep it between yourselves.”
The Berkeley Brigade was composed of a group of young Whig aristocrats who all lived on Berkeley Square, every one of whom had seen the prince’s carriage arrive, and was wondering what this visit to their leader heralded. Luten was their unofficial leader. They had recently become involved in a few murder cases.
“What is it you want me to do, sir?” he asked.
“Just find out who is responsible. We shall take the necessary steps to stop him,” he said, once again becoming a plural personality.
Luten stared. Just find out who was responsible! From the million plus people in London, three-quarters of whom despised the prince, find the one man, with nothing more to go on than a vague mention of a dark shadow.
“That is a tall order!”
The prince smiled his most ingratiating smile. “And the reward will be commensurate, Luten.” He directed a long, meaningful look at his host before continuing. “We have observed your career with considerable interest. You possess a rare talent for leadership which is not given full rein in your present position. We flatter ourselves we know what it is that would be most pleasing to you. You will not find us ungrateful, we promise you. Call on us at any time if you need our assistance. As you were kind enough to say a moment ago, we are entirely at your disposal.”
The prince’s promise was like a siren call to Luten. For years he had labored in the wilderness with the Whigs against the repressive and reactionary agenda of the Tory government. Mouldy and Company, the Whigs called them. If he could solve this case, find the man who had tried to kill the prince (or possibly Lord Byron, or Henry Fogg, or Lady Manchester) then the prince would form a new government, a Whig government. It had been expected he would do so when Perceval was shot, for in the old days, under the influence of Charles Fox, Prinney had been an ardent Whig..
“I shall certainly do my best,” Luten said, trying to pinch back the smile that wanted to come out.
The prince began to stir in his chair in an effort to haul himself up. After a moment, he placed his white hands on the arms of the chair and managed to extricate himself with an unregal grunt. Luten also had difficulty in rising, but with the aid of his crutches, he rose and accompanied the prince to the front door. The prince bowed, Luten bowed, and the guest took his leave. Luten remained at the doorway to see His Royal Majesty being assisted into his yellow carriage for a dart to Manchester Square.
Before the team of white horses, the yellow rig and the galloping Life-Guards rounded the corner, Lady deCoventry’s front door flew open and the three other members of the Berkeley Brigade, who had been discussing the Prince’s visit at Lady deCoventry’s house, darted across the flagstoned pavement to hear all about it.
* * *
Chapter 2
Lady deCoventry, Corinne to her intimes, led the group to Luten’s House. No one, upon first seeing her, would take her for a dowager, which she was and had been for three years. Four years before that, her papa had sold her to Luten’s cousin, the aging Lord deCoventry, for five thousand pounds. She had been seventeen years of age at the time, her husband three times that. DeCoventry had carried his Irish country bride to glittering London, applied a coat of town polish to her natural charms, made her the belle of the Season, then conveniently died. The marriage had been happy enough, but not blessed with any children. The best thing to come from it, in her estimation, was this tight circle of friends—Luten, her cousin Coffen Pattle, and Sir Reginald.
At her present age of four and twenty, her beauty was at its peak. The contrast of crow black hair against her ivory complexion frequently drew a comparison to a cameo, but this didn’t do her justice. That prime aesthete, Sir Reginald Prance, averred her true claim to beauty was in her liveliness. No mark of the crow’s foot marred the corners of her brilliant green eyes. When she opened her cherry lips, the voice that issued forth held the throaty quality of a thrush. After straining for a simile, Prance had compared it to a cello softly played in a velvet tunnel.
“What did he want, Luten?” she demanded the instant they were inside his door, without even inquiring for his comfort. When a royal prince had just left the house, it was not necessary to further identify “he.”
Prance and Coffen added their excited queries, until the elegant saloon echoed like a cattle market.
“If you will all be quiet a moment, I’ll tell you,” Luten said, at his most haughty. The room fell still as they each found a seat. Luten then outlined briefly and succinctly what the prince wanted and what the reward was, with emphasis on the need of secrecy.
Corinne was the first to respond. “Imagine the Prince Regent wanting our help!” she said, dazed.
