by Joan Smith
“I’ll ask Townsend to make inquiries of the other tenants at the Albany,” Luten said. “See if he had a woman visiting him. Or anyone, for that matter. He seems a strangely isolated fellow. He moves about society, hobnobs with princes, visits various clubs, yet no one knows anything about him.”
“Prance may have come across something,” Corinne said.
“Rigging himself up fancy for the funeral, no doubt,” Coffen said. “He’ll drop in to show his outfit off before he leaves.”
Waiting for Prance made an excellent excuse for Coffen to accept another cup of coffee and Luten’s offer of breakfast. He was just finishing his gammon and eggs when Prance arrived, resplendent in the pearl gray jacket, black stock and arm band. He carried his curled beaver hat, which was wrapped around with a yard of black crape, with the ends trailing over the brim like a pair of curtains.
Coffen spared a glance up from his gammon and eggs. “You look fine as ninepence, Reg. Folks will think you’re the undertaker in that outfit.”
Prance’s lips thinned. “I shall resist the childish impulse to say what they will think you are.”
“Good. Did you have any luck last night?”
“If you refer to my investigation, the answer is a qualified no,” Prance replied. He declined coffee for fear of soiling his clothes and continued.
“Most of the fellows knew Fogg, some of them from university, but no one seemed to have kept in touch with him. I had a sense they were keeping something from me. You know how the guilty betray themselves by those quick sideways glances, followed by an innocent stare. Word of the Berkeley Brigade’s work has spread,” he said, feigning annoyance. “A couple of the lads asked me bluntly if I was investigating the murder. Of course I said no, but they didn’t believe me.”
“Did they ask you to play Viola?” Coffen asked, with a belligerent stare that suggested he had best not have accepted.
“No, the play is well along. I’ve been invited to attend a dress rehearsal. Boo Nicheolson is giving a party after at his place. I shan’t attend as it occurs in two weeks, and I shall — hopefully — be in Ireland by then, overseeing the wedding arrangements.”
“Perhaps you’ll have better luck at the funeral,” Corinne said. “At least the people there can’t pretend they hardly know Fogg.”
“It will be interesting to see if any of the fellows you spoke to are there, Prance,” Luten suggested.
“I shall fais de mon mieux,” Prance said. “Or do I mean je ferai de mon mieux?”
“Tahrsome fellow,” Coffen grumbled. He had a profound dislike of any language other than English.
Prance took Coffen’s cup from his hand and drew him up from the table. With a disparaging examination of Coffen’s stock, he rearranged it, shook his head in despair, and they made their farewells.
Corinne also left, when she learned that Luten was expecting a call from Henry Brougham. “Nothing to do with my reward,” he said. “It’s just regular parliamentary business.”
“I also have my regular business to attend to. Mrs. Ballard has the toothache, and I’m taking her to the tooth drawer this morning, poor soul.”
Mrs. Ballard was her companion cum dresser, a modest ecclesiastical relict related to her late husband. In the afternoon, Corinne attended to the minutiae of a society lady.
There were callers to entertain, invitations to answer, and when all this was done, a letter home to explain the delay of her visit to Ireland.
As twilight drew in, she went abovestairs to look in on Mrs. Ballard, then dressed for dinner with Luten. Since his accident kept him housebound, she spent a good deal of time at his house. With Mrs. Ballard in bed nursing the aftermath of a drawn tooth, Corinne had to make her own toilette. As she had done without a dresser for the first seventeen years of her life, this presented no problem.
The fact that she and Luten would be alone did not mean she lowered her standards. Her violet lutestring gown was of the latest cut. The kid slippers that peeped out beneath it had silver buckles, and the white shawl that Black, her butler, arranged lovingly over her shoulders before she left was shot with silver threads that glimmered in the lamplight.
“The sight of you will do his lordship more good than a tonic,” Black said daringly.
This, of course, was not the sort of freedom usually permitted one’s butler. Black, however, was more than a butler. He had once saved her ladyship’s life. Since that fateful night, this tall, saturnine fellow considered himself her ladyship’s guardian angel and papa. The role he desired was husband, but he had enough common sense to know no trace of this must ever escape his lips. It was only in his dreams that Black, the butler, became Lord Blackwell, her dashing lover.
