by Joan Smith
On the second circuit of the block, the carriage drew up in front of Sefton’s again and they alit. Luten had no trouble gaining admittance. He was well known in society. Lady Sefton welcomed him back to what she called “the world of the living.”
“Your friend Lady deCoventry is here somewhere. Just look for a crowd and you’ll find her. She came with Byron.”
Coffen asked if Lord Clare was here, and Lady Sefton told him he hadn’t arrived yet, but she expected him. The crowd she spoke of was not hard to find. Byron had not been allowed to proceed far into the room before he was swarmed. Luten peered over a few shoulders and caught a view of Corinne’s pale face, standing next to him. She looked not only bored, but in a bad humor at the crushing she was being subjected to.
When she glanced up and saw Luten looking at her, she thought it must be one of those mirages she had read about, that desert travelers experienced. Luten could not possibly be here. He was at home nursing his ankle. There had been a carriage in front of his house when she left, so he must be working with some of the politicians. But he looked awfully real. Especially that sardonic smile, and the dismissing way he turned aside after witnessing her discomfort. This had been a wretched idea. She should never have come.
Then the vision was gone, as quickly as it had appeared. The music began, and several of Byron’s devotees deserted him for the dance floor. He turned to her and said, “Now aren’t you sorry for poor me? It’s not all roses, being the season’s pet freak. I do apologize. Would you like some punch? Or dance, if you feel like it. I can fend for myself. I see Luten has come after all. I fear friend Prance is having some sport at my expense. Shall I ask Luten to join us? I see he’s looking daggers at me, and will, I fear, be speaking or possibly throwing some if I keep you to myself.”
“Is he really here?” she asked, looking around.
He was not only at the party, he was approaching her, but looking at Byron. His expression was not at all savage, though a certain rictus about the lips hinted at the effort it cost him to smile. Her throat went dry and her breaths came fast and shallow. He was beside them. He honored her with a stiff bow before turning to speak to Byron in the drawling voice he used when he was furious and wished to hide it.
After a few words of greeting, Luten said, “I know this is not the time to talk business, Byron, but your name has come up with Grey and Grenville regarding a ministership without portfolio, should the Whigs be asked to take over the government. Will you think it over and call on me soon to discuss it?”
Byron looked startled, almost frightened at the notion. “I am honored,” he said. “Yes, I’ll think about it. But do you really think the Old Lady of Manchester Square will allow Prinney to kick the Tories out? The clubs are betting ten to one against it.”
“They’ve been wrong before,” Luten said with a confident smile, not allowing his eyes to stray to Corinne.
She ransacked her brain for something to say, something that was politely civil without giving Luten the idea she was trying to ingratiate him. Nothing occurred to her.
“I’ll look forward to hearing from you soon, then,” Luten said, and immediately bowed and turned away. She hadn’t said a single word to him, nor he to her. Just a barely civil bow of recognition.
Her head began throbbing. Some other group joined them, making it impossible to get away to the refreshment parlor for a glass of wine. What a foolish idea this had been. Luten wasn’t a bit jealous. He didn’t care a groat that she was out with the most dashing man in London. All he cared about was politics.
She kept an eye on the door, waiting for Prance’s arrival. She would tell Byron she had a headache and ask Prance to take her home. As the throng around the poet swelled, she allowed herself to be nudged to the edge. It was there that Coffen found her half an hour later.
“I’m leaving, if you want to come with me,” he said.
“How can I leave?”
“How can you stay? Something’s come up. Something big.”
“What?” The word came out in a loud voice. Had something happened to Luten? He shouldn’t have tried to walk on that ankle. “It’s not Luten!”
“No, it’s Fanny Rowan. She’s been killed. Luten asked Townsend to look for her. He found her body and has been darting to all the parties looking for us to tell us. We’re leaving. Are you coming or not?”
