by Joan Smith
He had encountered cut-throat pirates and brigands, been entertained in Albania by the cannibal, Ali Pacha, suffered shipwreck, fevers and numerous love affairs, and in the midst of all these excitements took time out to write his poetry, and meditate in a Capucin monastery before returning to England, bearing with him skulls, live tortoises and a phial of some mysterious poison. He had lived ten lives, and every one of them was reflected in his eyes.
His sensuous lips opened in a small, peculiarly intimate smile, while those world-weary eyes gazed deeply into hers. “No, don’t tell me, Prance,” he said in a soft voice, when Prance began to make the introduction. His eyes never left Corinne. “This charming vision can only be Lady deCoventry.”
Corinne heard a high-pitched, nervous little laugh come from her lips. “And you, sir, can only be the infamous Lord Byron,” she replied, and at once regretted that “infamous”. Why had she said such a thing to the foremost poet of England?
He lifted her hand to his lips, where they hovered an instant before brushing her fingers with a gentle touch, like the wing of a moth. Already he was misbehaving. It was the custom for the lady’s hand to stop an inch below the lips. She did not reprove him, but only flushed in guilty pleasure, while her heart hammered in her throat.
“It has long been a matter of infinite regret to me that I cannot dance,” he said in that softly seductive voice that sent shivers up her spine. “This evening, I find it Intolerable. Now have I touched your heart sufficiently to suggest you and I find a quiet corner and get to know each other?”
“Excellent idea!” said Prance, who had no intention of being excluded from the talk. He led them through the throng, bowing and nodding importantly, until they reached the edge of the room, where a row of bentwood chairs stood waiting for the chaperons.
“Not here,” Byron said. “Let us escape the tiaras. We shan’t be able to hear ourselves think for the gabbling. The library is just down the hall. It will be quieter there. Lady Melbourne won’t mind. I run quite tame here. We’re the best of bosom bows.”
Corinne cast a quick look around the room for someone she could claim she must speak to. Finding no one, she went with them. Several heads turned to watch as Byron motioned to a footman and asked for wine to be taken to the library. Prance was relieved it wasn’t hock and soda water. He had found, after a few trials, that the drink was impotable.
“I’ve been meaning to call on you, Prance,” Byron said, his gaze just flickering to Sir Reginald, before returning to Corinne. “You recall you were to introduce me to Lady deCoventry. It was not a lack of interest that kept me away, but a lack of time. They’re trying to get the bit between my teeth at Whitehall after I made a speech defending the Luddites.”
They were interrupted by a brace of the tiaras Byron had complained of. After Byron had said a few words and got rid of them, he closed the door and returned.
“Oh do you think you should close the door?” Corinne asked uncertainly.
“Not if it makes you uncomfortable,” he said at once, and opened it again. She felt a perfect fool. Prance was with them after all. She was making too much of it.
Prance could see she was upset and spoke on quickly, before she insisted on leaving. “Actually I’ve been pretty busy myself.”
Without missing a beat, Byron turned to Corinne. “Then you must allow me to substitute for your busy friend, madam. Let me take you for a whirl in my carriage tomorrow.”
Corinne was not immune to his charms, but Luten had been particularly attentive that evening and she had no intention of obliging the rakish poet. “I’m busy myself tomorrow,” she replied.
He ignored the waving fans and handkerchiefs of the ladies at the doorway who were trying to catch his attention. “Be naughty. For once–like me,” he urged. There was a challenge in those dark eyes, and that softly lifting smile. “Tell all your admirers you have the megrims, or the toothache, or a sick aunt and escape with me. We’ll drive into the country, an unplanned excursion, and see what Fate has to offer two jaded souls,”
“I hope I’m not jaded! And it’s not a mere pleasure visit that occupies me tomorrow, it is duty, sir. Something you are, perhaps, not overly familiar with,” she said daringly.
“I would be enchanted to meet Duty, if you would provide the introduction. That, in case you didn’t recognize it, was an offer to assist you, if possible, in the execution of your duties tomorrow. I am a kind of burr. I shall stick.”
