by Joan Smith
“I’ll ankle along with Corinne to Manchester Square, then. All a waste of time. It’s Prinney the fellow has some grudge against, depend upon it. The others won’t know anything about it. The real mystery is how he missed such a monstrous target. He must have been drunk as a Dane.”
“Byron might very well have been the target,” Prance said, placing the tip of his finger against his lower lip. “Any gentleman who has seduced the half of London must have a host of enemies.”
Coffen shook his head. “If they had any sense, they wouldn’t take a shot at him when he was with the prince. Bound to cause a ruckus. They’d wait until they got him alone in a dark alley.” As usual, he was ignored.
“What will you do, Luten, while we trot about town, acting as your legs?” Corinne asked.
“I shall send for Henry Brougham, and make plans for when we take over the government,” he replied in a gloating voice. “That is to be our reward, you recall. I want to discuss the affair with him. He has the sharpest mind in the party.”
“Will he be the Prime Minister, or will you?” Coffen asked.
“Surely Grey or Grenville?” said Prance, surprised. “Not to disparage your abilities, Luten, but you—and Brougham as well—are a little young for the post.”
“Prinney made a point of mentioning my leadership qualities. Pitt was twenty-four, I believe, when he was made Prime Minister,” Luten replied coolly.
“But he was a genius!”
Luten was much too polite to glare, but his voice held an edge of ice when he replied. “Yes, well, that is the sort of thing I want to discuss with Brougham. And it won’t get beyond discussion unless we find the wretch who fired that shot last night.” He looked around at his helpers, rubbed his hands and said, “So, shall we get busy? Report back to me the moment you finish your assignments.”
“Sounds like grammar school,” Coffen grumbled, rising.
“Coming, Corrie?” Prance asked.
“I want a word with Corinne before she goes,” Luten said.
When they were alone, he put out his hand and she went to him. “You must be extremely frustrated to be hors de combat at this time,” she said, squeezing his fingers.
“Bad timing indeed. But I can hobble about a little. I got downstairs by myself, and could make it to my carriage if necessary.”
“Don’t strain yourself. You’re supposed to be recuperating, so that we can go to Ireland, you recall.”
This was her roundabout way of reminding him of their pending wedding. It was to take place at Ardmore Hall, her home in Ireland, when he recovered, for she would not risk having the society wags say she only managed to catch him when he couldn’t run. She could not bring herself to say simply, “Hurry up and get better so we can get married.” That would skirt too close to admitting that she was in love with him.
“I’m not likely to forget, my dear,” he said, and pulled her on to his knee for a long, satisfactory embrace, that said all that needed saying. They were both better at acting than at words, when it came to love.
Coffen and Prance were waiting for her outside. “What do you make of this?” Prance asked, as they crossed the road. Since Prance lived on the same side of the street as Luten, she assumed they were inviting themselves to her house for a drink before going their separate ways, and led them inside.
Her house seemed small and modest after the gilt and brocade grandeur of Luten’s mansion. Her late husband could not leave her his entailed estate but he had set aside funds to provide this small house, along with a country retreat and twenty-five thousand pounds, the interest on which provided her with a competence. With Prance’s help, she had contrived an elegant drawing room with an air of cozy opulence.
“Like I said, there’s no hope of finding the fellow,” Coffen said again, when they had been supplied with a glass of wine and gathered around the fireplace. Then he added consideringly, “Like looking for a weasel in a haystack. But it will be fun trying, eh?”
Prance usually corrected Coffen’s solecisms, but his mind was too full of Byron to notice the latest. “I quite look forward to calling on Byron with some legitimate reason, so that he doesn’t mistake me for one of his fawning fans,” Prance said.
“Mistake?” Coffen snorted.
Prance ignored that jibe. “By the by, does anyone know his address?”
“Number 8 St. James’s Street,” Coffen replied.
“How do you know that?” Prance demanded sharply.
“Don’t worry. I haven’t been there. Saw him going in. Twice. Only reason I noticed, there was a herd of people with books they wanted him to sign.”