“Yes, I’m coming.” The crowd around Byron was impenetrable. While Coffen got her wrap, she left word with Lady Sefton that something had come up and she had to leave, if she would be kind enough to apologize to Lord Byron for her. They darted out into the foggy night, to the waiting carriage.
* * *
Chapter 23
Stepping out the door was like walking into a cloud. The mist had deepened to a fog that touched the face like cold steam, clammy, clinging. No light from window or carriage was distinguishable, but only suggested by a hazy glow in the vast earth-bound cloud that covered London like a counterpane. The houses on either side of the street were invisible, and the stark branches of trees were softened to a silver blur. An occasional nimbus bobbing through the lower atmosphere suggested the presence of link-boys.
Fanny’s death put all concerns of Luten and her rift with him out of Corinne’s mind. It made her feel even worse that she had never really liked Fanny. How harshly she had judged the girl, begrudging her a few used gowns. What young girl didn’t want pretty gowns?
“How did it happen? When?” she asked, as the coach proceeded at a wary pace into the night. She sat on the banquette beside Coffen, but directed her questions to both her companions.
“We’re not certain the victim is Fanny, but it sounds distressingly like her,” Luten said coolly. “Townsend says the body of a young woman was pulled from the Thames this morning. They assumed she was a suicide, but upon examining the body, they found a bullet wound in her chest. Coffen has volunteered to go and identify her.”
Luten was relieved that the job did not fall to his lot. Any death was bad enough, the death of a young person was worse, and the brutal murder of a young woman was the worst of all. A dark rage grew in him to think of it. And Fanny had been his main hope of discovering Fogg’s murderer. Very likely that was why her cold, wet body was now awaiting burial. He felt a pang, too, for her father, who was bound to feel a heavy burden of guilt for having sent her off to wicked London.
In the same tone, he continued, “I haven’t seen Fanny myself; I can’t identify her. Coffen will take us to Berkeley Square first.”
Of course it would have made more sense for Luten to go with Coffen while he identified the body, leaving Corinne at the party. They could hardly take a lady to the morgue. But it made such an excellent pretext to detach her from Byron that Luten had opted for this course when he and Coffen were discussing the logistics. All this was perfectly clear to Corinne, who went along with it, pretending not to find it odd. She read in it a hint of Luten’s continuing interest in her.
“Had she been dead long?” she asked.
“For several hours, apparently. Townsend thinks she was already dead when she was thrown in the Thames. He’s seen enough corpses to know the signs.”
“I expect he killed her last night after he got her away from the Morgate Home and has been waiting until dark to pitch her body in the river,” Coffen said.
A shudder shook Corinne, beginning deep inside her. In her mind’s eye she saw Fanny’s limp body, thrust into a dark closet. That was where the first corpse she had ever seen had been hidden. The victim was a theatrical wardrobe mistress who had been strangled and left behind a curtain that acted as her closet in her shabby little room.
“We don’t actually know that Clare killed her,” Luten pointed out, still in that unemotional voice. How could he be so detached? Was he so obsessed with politics that the life of one unimportant girl didn’t matter to him? That was unlike Luten. “We haven’t a single shred of evidence against him, only the rumor from Byron of what went on at that house in Lambeth.”
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They discussed it until they arrived at Berkeley Square. Corinne and Luten were now faced with a tricky situation. Did she go into her own house, Luten to his? Should she invite him to wait for Coffen’s return at her place? They would both want to hear what he had to say, and really she didn’t want to be alone. The carriage stopped in front of Luten’s house, the coachman let down the step and they alit. She waited, thinking he might suggest that she go in with him. He could probably use her assistance.
“Can I help you?” she asked Luten.
“I can make it to the door, thank you,” he said, ignoring her outstretched hand. “Coffen, you’ll see the countess home?”
Corinne felt a surge of anger at this curt dismissal, and calling her countess, too. “Let me know what happens, Coffen,” she said. “I shall be waiting up, whatever hour you return.”
