She just looked at him in disgust. What could you do to a man who frankly acknowledged he was a born trouble maker? She knew him well enough to know he really couldn’t help himself. “I don’t want to hear Lord Byron’s name!” she said.
“But only think, my pet. Luten has already heard it. If he doesn’t see any sign of his competition, he’ll think you only imagined or at least exaggerated Byron’s interest in you. That would give him the last laugh.”
Luten’s words rang in her mind, “The extremely unlikely chance of bringing Byron up to scratch.” And he had said it in such a hateful tone, too. “You’re a devil incarnate, Reg.”
“I believe I am some kin to old Nick, but I want to do the right thing. Now that I’ve done the wrong thing, you know, my conscience is pinching at me.”
“Well it might! I don’t want any help from you, not now or in the future.”
“Think what you’re saying, Corrie! You’re already persona non grata at Luten’s. If you cut me as well, you’re left with only Pattle to keep abreast of things and bring about a reconciliation. I would as lief trust a cat or a dog to do the job. Luten needs you, now more than ever. And when he’s made Prime Minister, you will be the ultimate Whig hostess. A Prime Minister without a wife is at a sore disadvantage. He will certainly take a wife. If not you, then some other lady.” He peered at her to see how this notion was faring.
“Son of satan,” she hissed. “Don’t think I don’t recognize your stunt. Using the carrot and the stick on me. I’m not a mule– though I can’t say the same of Luten.” She shook her head in frustration, and gave a cynical laugh that was half a sob.
“May I take that as the first step toward forgiveness?” he asked warily.
“No. When and if Luten and I are ever back together, then I might begin to consider forgiving you at some far future time.”
He recognized this harsh speech as forgiveness. He immediately clutched her hands and showered kisses on her fingers, until she managed to wrench them free. “Now tell me all about it, every word. What did he say after I left? Evans nudged me out the door before I could hear a thing.” He slid on to a chair beside her and leaned forward eagerly to catch every word.
She gave a bah of disgust. “He accused me of treachery and deceit. I said I wouldn’t stand for such accusations. He said if I left, I need not return. I left. That’s all.”
That, in Prance’s view, was a very colorless rendition of what must have been a wonderfully emotional scene. He would have to rewrite it before spreading it abroad. “I notice you’re not wearing his ring.”
“I left it behind.”
This was more like it! “Did you throw it at him?”
“No, of course not. I’m not a child.”
“But you are a woman scorned. Where did you pitch it? Or did you throw it at all?”
“Certainly not. I placed it on the table.”
“I see.” How utterly banal. What ailed the girl? She could make the French Revolution sound boring. He would say, “She removed the ring, cool as ice, and placed it on the table as calmly as if she were setting aside her gloves.” He prodded her for more dramatic details but all he learned was that he had called her “that sort of woman,” and apparently made some derogatory reference to Caroline Lamb, who had recently made a public spectacle of herself by cantering after Byron. Bereft of the context, it was impossible to gauge the severity of the reference. It sounded more petty than harsh. “Is he angry with me?” he asked.
“He didn’t mention you, Prance. But he knows you, and he’s not a fool. He’ll know you let that morsel drop on purpose to cause mischief.”
Prance considered this troublesome detail a moment. “True, but he can hardly blame me–to my face, I mean. It was my duty as his friend to caution him. The greater wrong was actually to you, for doing it in such a havey-cavey fashion. I have humbly begged your forgiveness. I’ll nip over now and tell him how sorry I am about everything. Offer my services to bring about a reconciliation.”
“It’s too soon for that.”
“You’re right. We’ll let him stew a bit to turn him up tender.”
“I meant he would still be too angry to think about a reconciliation. I don’t think he wants one at all.” A tear oozed out of the corner of her eye. When she brushed it away with her fingers, Prance felt truly sorry for the mischief he had caused. But he knew that, given the opportunity, he would do it over again. He couldn’t help himself. He had held back as long as he could. He was addicted to drama as some unfortunates were addicted to wine or opium. If none existed, he created it,
After a pause, he said, “If you’re not seen going out with Byron, Luten will think you can’t bring him up to scratch. He’s much more likely to cave in if he thinks you and Byron are an item. And what a social coup for you, Corrie, to nab the town’s ultimate prize, then cavalierly cast him aside!”