“Oh,” Prance said with a wince of envy. “Do you think I should take him a copy of my Rondeaux as a sort of courtesy?” Round Table Rondeaux was the title of Prance’s long, stupefyingly tedious poem in iambic pentameters, fully footnoted, on the Arthurian legend. Despite its great length, it omitted all the more interesting parts. Lady Guinevere made no appearance.
“No,” Coffen said without hesitation.
Prance nodded consideringly. “You’re right. He would already have a copy.” Noticing Corinne’s pensive frown, he said, “ ‘Why so pale and wan, fond lover?’ Was Luten not gallant when he shoo’d us out and kept you behind?”
“It’s not that. I was just thinking, if we do find the man and Luten is made Prime Minister, when will we ever have time to get married?”
Coffen sniffed and refilled his glass. “Shouldn’t fret about that, Coz. Prinney’s not one to worry about keeping his promises. All a bogus sham. If by some quirk we find the fellow we’re looking for, Prinney will give Luten an engraved snuff box or perfume bottle, and that’ll be the end of it. Mark my words.”
“I hope you may be right.” After the words were out, she colored and added, “Oh dear! I didn’t mean that. Luten would make a marvelous Prime Minister. And it’s what he has always wanted. Only...”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head,” Coffen said. “Not a chance in a million we’ll find the scoundrel. And if we do, as I said, Prinney will renege on his promise. So, let us be off.”
“And I shall be off to St. James’s Street,” Prance said, rising. But first he had to dart home and make a fresh toilette. One did not call on the premier poet of England in a shirt that had been on his back for two hours.
* * *
Chapter 3
Prance was as nervous as a deb when he drew up outside Number 8, St. James’s Street. He was surprised at the inelegance of Byron’s butler, a burly country-looking fellow who showed him into a saloon not unlike something Coffen might have contrived, had he spent some years in the east. A second look revealed books scattered everywhere, one clutter that Coffen would have avoided.
Strange round leather footstools were littered about the floor. Byron was sprawled on an uncomfortable-looking sofa without a proper back. The prints on the wall and the brass and ivory bibelots sprinkled on various table tops had the air of the mysterious east. A marmalade cat with one eye gave Prance a look of contempt as he brushed past, flicking his boots with a swing of his tail.
Byron stood up and extended his hand when Prance entered. Despite the disarray of a tumbling curl over his forehead, a white shirt open at the throat and trousers creased from sprawling, he was still the most beautiful, glamorous person Prance had ever encountered. His eyes, an indeterminate blue-gray like the sea on a cloudy day, were edged in inch long lashes that belonged on a woman. His skin had an interesting pallor, and his mouth—sensitive yet capricious—was straight out of a Renaissance painting of a mischievous cherub. Over all this physical glory hovered the tantalizing aura of his foreign travels, his famous poems and his many love affairs, causing a sensation not unlike intoxication.
Prance, famous for his silver tongue, found himself speechless. His tongue literally cleaved to the roof of his mouth, and what issued from his throat was nothing else than a croak like a corncrake.
Byron limped forward and clasped his hand in a firm grip.
“Come in, have a seat, Prance,” he said, in a warm, friendly voice. “Good of you to call. I’ve seen you about here and there and have been looking forward to making your acquaintance.”
“Too kind, milord,” Prance croaked, and sank on to one of the low leather stools, until Byron took him by the arm and led him to the backless sofa.
“Forgive the shambles,” Byron said, but with no air of apology. “I leased this flat unfurnished as a pied-à-terre for a few weeks, or a few months, or a few something until I decide where to roost until I take off for sunny climes again. This ottoman and the bits and pieces you see are some of the loot I lugged home. I am quite a magpie in that respect, never come home empty-handed. This rubble will be sent along to Newstead Abbey eventually.”
“Charming,” Prance said, gazing all around. A large yellow dog, vaguely hound-like, strolled into the room and clambered on to the ottoman between Prance and Byron. Prance steeled himself not to move away from the beast, as Byron began patting it fondly.