The four of them, Corinne, Luten, Coffen and the coachman were standing in the street, enveloped in fog, when Prance came running out of his house next door. He had been waiting for his carriage, saw them and could not resist the temptation to discover immediately what was happening.
Corinne had left with Byron. Prance didn’t know Luten had left at all. He had missed his departure. Why was Luten using his unmarked carriage? Had he gone tearing off after Corinne and Byron? Was there a duel in the offing? Would he be asked to act as anyone’s second? What a coup to be Byron’s second in a duel with Luten! His head reeled with dramatic possibilities as he hurried forward to join them.
“Fanny’s been murdered,” Coffen announced, even before he was asked.
“Murdered! Good God!”
“I’m off to identify the body,” Coffen said. “Do you want to come with me, Reg? You’ve seen her as well.”
“Not I! I wouldn’t sleep for a week.” He turned to Luten. “Where shall the rest of us go to discuss it? Your place, Luten? It’s closer. You’re not used to walking much yet.” His tone was an invitation to explanation, which was not forthcoming. “Or– perhaps my place? I’ve called for my carriage. I should tell my butler to send it away when it comes.”
“Let us go to your place,” Luten said. Corinne had not invited him to her house. He feared she might not agree to enter his portals, after the surly way he had refused her help, but she would go to Prance’s. Why had he refused? She only meant to be kind. Pity, in other words. Was that what he wanted from her, pity?
“Here, lean on my arm,” Prance said, and taking Corinne by one arm, Luten by the other, he propelled them both the few yards to his door.
The coachman returned to his box and the carriage was around the corner by the time they entered Prance’s bijou drawing room. Prance’s house, like his toilette, teetered on the edge of dandyism, yet each individual item was so fine that one could not really complain.
Lamps in every corner combined with the dancing flames from the grate to set the room aglow. The walls of his drawing room were hung in gold silk, which gave almost an effect of sunlight. Each chair and table, polished to within an inch of its life with turpentine and beeswax, was placed with exquisite care as to the general composition of the room. Spaces of just the right dimension intervened, to give a feeling of uncrowded ease in a small area.
Each bibelot on the table tops had been chosen and placed as carefully as the jewels in a diadem. One table held his collection of small Sèvres boxes, each with its own interesting history. On another, miniature vases of colored Murano crystal were arranged in an arch to cast a rainbow on the far wall, on those rare occasions when sunlight slanted through the window. A tumble of exotic cushions in jewel tones of velvet and satin had recently been added to the dainty striped sofa. They were merely visitors in the room. Prance thought they might be consigned to one of the spare bedrooms if they didn’t suit.
He was toying with the notion of replacing his Watteau with an eastern scene to make the pillows feel more at home—but would the rest of his English furnishings take to an eastern painting? They had adamantly refused to have anything to do with an Ottoman. He had composed four different arrangements on paper, each worse than the last. He might, after all, content himself by tossing a tiger skin on top of the carpet to lend the room that touch of diablerie he had been craving since seeing Byron’s apartment.
He shook himself to attention and reminded himself he was the host. “First a glass of something to help us recover from this dreadful shock. Brandy for you, Luten? I shall have a small tot. And you, Corrie– madeira?”
“Sherry will be fine,” she said.
“Sherry for me as well,” Luten said.
“Yes, you are right. We didn’t see the grizzly corpse after all. I shall have a glass of brandy standing by for Coffen when he comes. One feels instinctively that actually confronting a corpse calls for brandy.” He rattled on to make his guests, who sat like a pair of plaster statues, feel at ease.
He rang for the sherry, and to give word he wouldn’t be needing his carriage after all. “This is your maiden party since your accident, is it not, Luten? What lured you forth tonight, and in such weather, too?” he asked. His curiosity was boiling to hear the details.
“I became bored, cooped up in the house. As my ankle was feeling somewhat better, I decided to go out.”
“Where did you go?”
“To Lady Sefton’s do,” Luten replied, his icy glare a challenge to further quizzing.