“It seems dreadfully vulgar to be scheming like this behind Luten’s back,” she said, so primly he wanted to shake her.
“This is not the time to be high minded, my pet. You can play that role after you’re a duchess. What did you think of that remark of Byron’s, by the by?”
“Mere gossip. About Byron ...” Corinne tried very hard to look nonchalant, and failed. “He knows where I live. If he happens to hear Luten and I are no longer engaged and wishes to call on me, I’d be happy to see him.”
“Right, I’ll tell him.” Corinne frowned her disapproval to hear it put so bluntly. “Where do you want him to take you?”
Her eyes began to water again. Prance handed her his handkerchief as he disliked to see a lady wipe her tears with her fingers, like a common servant. “I don’t care where we go, Reg. That’s not the point,” she sniffled. “I just want Luten to see him call on me.”
“Then make yourself gorgeous, for Byron will no doubt come galloping,
ventre à terre
, as soon as I have a word with him.” There was a sound at the door. “Could that be him now?”
It was Coffen who was shown in by the butler, who scowled his displeasure at Prance. Of course Black had overheard every word. Coffen shot one fiery glance at the scene and said, “So he’s found out. What’s the upshot?”
“She gave him back the ring,” Prance replied.
“I smell your hand in this, Prance,” Coffen charged.
“An unpleasant metaphor. My hand resents it. I did inadvertently mention something to Luten.”
“You did it on purpose, and don’t bother trying to whitewash yourself with those break-teeth words. You’re a born troublemaker.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“You have no idea how I feel, or you wouldn’t be calmly sitting there when I’m not two steps away from the poker.” He turned to Corinne. “Not that we can give Prance credit for all the blame. I told you you ought to tell Luten yourself. If you’d listened to me–”
“I was going to tell him that very minute when Evans brought the coffee. Then Prance came in.”
Coffen hadn’t the heart to badger her when she looked so miserable. “Never mind,” he said gruffly. “It’ll come right in the end. Bound to–as long as you keep Lord Byron out of the way. Anyhow, I have news. I stopped at the Morgate Home to see Fanny while I was in the neighborhood, spying on the brothel. Bruton told me she couldn’t see me. She was sick. Looks to me like they’re keeping her incommunicado. I wager they’ve got her locked up. I mean to sneak into her room tonight and have a talk with her.”
“So long as that’s all you mean to do,” Corinne said, with a piercing look.
“It is. I want to be on the qui vive outside to see if they take the girls back to that brothel place. It is a brothel upstairs, by the way, with a gambling hell downstairs.”
“I assume you peeked in the windows belowstairs,” Prance said, “but how did you see the bedrooms?”
“I didn’t. Willie did.”
“That would be the urchin I saw pelting out of your house this morning?”
“That’s him. The lad’s sharp as a pin. He’s on to every rig and rattle. He’s spying for me. He scampered up a tree and a vine and I don’t know what all. Agile as a squirrel. Anyhow he said there’s dandy bedrooms with dirty pictures on the walls. I might drop in there as a customer tonight, if I don’t find Fanny in her room.”
“You do have a busy night planned,” Prance murmured.
“I could use some help, Prance.”
“I pray thee, hold me excused. Brothels are not exactly my cup of tea.”
“Somebody to help with the ladder is what I mean, and be on the lookout while I scramble into Fanny’s room. And p’raps to use his fists if I run into trouble. Pity Luten’s laid up.”
“I can use my fists!” Prance said at once. He disliked to do so, but he disliked even more the hint that he was a coward. If called upon to defend himself, he could use his dabs. He would take a pistol as well. Not to shoot, but to use for intimidation.
He turned to Corinne. “Shall I arrange some outing for you this evening with–our mutual friend?”
“Oh dear, I don’t know, Prance. I’m a little frightened.”
“If you mean Byron, the answer is no,” Coffen said. “You’ve done enough harm, Prance. Leave it alone. You’ve been treading on thin water all along with your stunt of foisting Byron on us. What’s so special about him, just because he sets poetry to words? You’ve been aping him with that foolish lock over your forehead, making a cake of yourself. It’s getting so I’m ashamed to be seen with you.”
Prance deemed this not an auspicious moment to correct any of his friend’s linguistic errors. “I don’t like to think of Corinne here alone all evening, pining.”
