by Joan Smith
Before Corinne could answer, Coffen said, “Lord Byron.”
Lord Clare’s eyebrows rose an inch. “Indeed? I had no idea he had ever heard of us.”
“It was Morgate he’d heard of. From Will Cobbett, the writer fellow, you know. He invited us along this morning, and Lady deCoventry came back this afternoon to bring Miss Rowan some sewing materials she asked for.”
Lord Clare turned his warm smile on Corinne. “How very kind of you! But why are we standing here? Come into my office. I believe I can find us a glass of something decent.” He turned to Fanny, who was listening avidly. “I’ll see you later, Fanny.” She bobbed another curtsey and gazed at him, obviously infatuated.
Coffen rushed forward to assist her with her parcel. While wrapping the paper around the gowns, he slid a note between them. Fanny’s eyebrows rose, an arch smile curved her lips. “Naughty boy!” she said, and sauntered off, hips swaying, while Coffen gazed after her, entranced, until Corinne called him to attention.
Lord Clare led them down the corridor to a private office that was more elegant than the rest of the home, but by no means sybaritic. The oaken desk and cabinets, she assumed, had come from his own home, for they were fine antiques. The apple green window hangings were of some heavily embroidered stuff and the padded chairs were comfortable. From a cabinet he drew out a bottle of excellent claret and a tray holding glasses.
“My little bribe for potential patrons,” he said, displaying the label.
“We’ve already contributed,” Coffen threw in hastily. “Actually I was hoping for a tour. I missed out on it this morning when Mrs. Bruton was showing Lord Byron around.”
Clare looked up with a pleasant smile. “Oh, and how did you come to miss out on it, Mr. Pattle?”
“I stayed behind with Lady deCoventry. She wanted to have a chat with some of the girls.”
“With Fanny Rowan?”
“Yes, that’s who Mrs. Bruton called,” he replied vaguely.
Clare poured the wine and passed the glasses around.
“I had no idea you did this sort of work, Lord Clare,” Corinne said. “This is most generous of you.”
“We who have more than our share must do our bit for the less fortunate. I’m sure you have your own favorite charity, milady. Are you not one of the patronesses of the great Orphans’ Charity Ball, that we all look forward to each year?”
“Yes, I’m one of a half dozen, but it’s nothing on this scale. A mere widow’s mite.”
“How did you come to get into this work, Lord Clare?” Coffen asked. “A chum of Doctor Harper, are you?”
“Why no, of Reverend Morgate, actually. I’m not a Dissenter myself, but Mama is one of his converts. We’re all Christians when it comes down to it, eh? What label we wear is of no matter, so long as the cause is good.”
Coffen sat silent, peering out the window at the rear garden while Corinne and Clare talked about the cause. Coffen appeared to be admiring the landscape, but in fact his sharp eyes were busy observing that the building was even huger than he thought. A whole wing of the place jutting out from the rear wasn’t visible from the front. Would that be what Fanny called the annex? He was counting windows, and noticing a tall ladder propped against the gardening shed. It wouldn’t reach the top floor, but it would reach the one below it.
“We might as well finish the bottle,” Lord Clare said, topping off their glasses. “It will only go bad if we leave it. Was there anything else you were interested in, Lady deCoventry?”
“I’m curious about a girl called Beth–dark haired, young. I don’t recall her last name. I met her this morning. She brought us tea.”
“That would be Beth Kilmer.”
“Yes, that was the name. You seem to have got her early in her pregnancy.”
“Actually, she isn’t pregnant, but she would have been had she remained where she was working. It’s a sad story. Her papa was a remarried, widowed officer. When he remarried, her stepmama was hard on the girl, put her out to work in a house where the son– Well, you know what goes on in some houses,” he said, with a sad shake of his head. “You might have noticed the bruises on her arms. They’re from fighting the son off. She ran out of the house with only the clothes on her back. I saw her that evening, just at dusk, wandering around Long Acre, lost and weeping, and brought her here.”
“How fortunate for her!” Corinne exclaimed.
“You’re brave, driving around Long Acre at footpad hour,” Coffen said.