Prance clamped his lips together to hide his smile. “Ah, just where I was headed myself. Was it a good do?”
“Quite a squeeze.” Not a breath about Byron being there with Corinne. How had they ditched him? He would hear all these intriguing details from Corinne later.
They discussed Fanny’s death, the perpetrator and the how and when and why of it until Coffen returned.
“It was her all right,” he said, accepting the brandy Prance handed him. “Thankee, Prance. This hits the spot.” He took a swallow, choked, coughed half of it up—mercifully on his jacket, not the Aubusson carpet, and took another gulp. “I only learned one good thing, and that is that she was drugged before she was shot. The doctor could tell from her eyes. He figures she was fed a wallop of some drug, probably laudanum, so at least the poor soul didn’t know what was happening to her.”
“I doubt it was done for humane reasons, but to make sure she didn’t cause a racket,” Prance said.
Coffen nodded. “Very likely you’re right, but I’m still glad. We ought to have been keeping an eye on Clare, once we got to suspecting he was the fellow who was calling on Fogg.”
Luten ground his teeth and said, “That’s my fault. I was so involved in the reward that I didn’t pay enough attention to catching the murderer– Lord Clare, if it was indeed Clare.”
“We know that English jurisprudence holds a man innocent until proven guilty, but really, who else could it have been?” Prance asked.
“Fogg may have had a lover. A jealous lover,” Luten said, remembering that murderous tide that had washed over him when he saw Corinne leaving with Byron. “He might have thought Clare’s friendship with Fogg was of a romantic nature.”
Prance considered this a moment, then said, “But would this hypothetical lover have a reason for killing Fanny?”
Coffen said, “He would if he thought Fanny was stealing Fogg from him. If Fogg told him about her being in the family way he might have feared Fogg would marry her. I daresay it could happen, one of those fellows liking ladies as well as gents. Ambidextrous, I believe they call it. The left hand not knowing what the right hand is up to.”
Prance shook his head at this assault upon the King’s English, opened his lips to attempt a correction, and closed it again without speaking.
Coffen concluded, “I’m going back to where Fogg worked and digging around some more. He did have one friend at the place. P’raps he was more than a friend.”
“Good,” Luten said. “Let’s cover all bases this time. We also have to find Clare and stick to him like a barnacle. How do we do it, without exciting his curiosity?”
Prance tapped his cheek with one finger. “He hinted at wanting my help with the arrangement of the ballroom for his auction ball. I shall bat my eyelashes at him, and discover if he’s inclined that way. Once inside his house, I can find a hundred excuses for running about, ferreting out his secrets, while ostensibly looking for things to decorate the ballroom.”
“We could all make a donation,” Coffen added. “It’d give us an excuse for visits with him.”
“That’s good,” Luten said. “I also want him watched when none of us is around. Someone inside the Morgate Home and the house in Lambeth would be helpful as well.”
“I could ask Sally to keep her eyes open,” Coffen said. “I have reason to think she might help.”
“What reason?” Prance asked, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Arranged for her to pick up a little work at the theater. I’ll call on her tomorrow.”
“What did that cost you?” Prance asked.
“None of your business,” said Coffen, unoffended.
“What can I do to help?” Corinne asked.
“There’s no place for a lady in this jungle,” Luten informed her.
Corinne chose to interpret this as a slur on her competence, and decided on the spot that she would involve herself to the hilt. It was arranged that Luten would send one of his footmen to watch Clare’s house until morning. After a little more talk, Corinne rose to leave. She thought Luten would also leave, but he remained behind and just gave an abbreviated bow when she left.
He did not linger long, however. Within two minutes, Coffen offered to help him home, and they both left. As Prance had every intention of calling on Corinne before his head touched the pillow, he insisted on helping as well. After they had seen Luten in, Coffen said, “Well, goodnight, Reg.”
Prance paid no heed, but headed to Corinne’s door, with a look over his shoulder to make sure Luten wasn’t watching. When Coffen saw where he was going, he tagged along.