“She ain’t alone. Mrs. Ballard is here.”
“Hardly an improvement.”
“We can take her out after we get back. No harm in that. Luten trusts us.” He turned a dark eye on Prance. “Or me, anyhow. Decide where you’d like to go, Corrie, and we’ll take you after we get back.”
“I’d like to go with you to visit Fanny.”
Coffen, fearing Prance would arrange a date with Byron if she were left behind, agreed to take her.
“Do you figure it’s safe to call on Luten yet, or should I give him some time to calm down?” he asked Corinne. She shrugged. “I’ll go after I have a bite.” He looked hopefully for a luncheon invitation.
Prance, who was always eager to atone after he had sinned, took him home and fed him.
Word of Corinne’s difficulties spread through her household in minutes, thanks to Black’s eavesdropping. He halted Mrs. Ballard on her way to the drawing room to sit with her mistress and whispered that, “Her ladyship might prefer privacy at this moment, due to trouble with him next door.”
“Big trouble?” Mrs. Ballard asked fearfully.
“She’s given back the ring—again. Keep the maids out of her hair. I’ll pass the word along to the footman.”
To escape the tender solicitations of her butler, who insisted on wrapping her in blankets, supplying a stream of possets and uttering incoherent threats against his lordship, Corinne went to her bedroom, there to be comforted in Job-like fashion by Mrs. Ballard, who said in unctuous tones that no doubt it was all for the best, and the lord would show her the way to peace and happiness.
When she received a note from Prance urging her to join him and Coffen for dinner, she was happy to escape her loving tormenters. Prance had sent André out to scour London for pale pink roses and made the table arrangement himself. Gaudy red roses, tokens of love, would have been insensitive, whereas white, his own favorite, would have suggested mourning. It would be too cruel to use yellow, those tokens of farewell. Pale pink, he thought, was the discreet choice. André was requested (André was never ordered) to prepare light, tempting fare to suit a jilted lady.
“The
cassoulet
we had planned as the main dish will have to be put aside, André,” he explained. “You will agree with me that one cannot offer a lovelorn lady any dish with a bean in it. It would be too farouche. Place it within reach of Pattle. He’ll do it justice.”
Prance was happy to see that she admired the roses, and ate three bites of the herbed chicken in pan gravy, which is one more than he ate himself. He took a nibble to make sure the spices had been used in the proper proportions. She did better with the orange soufflé and drank two glasses of wine. After Coffen had done justice to the dinner, they left at once for the Morgate Home.
Luten watched from his drawing room window, his shoulders drooping to see his brigade set off on the investigation without him. Coffen had nipped in before dinner to offer his support and inform him that Corinne was blue as megrims. “You know it was always you she liked. I mean before– Still! Dash it, you know what I mean.”
“I appreciate the intention, but don’t cheer me up any more, Coffen.”
Coffen had also told him where they planned to go that evening, so Luten knew she was not seeing Byron. What Luten really wanted was to be with them, sneaking into the Morgate Home, talking to Fanny, scheming to catch Lord Clare.
He had had enough of politics, yet duty impelled him to work harder than ever at this time, when the scepter of power was dangling within the Whigs’ reach. He should this minute be reading that report on the rotten boroughs that Grey had left him, instead of mooning like a lovesick calf, pining for a glance of his lady. What did his own happiness matter, when compared to the good he could do if he succeeded in ousting Mouldy and Company?
To accomplish that miracle, however, they had first to solve Fogg’s murder. It made more than an excuse to keep an eye on the window, for he would join the group at Pattle’s place when they returned. His suggestion that Coffen and the others come to him was overborne by the ever commonsensical Coffen.
“Corrie won’t come here,” he had said bluntly. “Too proud. Thing to do, we’ll go back to my place. You come there, let on you don’t know she’s there.”
“ I certainly have to know what you discover. Surely she realizes that, and won’t think I’m running after her.”
Coffen just shook his head. “I don’t know which of the pair of you is more immature. You’re acting like a deb and a schoolboy. I can understand it in a woman, but ‘pon my word, Luten, I’m shocked at you acting so foolish.” Luten, who rarely blushed, looked conscious and immediately changed the subject. But he felt the fevered pangs of heartache, like a jilted schoolboy losing his first love.