“I saw Grey’s carriage in front of Luten’s this afternoon,” she mentioned. “I hope he’s left.”
“Some time ago, milady, but I fear you’ll not have his lordship to yourself. Sir Reginald and Mr. Coffen are with him. Landed in ten minutes ago. Something to do with the funeral visit, I expect.”
It was common knowledge that Black eavesdropped on all her ladyship’s visitors. He knew to the smallest detail all that occurred in her household, but she was a little surprised that he was so well informed when all the visits of late occurred at Luten’s house. She looked a question at him.
“I took the liberty of having a word with Evans while you were dressing, milady.”
“Of course. I shan’t be late tonight, Black. You will keep an eye on Mrs. Ballard for me. She won’t be able to eat, but perhaps some broth or tea later.”
“Don’t you fret your head, milady. No harm will come to her while I am on duty. Just you wait here ‘till I get my hat.”
“There’s no need. It’s only a step across the street.”
“There’s plenty have been done down on their own doorstep,” he insisted.
He accompanied her across the street, daringly holding on to her elbow like a suitor, as happy as a butler harboring a secret passion for his mistress could be. When she had been passed unharmed into the hands of Evans, Black bowed formally and returned to his proper duties.
From the saloon, Corinne heard excited voices. Without waiting for Evans to announce her, she hurried forward.
* * *
Chapter 7
“What am I missing?” she demanded as she darted into the room.
Two of the three gentlemen who sat around the grate rose at her entrance. Luten stirred and was motioned to keep his seat. Like Corinne, he had changed into evening clothes. The fall of white lace at his throat contrasted dramatically with his bottle green jacket, made by London’s finest tailor, Weston. The others had come directly from Highgrove without changing into evening clothes. For Prance to have done such a thing suggested he had alarming news to impart.
“I shall act in mein host’s stead this evening,” Prance said, showing her to a seat, complimenting her extravagantly on her gown, and pouring her a glass of wine. Remiss of Luten not to notice she was wearing a new gown, or not to mention it, at least. That was no way to treat a fiancée.
“But what happened? What have you discovered?” she asked.
Prance smiled fondly, tossed up his hands and said, “We have found Fogg’s murderer. C’est tout.”
“Already! That was well done. Who is it?” she asked, breathless with excitement.
“Let us not pelt along to the climax without a proper buildup,” Prance said with a chiding wag of his finger. He realized he had already revealed the cream of the story, and must tantalize with the important detail of “who.” “I knew as soon as I saw Max Harcourt across the room at the post-funeral meal that Dame Fortune had smiled on us. He was a chum of mine at university. I haven’t seen him since and had forgotten that he lives in that part of the country. I fear Harcourt has dwindled into something very like a country squire. I wouldn’t ask my backhouse boy to wear the jacket he had on. However, he did provide a direct conduit to all the on dits regarding Fogg, which was fortunate as none of his co-worker
s or London friends attended.”
Coffen, impatient with this roundabout way of telling a story said, “The girl who killed Fogg is called Fanny Rowan.”
Prance’s nostrils thinned to slits. “I suggest you not take up story telling as a career,” he said to Coffen.
“I don’t intend to. Anyhow they don’t want a story. They want to hear what happened.”
Prance glared, Luten chewed a quiet grin, and Corinne cried, “A woman! I knew it!”
“Cherchez la femme,” Coffen muttered. “Did you ever notice that anything to do with crimes ain’t English?”
Prance lifted his eyebrows. “They will be surprised to hear that at Old Bailey.”
“No, but I mean to say, kooey bono, cherchez la femme, habeus corpibus. Leave it to the Frenchies to have a word for it.”
“Actually most of those words you are trying to say are Latin,” Prance informed him, “but never mind. You’ve already spoiled the story.”
“Who is this Fanny Rowan?” Corinne asked.
