by Joan Smith
As Coffen’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could discern the outline of the sporting carriage from the dim moonlight at the window. He hurried forward and began to feel around the floor of the rig. He was soon aware there was no jacket there, and no beard. All he found was a piece of cloth, probably a handkerchief. He stuffed it in his pocket and began a systematic search of the stable, feeling his way around the edge of the floor, behind the bales of hay, with particular emphasis on the corners.
He knocked his shin against a bucket and muttered a curse when the water splashed out on his trousers. He felt beside the bucket, behind it, and leapt back, fearing a rat when something furry brushed his fingers. There was no rustle of scampering feet. He reached out and felt the furry thing–it was hair, a beard. And beneath it was a jacket.
Corinne heard a carriage drive into the stable. She took another peek out the window and saw the lozenge on the door that told her it was a nobleman’s carriage. There might be more than one noble carriage stabled here, however. But when the coachman hopped down from the box and held the door open, it was Lord Clare who climbed out.
The stable manager ran forward and had a word with him. Corinne had seen the manager speak to the water boy. Very likely he was now telling Clare that there was someone in the stable. Clare nodded, the manager went into his office and brought Clare out a lantern. Clare headed toward his stable. Thank goodness Coffen had a pistol.
But Coffen was not a very accurate shot. And if he were caught offguard— She really should warn him. She quietly opened the carriage door. A glimmer of something on the opposite banquette caught her eye. She looked more closely, and in the dim moonlight, she saw the pistol lying on the seat where Coffen had left it. Her heart began to pound. She picked the pistol up, wishing her trusted butler was with her. Black would know what to do. Why hadn’t she asked him to come along? She climbed out of the carriage and began to walk toward the stable, looking around to see that no one was watching.
Coffen had the beard and clergyman’s black jacket in his hand when the stable door opened. Lord Clare’s lithe, broad shouldered form was silhouetted in the doorway. He lifted his left hand, and a beam from a lantern shone on Coffen’s pale face. Clare saw the black jacket in his hand—and in the same instant, Coffen saw the pistol in Clare’s right hand. It was not until that moment that Coffen realized he had left his pistol behind. A bit of a tricky situation.
The only ray of hope Coffen could see was that Clare couldn’t close the stable door when he had both his hands full. And he wouldn’t likely shoot when it was open, and someone might look in and see him. If he could work his way behind the curricle, it’d provide a bit of protection. But as soon as he took one sideways step, Clare’s voice, cold as ice, said, “Don’t move, Pattle. Drop the jacket. I want to see your hands,” Coffen dropped the jacket but managed to stuff the beard up his sleeve. “Ah I see you’re unarmed. Pity.”
Coffen correctly interpreted this to mean Clare wanted to shoot him, and claim self defense. “Never mind,” Clare’s voice continued. “By luck, I have another gun in my curricle. It will be in your hand, when they find you. Walk slowly forward. That’s right, no tricks. Now, close the stable door and bar it.”
Coffen walked slowly forward. “They don’t lock from the inside.”
“I said bar it.”
“How? The doors open outwards.”
“Then close it, dammit!”
Coffen drew it closed. He knew by the shaking light that Clare’s hands were trembling. He was losing his nerve. “People know I’m here, Clare,” he said, in a quiet voice. “If you shoot me, they’ll know you did it. We know you killed Fogg and Fanny. We know what was going on at the Lambeth house.”
The laugh that came from Clare’s lips was edged with hysteria. “As well hang for a sheep as a lamb.” His finger moved nervously on the trigger. “It was Fogg who came begging me to take that miserable whore, Fanny, into the Morgate Home. I only did it as a favor to him.” His voice rose as he ranted on, trying to justify his iniquity. “They’re all whores, and the men are as bad, paying to see those disgusting acts.”
“You’re the one that puts them up to it,” Coffen said. “Why did you do it?”
“I’m only giving them what they want! I don’t keep the money. If they didn’t come to me, they’d go somewhere worse.”
“You shouldn’t force innocent young girls–”
Clare’s voice lashed out like a whip. “Shut up! Shut up and let me think.”