Prance, who had been listening closely to learn this Don Juan’s technique, recognized those last words as coming from Shakespeare, and admired the ease with which Byron slipped them into the conversation. He said, “That’s not a bad idea, Corrie. They might hesitate to let us in, but with Lord Byron along — “
Byron shrugged modestly. “I shall be your passe-partout.”
She was torn between duty and the thrill of illicit, or at least naughty, excitement. Every lady in London wanted to attach Byron but loyalty to Luten, along with the need for discretion, urged her to decline the offer, which she reluctantly did.
Prance was not made of such stern stuff. He saw no need to reveal to Byron just why they were going to the home for unwed mothers. He rationalized that the famous poet would be certain to gain an entree for them all. Once there, Corinne could have a private chat with Fanny Rowan while he and Byron toured the home. Prance vaguely explained their errand, making no mention of Fanny or Fogg, and said that Byron was welcome to join them. Byron accepted at once, and it was arranged that Prance and Corinne would pick him up in the morning at eleven o’clock.
“Luten will have your head on a platter,” she said bluntly as they drove home an hour later. Byron had stayed with them during the whole of their visit, to the dismay of every other lady at the party and the secret delight of them both.
He explained his thinking, finishing with, “And besides, Byron, you recall, has been in on this mystery from the beginning. He was with the prince when the shot was fired.”
“He hasn’t been in on it since then,” she pointed out.
“Don’t go then, if that’s the way you feel about it.”
“I might be of some help, though.”
“No need to tell Luten, if you’re worried about his feelings,” he said in a perfectly casual tone.
“Of course I’ll tell him.”
“That’s up to you. But if you wish to go along without terminating your engagement, I would suggest you tell him after we return.”
“That’s very sneaky, Prance.” After a moment, she added, “I daresay the commotion and worry wouldn’t be good for him. Perhaps it would be better not to tell him at the moment.”
“Much better,” Prance agreed, chewing back a smile in the darkness of the carriage. “He is charming, isn’t he?” It didn’t even occur to her that Prance was referring to anyone but Lord Byron. He had that charismatic, larger-than-life sort of personality. “Did you notice the heads turn as we left the ballroom? I swear every lady in the room made an excuse to be at the library door to see what we were doing. I felt as if I were on exhibition, like the wild animals at Exeter Exchange.”
“You loved every minute of it.”
“I enjoyed it for one evening—and so did you, miss. Your face was positively glowing. I don’t know how he stands it on a permanent basis, though. Poor fellow. One has really to feel a little sorry for him. And he’s so young! It’s a wonder all the adulation hasn’t gone to his head.”
“How old is he?” she asked.
“Just four and twenty, like yourself.”
“It’s odd, he seems much—older,” she said, but was unhappy with the last word.
“Well, he is certainly a deal more experienced,” Prance admitted. “I felt like a mere whelp myself. He’s a charming man. Charming. I don’t know how any lady with blood in her veins could resist him.”
As he spoke, he slanted a sly look at Corinne. She looked quite moonstruck. She didn’t answer, but just sighed softly in regret, or anticipation.<
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* * *
Chapter 8
Prance called for Corinne at half past ten the next morning. He took her elegant toilette as a compliment to Lord Byron, for in the normal way she was too sensitive to flaunt her wealth and fashion at a home for unwed mothers. She looked quite ravishing in a teal blue suit that showed off her lithe figure to maximum advantage, and a high poke bonnet with a flurry of feathers tumbling over the brim. He hadn’t seen her eyes aglow with such excitement since the last time she and Luten had enjoyed one of their spats.
“Perfect!” he purred. She didn’t smile as she usually did when he approved her ensemble.
She just gave an impatient tsk and said, “Let us go.”
Corinne felt like Judas when she waved to Luten, who was watching their departure from his saloon window. He blew her a kiss, which was not a Luten-ish thing to do. Coffen was already in the carriage.