“We’re famous!” Prance cried, and uttered a high pitched laugh. His aim in life was to be famous. He hardly cared in what sphere, but if given a choice would have opted for something artistic. Drama, poetry, music, painting, fashion—these were his fields of expertise. Upon receiving a grunt from Pattle, he added, “Well, famous on Berkeley Square.”
“You’ve bitten off more than you can chew, Luten,” was Coffen’s reaction. “Everybody in England hates Prinney. With nothing to go on but a shadow, how do you hope to find the fellow?”
This blunt stating of the facts did little to dim the general excitement. No one ever paid much heed to Coffen Pattle. No doubt his unprepossessing appearance had something to do with it. When a gentleman is cursed with a short, stout body covered in an invariably rumpled and frequently spotted jacket, he gains little respect. Add to that mud-colored hair, a ruddy complexion and a tendency to blurt out the unvarnished truth, and his inconsequence is assured. His sharp blue eyes didn’t miss much, however, and he had more than once proved that his mind was as sharp as the next fellow’s.
“We have a little more than a shadow to go on,” Luten pointed out. “There were three other people present. We’ll interview them. Perhaps one of them saw something.”
Sir Reginald sat silent a moment, then said. “I shall undertake to interview Byron for you, Luten.” Prance had a mad passion for Byron. He didn’t know whether he loved or hated the man, but in the very bottom of his heart, he knew that the famous, handsome, rakish poet was all that he aspired to be himself. As a failed poet, Prance was green with envy of Byron’s success. As a fop and a dandy, he envied his looks. Bryon achieved, without even trying, that degagé air of unconscious style that Prance craved. As a mere baronet, he envied Byron’s title. As to his success with the ladies! Really, it hardly seemed fair for one man to be blessed with such an abundance of riches.
Prance was elegantly slender with a feline, almost feminine grace in his movements. He was quite enchanted with his own physique, and lavished much attention on its ornamentation. What pleased him less was his narrow face, that had more than once been likened to a greyhound. He acknowledged quite frankly, at least to himself, that he had a mean streak. But then he found his friends’ faults only added to their interest, and he was never slow to grant himself any indulgence granted to anyone else.
When he saw the relieved look in Luten’s eyes, Prance added mischievously, “Or perhaps Corrine would have better luck with Byron, as he gets along so famously with the ladies.”
&nbs
p; The rogue in him enjoyed watching Luten squirm. Luten was almost as jealous of his fiancée as she was of him. The pair of idiots were madly in love, but whether they would ever actually get to the altar was becoming a moot point. Their engagement was of short duration, but for the three years since Lord deCoventry’s death they had been alternately squabbling and flirting and annoying each other with various love affairs. This was the result of Luten’s premature proposal during her mourning. Unprepared for it, she had uttered a nervous laugh and replied bluntly, “Good heavens, no.” Luten’s pride had taken years to recover from the shock.
“But then who would interview Lady Hertford?” Luten asked, refusing to reveal his annoyance. “I thought Corinne the proper one to speak to her.”
“Me,” Coffen said. “Surely you ain’t suggesting Prinney would be jealous of me! I’m younger than her son. Who in his right mind would look twice at the Old Lady of Manchester Square anyway?”
This was the nickname society had bestowed on Lady Hertford. “She is half a century old, and fat as a flawn. And churchy along with it.”
“That’s the way Prinney likes his ladies,” Prance said.
“Well it ain’t the way anyone in his right mind likes ‘em.”
Prance shrugged. “Perhaps his affection for Rubenesque ladies is a vain effort to make himself appear less gargantuan.” His eyes made a disparaging tour of Coffen’s toilette, and added, “You, for instance, might appear less like a scarecrow if you associated with footpads and link-boys, rather than with gentlemen.”
“And you might not be so hateful if you kept a civil tongue in your head,” Coffen riposted. “Tahrsome fellow.”
Luten cleared his throat. “As I was saying, I think out of respect to the prince, we ought to have a lady speak to Lady Hertford.”
“That leaves Henry Fogg for me,” Coffen said. “Do you know anything about him?”
“Only that he’s some connection to Lady Hertford. You can get his address from her.”