Corinne felt a tremble when she saw the door being drawn closed. She heard the echo of voices and hurried forward to listen, but the voices had stopped. She heard only silence. “Coffen!” she called, and pulled the door outwards.
“Don’t come in!” Coffen called.
Of course she ignored his order. “Are you all right?” She stepped into the darkness, and saw the wavering puddle of light.
Clare’s head turned toward the opening door. Quick as a wink, Coffen shook the beard into his hand, threw it in Clare’s face and made a leap for the gun while he was distracted. The pistol went off, creating a deafening roar in the stable. A bullet careened against the side of the curricle. Clare dropped the lantern and grabbed Corinne by the wrist. He shook her arm, trying to dislodge the gun she held. She screamed but held on. Coffen rushed in to rescue her. Another shot rang out. In the darkness, it was hard to see exactly what was going on. But before long, he saw the fire from the lantern had lit some loose straw on the floor, and was working its way toward the bales of hay along the walls. He didn’t feel the heat yet, but he heard the crackling sound and saw the tongues of flame licking at the dry hay.
Running footsteps came pelting toward the stable. “We’d best get out,” Coffen said, and took Corinne’s hand. She tried to move, but she was pinned to the curricle, with Clare’s weight sagging against her.
“He’s been shot!” she cried.
“Stand aside. I’ll drag him out.”
“Here! What’s going on?” the manager called, bustling in. “Gorblimey! The place is ablaze. The hay’ll go up like a tinder box. Water, lads! Run for the buckets.”
While the manager raised the alarm to summon all available help, Coffen dragged Clare’s body free of the stable. “What happened?” Corinne asked, staring at the still form. In the shadowed moonlight, Lord Clare’s face wore a beatific expression. He looked younger and more peaceful than she had ever seen him look.
Coffen took her pistol and smelled it. “Don’t worry. You didn’t kill him. This hasn’t been fired. I don’t know if he killed himself on purpose or it was an accident. Either way, it’s for the best. I’ll give these lads a hand with the fire. I wouldn’t want to lose my clues. Then I’ll take you home and pay a call at Bow Street.”
Corinne knelt down by Clare’s still body. His eyelids fluttered open and he gazed at her for a moment. “Mama,” he whispered. “Mama.” Then his eyes closed and a last, long breath came from him.
It was thirty minutes before the fire was quenched. A drenched, smoke-smeared, bedraggled Coffen joined her. “Got ‘em,” he said, holding out the black jacket, beard and a colored kerchief.
“What’s that?” she asked, taking the colored piece of gold material. “It looks like— yes, it is a piece of that moire gown with the wine stain that I gave Fanny. She’s made a tippet from it.”
“Good, more clues. I found it on the floor of Clare’s rig. She must have been wearing it. I told Ed, that’s the manager, to keep an eye on Clare’s body till Bow Street gets here. I left your pistol behind as well to prove it wasn’t shot. Just as well I didn’t take it into the stable. I might have shot myself, like Clare. Right, I’ll get you home, then,” he said, in his normal, everyday voice. It took a good deal to upset Coffen Pattle.
* * *
Chapter 30
“Congratulations, you’ve done it again, Pattle,” Prance cried, when the Berkeley Brigade met later that night in Luten’s drawing room to hear his story. Coffen had gone home t
o change out of his soiled clothes and wash up, and looked quite respectable. With his blood still hot from battle, he had spoken sharply to his valet and wore a clean, ironed cravat. “You really ought to make him a Cabinet Minister when you take the reins of power, Luten,” Prance added.
“I would be honored to have him as a secretary,” Luten said. “To hold a cabinet post, he’d have to be a Member of Parliament.”
“No, thankee,” Coffen said modestly. “Nobody could read my scribbling. Just keep me out of court, if you can.”
“There won’t be a trial,” Luten said. “Clare is the murderer, and he’s dead. You’ll have to make a statement regarding the accident, or suicide. I daresay we’ll never know which it was.”
“Whatever it was, it’s better than dragging all that slime through the courts,” Prance said. “In deference to Clare’s family.