“I often go there, looking for these unfortunate girls. I don’t go alone, I might add. I’m not so foolhardy. I take a couple of stout footmen with me.” He turned back to Corinne. “Not all our girls are enceinte. Some few of them are from homes where they were being abused. We try to place them in more suitable positions. An ounce of prevention, you know.”
“I might find something for Beth,” Corinne said.
“Actually, I’ve just this very afternoon made arrangements to place her in a vicarage in Kent. They’re easier to place if we catch them before the tragedy. I shall let her recover her bruises in the annex for a few days first.”
“Fanny mentioned the annex,” she said, nodding her approval.
“Yes, it’s a wing at the back where the rooms are better appointed. Such as it is, it’s a sort of reward for the girls. It gives them something to strive for. Even such hopeless creatures as those we have here must have hope, don’t you agree?”
“Oh indeed I do! So you have already found something for Beth? You don’t waste much time, milord.”
“I have a coterie of kind folks who help me. Yes, Beth Kilmer has some few friends in that neighborhood I mentioned, which is why I concentrated my search there. She knows a girl whose papa was in the army with Lieutenant Kilmer. The daughters went to school together. But if you have something better in mind for Beth–”
“No, I think she’ll do very well in a vicarage. I’m happy to learn she has a friend there.”
“There’s nothing like a friend.” He gazed deeply into her eyes and added softly, “I feel I have made a new one today. And like the worst kind of friend, I mean to impose on you right away. My annual ball will be occurring two weeks from now. It’s by invitation. I don’t sell tickets, but there is an auction of donated items, with the proceeds going to the Morgate Home. I’ll send you tickets. I hope you’ll be able to attend.” He turned to include Coffen in the offer.
“I shall make a point of it, sir,” Corinne replied, and Coffen nodded his acceptance. “And contribute something for auction, too. What sort of thing would be acceptable?”
“Some picture you’re tired of, a statuette, a bibelot, a very minor piece of jewelry. Nothing in the nature of a diamond tiara. We keep the price below fifty guineas. When a gentleman holds a party in his own house, he cannot like to dig his fingers too deeply into his guests’ pockets.”
“I know the very thing. I have a horrid Wedgewood tea set I never use.”
“That’s precisely the sort of thing we like. You’ll be surprised to see some other lady pay her guineas and go home happy.”
“And I, no doubt, shall snap up some unconsidered trifle some other lady doesn’t want, and think I’ve struck a great bargain.”
“Painless charity,” he said, smiling. Seeing that she was gathering up her gloves and reticule, he rose. “It’s been delightful talking to you, Lady deCoventry.” He remembered Coffen and turned to include him in the leavetaking. Lord Clare remained in his office when they left.
“Do you still plan to take your tour?” Corinne asked, as they proceeded toward the alcove.
Mrs. Bruton was not at her desk. One of the gray-clad girls was there, sitting uncomfortably in the chair, staring into space.
“I’ll see what the chances are,” Coffen said, and went to speak to the girl. While Corinne went to peer into the visitors’ parlor, he said to the girl on the desk, “Did someone leave a note for me? Coffen Pattle.”
The girl handed him a folded paper. He just
took a quick peek before sliding it into his pocket, but a glance was enough to tell him Fanny’s answer. He wiped the smile from his face and went to meet Corinne.
“No tour today, I fear. But the visit went pretty well,” he said, unable to quell a smile as he led her out.
“Yes, I feel much better about Beth. I was worried about her.”
“I don’t see why you’ve taken into your head to worry about her. It’s poor little Fanny that brought us here.”
“Fanny’s a minx, Coffen. She didn’t even say thank you for my contribution.”
“But you saw how thrilled she was! Her eyes were shining with pleasure.”
“I think she plans to wear those gowns herself.”
“Don’t be foolish. It’d take two of them to go ‘round her,” he said, flickering a glance at Corinne’s bosom.
“Not the lutestring. I had it made years ago. I’ve lost weight since then.”
“You ought to put it back on. It’s more womanly.”
“Fanny will be fat by the time she’s forty.”