“She’s a close neighbor of the Foggs,” Prance said, trying to collar the explanation again. He began to pace back and forth in front of the grate with his hands held behind is back. “The only daughter of a widower. Not exactly haut ton, but just fit to be called a lady in the provinces. She and Fogg have known each other from the egg. Fogg was seeing her before he was lured off to London by Prinney and Lady Hertford. She had the reputation of being a wild girl, but after she got religion, she was suddenly holier than Hannah More. One of those Dissenting ministers set up a church in the parish. Not Hannah More’s Clapham Sect, but something along the same lines called the Morgate Sect. It seems Henry introduced Fanny to it.”
“Odd, I wouldn’t have taken Henry for a religious sort, from what we’ve learned of him,” she said, frowning.
“Exactly what I said,” Coffen struck in. “He was no more converted than I am. He only took her to that Morgate church to be rid of her. I notice it wasn’t the Morgate folks that was burying him. It was the good old C of E.”
“The Morgate minister, a Doctor Harper, is said to be handsome as can stare,” Prance said, lifting a delicate eyebrow.
“Anyhow, it worked,” Coffen added. “Fanny got religion and wouldn’t tell anyone who it was that got her enceinte. Said it was all her own fault.”
Corinne’s face paled. “Good God, you mean she is with child! The poor girl–and Fogg dead. Or is the handsome Doctor Harper the papa?” She looked from Coffen to Prance.
“Just told you, she wouldn’t say,” Coffen said. “I chatted up one of the servants, a young lass called Bess, while Prance was quizzing Harcourt. Bess didn’t think there was anything romantical between Fanny and Henry. More like brother and sister, she thought. Most of the neighbors seem to blame Henry for her condition, though. The idea is the bun was in the oven before she joined up with Harper’s crew.”
“What will become of her?” Corinne asked. “Where is she?”
“Henry got her into a home for unwed mothers here in London,” Prance said. “It’s run by the Morgate Sect, which might be why Fogg was so eager to get Fanny converted. I mean to say, why else did he jaw her into suddenly taking up religion?”
“Do you know where this place is?” she asked. “We must go and see her.”
“I’ve got the address,” Coffen said. “But from what you hear of those places, they keep the girls on a pretty short leash. It’s not likely she got out at night and shot Fogg.”
“Might her father have done it?” Luten suggested. “How did he take all this, Fanny enceinte and Fogg not doing the proper thing by her?”
“He seems to have placed the blame squarely on Fanny,” Prance said. “He doesn’t actually use the words ‘no better than she should be,’ but Harcourt hinted that he knew his daughter’ s reputation was not exactly pristine. Rowan’s time is accounted for in any case. He hasn’t left the neighborhood. It’s that sort of community where you can’t sneeze without everyone knowing it. But he has a cousin in London, Robert Rowan.”
“I got his address as well,” Coffen tossed in. “Figured there might be a clue in it. I’ll see what I can find out about him from Fanny tomorrow. See if he even knows what’s going on. An unmarried chit having a baby ain’t the sort of thing a family would be bragging about.”
“I wager Prinney and Lady Hertford know nothing of this,” Corinne said. When she saw Luten’s quick frown, she added, “And won’t be happy to hear it either.”
“There’s his excuse to renege on the reward,” Coffen said. “Told you nothing would come of that promise, Luten.”
Prance perched on the arm of the sofa and said, “I disagree. You mentioned you have it in writing, Luten, n’est-ce pas? A gentleman can hardly go back on his word.”
Coffen sniffed. “Seems to me that gentleman makes his own rules. He’d have a soft heart for a fellow involved in petticoat dealings. Rumor has it he has a dozen or so by-blows himself. There’s an awful thing to think about. A dozen Prinneys running around town in a decade or so. They’ll bankrupt the nation.”
“We don’t actually know that young Fogg is the father,” Luten said. When Prance’s extremely disparaging eye turned on him, he sighed. “But of course it sounds like it.”
“Thing to do,” Coffen said, “have a word with Fanny Rowan tomorrow.”
“Will they even let us in to see her?” Prance asked.
“Perhaps, if a lady is with you,” Corinne suggested.
“Aye, it might be best if you come along,” Coffen agreed.