“Let me offer you some refreshment,” Byron said. “Wine, coffee, tea, brandy?”
“Fine, whatever you’re having.”
“Are you sure? That would be hock and soda water, to cleanse the palate. I had rather a - er, lively time last evening. Drank a little too much. One of my many vices,” he said, again with no air of apology.
“Hock and soda water. Excellent!” Hock? What was it? A sort of German wine, was it not?
“Fletcher!” Bryon ignored the pull chord at his elbow and bellowed, “Fletcher!” until the butler appeared at the doorway.
“A glass for my guest. And take Abu with you. Give him a bath. I’m sure the hound has fleas.” The dog, on cue, sat up and applied his right paw to his ear and scratched vigorously. This was enough to make Prance nudge to the far end of the ottoman.
Fletcher took the dog’s collar, scowled and dragged him, barking and snapping, from the seat. Man and dog disappeared, the man to return in a moment with a glass on a round, brass tray. Byron prepared the drink, equal parts of hock and soda water.
“To your very good health, Sir Reginald,” Byron said, lifting his glass.
Prance sipped and found the drink, at least in Lord Byron’s company, enchanting.
“I believe you’re a friend of Lady deCoventry,” Byron said, studying Prance from under his infamous eye lashes.
“Yes, we’re friends and neighbors.”
“A beautiful woman. I should like to meet her.” He examined Prance with a long, level look. “Or would I be poaching on your territory? That is something I never do—by design at least.”
Woman? Surely he should have said lady? “Oh no! No indeed. We’re friends, no more.”
“You find it possible to be friends, no more, with a woman like that?” Byron said, and laughed in disbelief. “I take off my hat to you.” He playfully removed an imaginary hat. “But truly I’m not quite as bad as folks say, you know. I occasionally allow a friend’s lady to seduce me, but I never go after ‘em.”
“A meeting might be arranged,” Prance said, with a thought of how this would annoy Luten. “Actually I have come on a rather important errand. For His Royal Highness,” he added.
“About that shot outside Hertford’s place last night, I expect,” Byron said, with diminished interest.
“Just so. The prince has asked Lord Luten to look into it. As he is laid up with a busted ankle, I’m assisting him.”
“Much ado about nothing,” Byron said, with a careless wave of his hand. “The man was certainly drunk. The shot missed me by miles.”
“Missed you? Then you think you were the target?”
“So I and any sane person, which excludes the prince, would assume,” he replied blandly.
“But if it was some jealous husband or lover—why attack you when you were with the prince? Much safer to get you alone on a dark street.”
Byron massaged his chin a moment, then nodded. “You have a point there, Prance. Prince-icide is a serious offence against the law, no matter how well justified on humanitarian grounds. As I’ve been out of town for some weeks visiting the Oxfords at Eywood and have not made any mortal enemies since returning a few days ago, perhaps I was not the target after all. Truth to tell, I had forgotten the little incident last night.”
Forgotten an attempted murder! What a life the man led! Those near-treasonous aspersions against the prince were shot off very calmly as well. Prance could only stare.
“It might very well have been an attempt on Prinney’s life. He don’t want for enemies, but if a man could miss a target that size, he must either have been drunk, blind, or an infernally bad shot.”
They discussed the matter for a few moments. Byron had not gotten a look at the man, could not even confirm that it had been a man. He had not seen the shadow. To judge by his nonchalant comments, he was so accustomed to being shot at that he had hardly bothered to look. “If I can be of any further help, don’t hesitate to call.”
His business done, Prance rose. He disliked to leave without some little discussion of poetry. He saw a note pad on the ottoman by Byron’s side and was eager to see what he was writing. Some mention of the Rondeaux would also have been welcome.
Byron rose. Something in his expression told Prance the poet also had something else he wished to discuss. Better to let him initiate the subject.
“About Lady deCoventry,” Byron said. “She is a widow, I believe?”