“That’s a long way off,” he said, undismayed.
“Hmph. You noticed she was mighty disturbed about that wine stain? She probably planned to sell the gown.”
“Rubbish,” he said, with a fond smile. “Fanny wouldn’t do a thing like that.”
She was relieved that he didn’t go with her to Luten’s house after the call, and Coffen was relieved that she didn’t ask him to. He had to bribe or threaten his valet into brushing a jacket and polishing slippers for his date with Fanny that evening.
* * *
Chapter 12
“You missed him by inches,” Luten announced as Corinne came into the room.
“Missed who?” she asked, with a guilty flush that made Luten wonder. She had been fidgety that morning as well. What was going on behind his back? Were Coffen and Prance leading her into some dangerous situation with this investigation?
“Guess,” he said, trying to draw her out.
“Don’t be annoying, Luten.” She sat down, drawing off her kid gloves.
His news was sensational enough that he could no longer keep it to himself. “Prinney!” he announced, and hardly knew whether he was boasting or complaining. He had no love and very little respect for the man, but still he would one day soon be the King of England, and the Lutens had been Royalists for centuries. His ancestors’ blood had flowed for kings that they, perhaps, loved no more than he loved Prinney. It was the position, the tradition of a monarchy, that lent the reigning prince his cachet.
Kings and queens had visited Southcote Abbey in times gone by, but those were state visits with some political agenda, prepared for months in advance. A prince dropping in informally for a chat was a different matter. “That’s twice in one week he’s dropped in unannounced. We’re practically bosom bows.”
“Really!” she exclaimed, suitably impressed, then added with a teasing smile, “Perhaps he’s looking for a replacement for his confidant, Beau Brummell, since their falling out. Did he want your advice on a new jacket?”
“Wretch!” he laughed. “Surely it would be Prance he called on in that case. He claimed to be concerned for my recovery and urged Doctor Croft on me. The real reason he came, of course, was to see what progress we’re making in finding Fogg’s murderer. I daresay his chère amie has been nagging at him. I spoke mysteriously of various avenues we were exploring, as I didn’t like to admit we’ve learned practically nothing. If I could only get about more—” He glanced at his bandaged ankle and gave a bah of disgust.
“We shall all four get our heads together over dinner this evening and see if we can come up with an idea,” she said.
“I wrote to Brougham asking him to see if he could discover anything about the financing of the Morgate home. How did your trip go, by the way? In my juvenile excitement over Prinney’s visit, I forgot to ask.”
“I found out who is the patron of the place. Lord Clare.”
Luten blinked in astonishment. “Lord Clare! Good lord. He’s the last one I would have expected to take an interest in that.”
“I know he has a somewhat racy reputation. His mama is a disciple of Morgate, you see, and urged him on to it.”
“That would explain it. How did you discover all this? Did Coffen manage to sweet-talk Mrs. Bruton?”
“Good gracious, no. If you ever saw her, you’d know she isn’t the sort to be handled with anything but a club. No, actually Lord Clare was there. I sweet-talked him. I think he rather likes me,” she said, with a saucy air.
Luten smiled benignly. She wished she had as lightly mentioned Byron, and ridded herself of the guilt that shadowed her heart. Why hadn’t she?
“We had a long talk with Clare,” she continued. “He has an office there on the premises and takes a keen interest in the place, seems to know all the girls and their problems. He’s doing wonderful work, Luten. He makes me feel a very sloth in my charity doings.”
She told Luten in detail about the visit, including the approaching auction ball. “You must get well enough to attend it, even if you can’t dance. I mean to donate that rather horrid Wedgewood tea service I never use.”
“Oh, am I invited, too?” he asked, chewing a grin. “I was afraid Lord Clare wanted you all to himself.”
“You don’t sound as if you would mind,” she said, with a playful pout.
“As long as it’s Clare you’re toying with, and not some more dangerous fellow, like Byron, I don’t mind.” Her breath caught in her throat. Did he know? How had he found out? No, he was smiling quite naturally. “But I’ll make a point of attending Clare’s ball, to keep an eye on the pair of you.”