A bell rang, summoning them to dinner. It took very little urging for Prance to accept, and none at all for Coffen Pattle. Luten, using a cane, escorted Corinne to the dining room with the others following. The table was laid with all the care of a formal party. Crystal sparkled, silver twinkled, and in the center of the board a vase of late roses nodded.
Coffen lifted his nose and sniffed the air like a hunting dog. “Time for fork work, eh? Is that turbot I smell? And a roast of pork. Not a whiff of scorching. There’s a pleasant change.”
The turbot in cream sauce was delectable, the pork so tender it hardly needed the knife. Neither the potatoes nor the gravy were lumpy and the petit pois were not boiled to a mush. Coffen could only wonder how such culinary miracles were accomplished. Prance nibbled an occasional pea and moved the meat around with his fork. He would have served a white wine with the pork, but the burgundy, he admitted, was excellent.
When Coffen held his plate up for more pork, Prance said, “Tut tut! You’re forgetting your aver dupois, Pattle.”
“You’re right. Put more of them petit pois on my plate while you’re at it. There’s a good lad.”
Prance excused himself after dinner to attend a concert of antique music. Coffen declined the invitation to join him. “If I wanted antiques, which I don’t, I’d go and visit my Aunt Lydia,” he said. “I’ll ankle along to some clubs. I might get a new line on Fogg.”
“Corrie? Or do you wish to stay and hold Luten’s hand?” Prance asked. “Do give her an evening off, Luten. The poor girl is turning into a shadow with all this dancing attendance on you.”
“Corinne is perfectly free to go if she wishes,” he said.
“No, no. I’ll stay with you,” she said at once.
That was all he wanted to hear. Once she offered, he insisted she go. “I feel a tyrant, keeping you away from all the entertainment London offers. I have plenty of work to do designing my Cabinet.”
“Taking up carpentry for a hobby, are you?” Coffen asked with interest.
“In a manner of speaking. I’m hammering together a Cabinet to run parliament.”
“Ah, that kind of cabinet. I wondered. Never knew you to be into hammering and sawing wood. I’m off. A lovely dinner, Luten. My compliments to your chef.”
Prance went home to change into evening clothes, leaving the lovers a few moments alone. They passed the time in the way lovers do. Luten finally got to try his hand at behaving like a p
roper fiancé.
When Prance called for Corinne later, she said, “I should have stayed with Luten. I don’t really feel like a concert this evening.”
“Actually it will have begun already,” he said, nudging her toward the door. “What do you say we stop in at Lady Melbourne’s do instead?” He didn’t actually know that Lord Byron would be there, but Melbourne House in Whitehall was the likeliest place to find him. He and Lady Melbourne were bosom bows. She was trying to arrange a match between him and her niece, Annabelle Milbanke, to relieve him of the importunities of her daughter-in-law, Lady Caroline Lamb.
“I’m not sure Luten would like that.”
“Don’t be foolish. Did he not say he feels badly, you missing all the parties? The Melbournes are good, staunch Whigs. And when you’re with me, he knows you’re well chaperoned.”
“I suppose it will be all right. They’ve shipped Lady Caroline home to rusticate at Brocket, so there’ll be no scandals afoot, even if Byron is there. Not that he seems to need help in causing scandals,” she added skeptically.
The rout party at Melbourne House was an informal affair held in the painted ballroom. After being greeted by their hosts, they mingled with the throng, until Prance spotted Byron across the room, at which time he began working his way in that direction. Byron spotted Lady deCoventry at the same instant, and began pressing toward her. They met in the middle of the room, catching Corinne by surprise.
She had often seen the famous poet in the middle of a throng, but this was the first time she had seen him up close, and his beauty quite took the breath out of her. She understood at once why Lady Caroline Lamb had declared him, “Mad, bad, and dangerous to know.”
His palely handsome face was set off by a lock of dark hair tumbling over his brow, but it was at his brooding, liquid eyes that she gazed longest. They seemed to draw her in, like quicksand. But the most seductive thing about him was the invisible aura of glamour and even a hint of decadence that hung about his elegant shoulders. It was generally believed that the hero of the sensational Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage was based on himself.