“I expect we’ll hear very little of it. An unfortunate accident while cleaning his pistol. That sort of thing.”
Coffen nodded. “Bad news for the silk rope merchants.”
Prance turned to Luten. “I trust Townsend will see Mrs. Bruton turfed out of her position.”
“Oh yes, Townsend has already seen to that,” Luten told him. “He spoke to Doctor Harper this evening. Harper had no idea of all this. The annex was ostensibly rented out at a modest fee to the poorer class of working girls–milliners, and so on–and the profits turned over to Morgate.”
Corinne said, “So, you’ll be visiting Carlton House tomorrow, Luten, to claim your reward.”
Their eyes met and held. “One of my rewards,” he said, lifting an eyebrow a millimeter in question.
Prance, catching the scent of romance, said, “Pattle, what do you say you and I nip over to my place for a moment? I want to bring a special bottle of champagne.”
“Luten's cellar is full of wine. Besides, you don’t need me to help carry one bottle. Dash it, Prance, I hope you haven’t gone thinking you’re in love with me.”
Prance rolled his eyes. “Mon dieu! You flatter yourself, my platonic friend.” He tossed his head in Luten’s direction and said in a low voice, “Give them a minute alone and they just might patch up their quarrel.”
“Ah, that’s what you’re up to. Good idea to get you out of here before you create more mischief. We’ll toddle along.”
They crept out without being noticed by the two lovers, who were staring at each other in mutual absorption, each trying to read the mood of the other, and gear his own to accommodate, or if necessary, to combat.
“Why the deuce did you go with Pattle?” Luten asked, taking care not to let all his anger seep into his voice.
“Because, contrary to what some people think, I do care about Fanny and those girls and justice. I wanted to help catch Clare.”
Luten batted an elegant hand. “You know that was just anger speaking. Jealousy, to give it its proper name. Byron is pretty stiff competition. If anything had happened to you–” The haggard look on his face spoke more loudly than words, though for Luten to utter the word jealousy in regard to himself was an advance in their relationship as great as Hannibal’s crossing the Alps.
She tossed her head in disdainful encouragement. “You would have had your politics to keep you warm.”
“Do you want me to reject the offer? I don’t have to accept the post. Brougham, Grey or Grenville could do as well.”
She blinked in astonishment. As he watched, her face clenched in anger. “No! No, of course not. You shouldn’t even say such a thing! You make me sound like a–one of those horrid managing women, always insisting on having her own petty way. How could you think such a thing of me?” Despite her outburst, she was flattered to death. She hardly knew whether the tears that glazed her eyes were tears of relief, or joy or anger.
He gazed a long moment into her green eyes, dark with emotion and glittering with unshed tears. He should make some gallant speech, say life was nothing to him without her. It was not pride that dictated his words, but native honesty and respect of her judgement.
He said, “I would only do it if forced to make a choice between you and my work. I would compensate in other ways, accept some lesser position in the cabinet, that demanded less time. A man must have work of some sort. You’d soon despise me as much as I would despise myself if I did nothing.”
It was enough. Luten was never one for the grand gesture, but what he said, he meant, and he kept his word. Her smile was small, but warm. “I am touched, Luten. I’d never ask you to curtail your work. You wouldn’t be you if you did less–but I do retain the right to carp a little.”
He reached warily for her two hands. When she didn’t draw away, he said, still warily, “Does that mean —”
“Kiss me, you idiot,” she said, and pulled his head down to hers.
He kissed her, with the pent-up passion of a man who has recovered his love, that he thought irrevocably lost. She would have swooned had she known the thoughts that swirled through his brain. That he loved her to distraction, more than life itself; that he had actually felt a hot tear scald his cheek when he feared he had lost her; that he never meant to let her go again. At length he lifted his head. “Then we’re re-engaged?” was all he said. But the rough tone of his usually silken voice betrayed the depth of his feelings.
“So it seems,” she replied coolly.
“As I happen to have the ring weighing down my pocket….” He drew it out and slid it on her finger. She smiled ruefully as the weight of the diamond pulled it palmward, out of sight, leaving the gold band uppermost. “Perhaps Byron was right. We’ll exchange it for a proper one.” Then he drew her back into his arms.