When Prance directed his driver to St. James’s Street, Coffen said, “That ain’t where the home is. It’s across the river. Westminster Bridge will be a tad shorter than Blackfriars. It’s half-way between, on the south side.”
“We’re picking up someone,” Prance said.
“Who?”
“Lord Byron.”
Coffen applied his finger to his ear. “Eh? Byron! What the devil for?”
“He was with Prinney the night the shot was fired, you recall.”
“What’s that to do with anything? I don’t recall he’s been in on it since then.”
“His presence will guarantee us access into the home. No one would dare refuse him the entree.”
Coffen turned a sharp blue orb on Corinne. “Are you in on this, Corrie?”
A pretty flush colored her cheek. “Good gracious, you make it sound like some nefarious plot. Yes, I knew he was coming.”
“Does Luten know?”
“I didn’t bother mentioning it to him, in case he would worry,” she said vaguely, disliking the insinuation that he mistrusted her.
“In case he wouldn’t let you come, you mean. That’s pretty underhanded. I smell the fine hand of Prance in this setup.” Coffen’s blue eyes could take on an amazingly hostile air when he was riled, as he was now. The eye he turned on Prance had such an air. “Trying to stir up mischief. ‘Pon my word, I’m ashamed of you, Prance.” Prance and Corinne exchanged a guilty look. “Using Corinne as bait: to catch Byron, just so you can swan around town with him. That ain’t going to make your demmed Rondeaux any better, my lad. When did you set this scheme up?”
“It’s hardly a scheme! We ran into him last night. In fact, he invited himself along.”
“What was a high flyer like him doing at that antique place? I don’t believe a word of it.”
“We met him at Lady Melbourne’s rout, actually,” Prance admitted, with an air of bravado. “We arrived too late for the concert and decided to pop in at Melbourne’s. Byron happened to be there.”
“Where else would he be? He lives in Lady Melbourne’s pocket. You might have known a fellow like him would be itching to get into a house full of girls of that sort. He probably put half of them there if the truth was known. How did you come to tell him about this visit? It’s supposed to be a secret.”
“He doesn’t know why we’re going. And you mustn’t tell him. As far as he knows, we’re merely touring the facility with a thought to helping the unfortunate girls. Corinne is going to talk to Fanny Rowan while we tour the place.”
“Don’t try to drag me into your scheme! I came along to talk to Fanny, and talk to her I will. You’re treading on thin water, my lad.” Prance frowned, his usual reaction to Coffen’s mangled metaphors. “Byron!” Coffen muttered into his collar.
“If you could forget your prejudices, I think you might like him,” Prance said.
“Like him? What would I have in common with a prancing poet? Saint George and the dragon had more in common. And you know which one is the dragon!”
“Setting up as a saint, are you?” Prance replied airily.
“At least I ain’t a sinner, like you,” he shot back without thinking.
But when Byron came limping out to the rig, Coffen’s quick sympathy recalled that the man was a cripple after all, and he was polite to him. He soon sensed that Byron might even prove useful. The poet’s first words after the greetings and introduction were, “Did you know this home is run by Morgate? You folks aren’t members of Morgate’s cult, are you? I believe I’ve seen you at the Chapel Royal, Lady deCoventry.” At least the pagan went to the right church.
Corinne denied any connection except that of performing charity. Coffen, who always kept an eye on the main point, was more interested to discover how Byron knew of the Morgate connection. “You’re familiar with the place, then?” he asked.
“Not with this place, but with Morgate. I met him through Will Cobbet, the journalist. A fascinating fellow, full of prejudices and misinformation he expounds so reasonably he makes you half believe him. I have a high opinion of Morgate. He’s a fanatic, as most of the Dissenters are, but a man of sound morals. I visited a few of his orphan schools. They’re run on more humane grounds than most of them. I daresay this place will be, too.”
He turned to Corinne and continued, “Do you have a special reason for visiting the home, Lady deCoventry? Are you planning to hire a girl?”
“I’m thinking about it,” she prevaricated. Perhaps she could find a place for some of the girls who had already given birth.