This was as good as saying she was available. A gentleman would never seduce a maiden, but a widow knew the way the world wagged and was considered fair game. Prance knew it was his duty to tell Byron she was engaged to Lord Luten. His reply was, “She has been widowed for three years now. As I said, we’re neighbors. Drop in on me any time, milord. I’m sure she would be as thrilled to make your acquaintance as I would be to oblige you.”
Byron’s dark eyes gleamed. A saturnine smile curved his lips. “Where do you live? Leave me your card, Prance, or I shan’t remember your address.”
“Let us exchange cards,” Prance replied. He would leave Byron’s casually on a sofa table or mantle for any caller to see. Byron rifled through some papers on the table and found a card. The address on it was Newstead Abbey, his ancestral home, but Prance was not likely to forget the London address.
Prance drew a calling card from his pocket and handed it to Byron, feeling a dastard and a traitor as he did it. But he knew that this would bring Lord Byron calling on him, and that was worth any pangs of guilt or any retribution fate might exact. When Byron called, he would tell him that Corinne was engaged to Luten. No harm in postponing it. And it would be good sport to see Luten fuss and fume, and pretend he wasn’t jealous as a green cow.
He left, highly pleased with the visit, rehearsing how he would casually drop a mention of this visit and any subsequent visits into future conversations. Pity they hadn’t discussed poetry, but that might come on their next meeting.
He went straight to Luten’s house to report, as requested. Corinne and Coffen were already ensconced before the grate in the painted drawing room, enjoying a cup of tea. “What news?” he asked.
“Lady Hertford fears the shot was intended for the prince and is most eager that we find the perpetrator, but she had absolutely nothing useful to add,” Corinne said. “She made rather a point of letting us know both her husband and her son were at their clubs, with plenty of witnesses.”
“They’d hardly kill the goose that lays the golden eggs for them,” Coffen said. “I got Fogg’s address, rooms at Albany, but he wasn’t in. In fact, he didn’t come home last night. That’s pretty odd, don’t you think? Maybe the shot was meant for him, and the fellow followed him and got him. We was just wondering if we ought to have a word with Bow Street.”
“Did the prince not want absolute discretion?” Prance asked.
“That’s just what we was talking about. A word about Fogg’s disappearance needn’t involve the prince. Did you discover anything?”
“Byron had
nothing to add. He didn’t even see the shadow. Felt the shot was meant for him, until I pointed out the unlikelihood of attempting murder in the prince’s presence, as you said, Coffen.”
“Did he praise your Rondeaux?” Coffen asked, knowing this would be of interest to Prance.
“We didn’t take time to discuss poetry. We shall have that interesting discussion when Byron calls on me. As I knew you were in a rush, Luten, I darted straight here. Byron made a point of discovering where I live and says he’ll call soon. A charming fellow,” he added. A god, was what he meant, but was ashamed to say.
“Can I pour you a cup of tea, Prance?” Corinne asked.
“You wouldn’t have any hock and soda water in the house, Luten?”
“No, I’m afraid not. When did you start drinking hock and soda water?”
“Plain as a pikestaff. It’s what Byron served him,” Coffen said. Prance ignored this shot.
“Would you care for wine?” Luten asked.
“Tea will be fine, thank you.” He rose to take his cup, then lifted his coat tails and perched daintily on the arm of a sofa. “So, what is our next step, folks?”
“We must follow up this missing Fogg business,” Luten said.
Coffen rubbed his ear and said, “Strange to think of a Fogg being missing in London. There’s usually nothing but. Do you want me to have a word with Townsend, or will you summon him here and talk to him yourself, Luten?”
Townsend was the most famous of the Bow Street officers who policed London. He was often used by the government to accompany the mail coaches when large sums of money had to be transported. The aristocracy also hired him to safeguard their guests’ jewels at their balls during the Season. It was said he had taken more thieves than the rest of the Bow Street officers together.
“I have a good mind to have myself hauled into my carriage and go down to Bow Street,” Luten said.
A rattle of the door knocker brought them all to attention. Seconds later Evans appeared at the doorway. “Officer Townsend of Bow Street would like a word with you, your lordship.”