He called for tea, and they talked until it was time for Corinne to go home and change for dinner. As she left, a page from Whitehall brought an answer from Brougham regarding the financing of the various Moregate charity institutions. Each project was run independently, with a manager who handled the finances. Doctor Harper was in charge of the Morgate Home for Unwed Mothers. It was supported by the members of the sect, with Lord Clare and his mama as special patrons. The finances were in order. There did not appear to be any shortfall indicating that someone was pilfering the money. There had been no complaints of ill treatment of any of the inmates. All appeared to be in order.
Yet Luten had to wonder at Lord Clare taking such a personal interest in the place, actually having an office there and taking an interest in each individual girl. He was known to gamble, but then what young buck didn’t? It was a common vice of the age. Fortunes were won and lost nightly around the card table. People bet on everything from the outcome of a horse race to what was called “The Marriage Stakes,” placing odds on whether a certain match would come off. There were no rumors of Clare’s being in dun territory. One of these days he would inherit his wealthy mama’s fortune as well.
At seven-thirty the Berkeley Brigade met at Luten’s mansion to share their gleanings over dinner. Prance, who never ate much and loved talking, led off the discussion.
“I spent my afternoon on a fishing expedition at the Albany, the scene of the crime, as you might say. I fear I caught only a gudgeon. Beau Harrison, a writer friend who does those rather acid reviews of plays, has rooms at the Albany, but unfortunately not close enough to Henry to monitor his comings in and goings out. Beau introduced me to the man who lives across the hall from Henry, a countrified fellow called John Huddlestone, who is a glorified clerk in a bank. I would have called him Johnnie Raw. He isn’t a regular resident, but has sublet the rooms from a cousin. Anyhow, this Huddlestone person insisted he had never seen a female call on Henry.
“There was one gentleman who called frequently. Huddlestone described him as a nob, but seemed to run out of words after that somewhat vague term. ‘Was he tall?’ I asked. ‘Tallish to middling.’ ‘Was he dark or fair of complexion?’ ‘Darkish to middling.’ ‘Was he handsome?’ ‘If you like that sort.’ ‘What sort?’ I demanded in rising frustration. ‘A dandy, wasn’t
he?’ the fellow said, with a smirk at my cravat. Really, what is the Albany coming to? It used to be a place for gentlemen.”
“At least we know Henry did have one close friend,” Corinne said, to console him.
“Huddlestone didn’t happen to see the friend the evening Henry was murdered?” Luten asked.
“No, it seems he seldom leaves his rooms of an evening, but on that occasion he took into his head to go out on a spree with some friends. He didn’t reach home until ‘latish,’ whatever that means to a John Huddlestone.”
“This nob who visited Henry,” Luten said, “did he ever hear them quarreling?”
“I was just coming to that,” Prance scowled. “You have quite stolen my thunder, Luten. Yes, they had been quarreling one evening recently, but he couldn’t confirm that it was the actual evening Fogg was killed. He overheard an argument, not actual words, just angry shouting.”
“How long were they friends?”
“Johnnie Raw has only been residing at the Albany for six weeks. The nob was visiting at that time. On two occasions the friend left in a huff, slamming the door. On the first occasion he returned the same evening and stayed ‘latish.’ On the other occasion, Fogg went after him and brought him back.”
“We have to find out who this friends is,” Luten said. “Go back tomorrow, Prance, and call on some of the other fellows who live there. Perhaps Beau can help you. I wonder what they were arguing over.”
“And if blows led to a gunshot on the night Huddlestone was out on his spree,” Coffen added. “You’ve fair knocked the wind out of what I had to say, Prance.”
The others looked at him with interest. “About the size of the Morgate Home, and there only being two dozen girls there. It’s even bigger than I thought. There’s a whole wing at the back, the annex. And there’s a ladder outside, too.”
“What are you suggesting?” Luten urged.
“I don’t know. I’m just telling you the place must be half empty, yet there’s no shortage of girls in that condition. Why don’t they fill it up?”
“Perhaps they can’t afford to just yet,” Prance suggested. “They have to be fed and clothed, as well as roofed.”