“I doubt Fanny Rowan would make a suitable servant,” Coffen said, and received a sharp glare from Prance, which he ignored. He stared at Byron with an unblinking, blue gaze. “She was called a lady the last I heard.”
“Shocking!” Byron said angrily, apparently taking no note of the name. “How can a father toss his daughter out of the house when she’s in such trouble! And then throw up his hands in horror when she ends up on the street, saying he always knew she was no better than she should be. What does he think is going to happen to her? And these men call themselves Christians! They don’t know the meaning of the word. Do they never read the Bible? Have they never heard of Mary Magdalene?”
This tirade caused Coffen to look at the heathen with something like approval. Corinne was also impressed. Even Prance was surprised at the vehemence of his outburst.
“Who is this Fanny Rowan you mentioned?” Byron asked Coffen.
“Just a lady I happen to know,” he said vaguely.
Byron did not undertake any strenuous flirtation with two other gentlemen in the carriage. Harmony prevailed when they were deposited at the doorway of an extremely plain, new brown brick building on a short street in Lambeth. It held no air of gothic horror or decay. It might have been a school house. It was well built, but no money had been spent on garnishing the exterior. No columns, pediments, statuary or other ornaments interfered with its plain lines. It rose four floors, each punctuated with windows that gleamed in the autumn sunlight. A small swath of grass and a pair of ancient fir trees whose size and age suggested they predated the building, one on either side of the walk leading to the door, lent an austere note of welcome.
They entered into a wood floored lobby that smelled of turpentine and beeswax and carbolic soap. The place was almost unnaturally clean. Not even a dust mote floated in the shafts of sunlight that shone through the windows. The plaster walls were innocent of pictures, but held a framed sheet of printing in heavy script. A closer look revealed that it was the ten commandments, with some printing below that outlined the tenets of the Morgate Sect.
In an alcove to their left, a female of middle years dressed all in black with a white cap and collar sat bent over a desk, writing. Her outfit suggested she might be a nun. Her grim expression told Corinne she would not want to be under the woman’s care. But perhaps it was just her beetling black eyebrows and incipient moustache that made her look so intimidating.
She rose, revealing a broad-shouldered figure nearly six feet in height. “I am Mrs. Bruton, the manageres
s of the home,” she said in a deep voice. Mrs. — she was neither nun nor nurse, then. “Can I help you?” Corinne had the feeling her sharp gray eyes saw all there was to see of the visitors.
Prance stepped forward to make the request. He handed her his card. “Sir Reginald Prance, and these are my friends, Lady deCoventry, Lord Byron, and Mr. Pattle. We hoped we might be allowed to have a look at the facilities.” Mrs. Bruton offered her well-muscled hand to them each in turn for a crippling shake. Corinne noticed that despite the Mrs., she wore no wedding band. Many unmarried female servants of the higher orders gave themselves an honorary Mrs., however, so this was not unusual.
“Do you have permission from Doctor Harper?” she asked. “He is the Director of the home.” After a mere flickering glance at the others, the gray eyes were drawn, like needles to a magnet, to Lord Byron. As she was looking at him, he undertook to reply.
“I have not had the pleasure yet of meeting Doctor Harper, but I’m an admirer of Reverend Morgate. We thought there might be some way in which we could help with this marvelous work he’s doing.”
This suggested to Mrs. Bruton that a donation might be forthcoming. The visitors all looked well-to-do. The handsome one was certainly Lord Byron. She had seen dozens of cartoons of him in the journals and shop windows. He really did have a club foot, too. The sole of one boot was built up higher than the other, it wouldn’t do for him to be writing up one of his nasty poems about the Morgate Home. Best oblige him.
“We usually have advance notice of a tour, but we have nothing to hide. I’m sure you are welcome. Of course you appreciate there are portions of the building we use as birthing facilities. A certain degree of privacy is necessary there.”
“I assure you we’re not voyeurs, Mrs. Bruton,” Byron said, with a twinkling eye that actually brought a smile to her harsh visage.