Black, watching from the hall, refused to allow Prance and Coffen entry when they returned with the champagne. “Tomorrow will be soon enough to celebrate, when his lordship is Prime Minister,” Black said.
Prance sighed. “Smelling of April and May in there, is it? Looks like it’s just you and me, Pattle.” He put his arm over Coffen’s shoulder in a companionable way.
Coffen jerked away. Tahrsome fellow. “I believe I’ll just toddle on home, Prance, thankee very much.”
* * * *
The Berkeley Brigade was out in force to see Lord Luten drive to Carlton House the next morning, where, after cooling his heels for half an hour, he was accompanied by a pair of royal footmen outfitted in blue livery and gold lace to the prince’s glittering, gilt-trimmed office, that was rigged out as grandly as the Palace of Versailles.
“Your majesty,” Luten said, bowing. “I have done what you asked. With the help of my friends, the case has been solved.”
“Good lad. We are highly gratified, my dear Luten. Details, if you please!”
Luten was not asked to have a seat, which he took as a bad omen. He told his tale standing up, leaning on his cane, while the prince gave an occasional royal “tsk” or frown of consternation at the unsavory details that sullied his ears. When Luten was finished, the prince rose.
“Pity it was Clare behind it all. His poor mama. The lady is a saint, Luten. The time and money she donates to charity! She will be greatly dismayed at what you tell me. And indeed Lady Hertford will be very much distressed to hear that young Fogg was– Well, no need to call names.” He shook his head and scowled, until Luten felt he was somehow responsible for all this sordid business.
“Perhaps we can spare her that. Yes, we see no reason why Lady Hertford’s delicate ears must hear such things. The story hangs together well enough without it, eh? We shall wrap the details up in clean linen, and of course see that affairs at the Morgate Home are put on a respectable basis. And now for your reward. We have not forgotten that!”
Luten took a deep breath. The Prince was so unhappy with the whole tale that Luten feared he might renege. As he looked at the prince, he became aware that the arch smile of yore was missing, to be replaced by something akin to shame.
“Yes, we have been busy on your behalf–your grace.” As the prince spoke, his voice adopted a playful
tone, and his gray eyes gleamed slyly. Luten just looked in confusion.
“Your reward, my dear Luten! We promised to confer a dukedom on you, and we hope we know how to keep our promises.” Luten could only stare at this piece of royal hypocrisy. His career was littered with broken promises. “How will you like having strawberry leaves on your carriage, eh? You will want to think about what title to choose, and a crest and all that. Unfortunately we cannot give you the lands or money often accompanying such an elevation. Finances are tight with the war. We have discussed the matter with Liverpool and he sees no difficulty in conferring the title. An old, distinguished family, and a Whig, which will show the world the Tories are not getting all the perquisites.”
“But I thought–”
“You are overwhelmed,” the prince said, smiling uneasily. “It is indeed a great honor. A dukedom, of course, is more usually reserved for those who have distinguished themselves on the field of battle. We shall personally oversee the festivities. We are said to have a knack for such things,” he said modestly.
“We” said more, but Luten was not listening. A dukedom! The son-of-a-bitch! It was all he could do to keep his tongue between his teeth, and his hands from balling into fists to smite his majesty. Luten left as soon as he could politely get away, and returned to Berkeley Square with his head bowed, caught between anger with the prince and shame at his own vaulting ambition. All his grand plans to save the country reduced to this jape. Another handle for his name. He wouldn’t accept it. And he would have to tell his colleagues how he had misunderstood the prince’s promise.
The humiliation, the disappointment! Dammit, he hadn’t misunderstood. Prinney had used the word “leadership.” The prince had gulled him.
Prance had arranged a celebration at Luten’s house during his absence. The champagne was chilled, the dainties arranged on silver trays. A banner in red and white bunting, red being the Whigs’ color, was festooned across the archway into the drawing room. “Hail the Prime Minister, Lord Luten,” he trumpeted, sketching a bow.