Let's Talk of Murder Read Free Page A

twenty-four, I believe, when he was made Prime Minister,” Luten replied coolly.
    “But he was a genius!”
    Luten was much too polite to glare, but his voice held an edge of ice when he replied. “Yes, well, that is the sort of thing I want to discuss with Brougham. And it won’t get beyond discussion unless we find the wretch who fired that shot last night.” He looked around at his helpers, rubbed his hands and said, “So, shall we get busy? Report back to me the moment you finish your assignments.”
    “Sounds like grammar school,” Coffen grumbled, rising.
    “Coming, Corrie?” Prance asked.
    “I want a word with Corinne before she goes,” Luten said.
    When they were alone, he put out his hand and she went to him. “You must be extremely frustrated to be hors de combat at this time,” she said, squeezing his fingers.
    “Bad timing indeed. But I can hobble about a little. I got downstairs by myself, and could make it to my carriage if necessary.”
    “Don’t strain yourself. You’re supposed to be recuperating, so that we can go to Ireland, you recall.”
    This was her roundabout way of reminding him of their pending wedding. It was to take place at Ardmore Hall, her home in Ireland, when he recovered, for she would not risk having the society wags say she only managed to catch him when he couldn’t run. She could not bring herself to say simply, “Hurry up and get better so we can get married.” That would skirt too close to admitting that she was in love with him.
    “I’m not likely to forget, my dear,” he said, and pulled her on to his knee for a long, satisfactory embrace, that said all that needed saying. They were both better at acting than at words, when it came to love.
    Coffen and Prance were waiting for her outside. “What do you make of this?” Prance asked, as they crossed the road. Since Prance lived on the same side of the street as Luten, she assumed they were inviting themselves to her house for a drink before going their separate ways, and led them inside.
    Her house seemed small and modest after the gilt and brocade grandeur of Luten’s mansion. Her late husband could not leave her his entailed estate but he had set aside funds to provide this small house, along with a country retreat and twenty-five thousand pounds, the interest on which provided her with a competence. With Prance’s help, she had contrived an elegant drawing room with an air of cozy opulence.
    “Like I said, there’s no hope of finding the fellow,” Coffen said again, when they had been supplied with a glass of wine and gathered around the fireplace. Then he added consideringly, “Like looking for a weasel in a haystack. But it will be fun trying, eh?”
    Prance usually corrected Coffen’s solecisms, but his mind was too full of Byron to notice the latest. “I quite look forward to calling on Byron with some legitimate reason, so that he doesn’t mistake me for one of his fawning fans,” Prance said.
    “Mistake?” Coffen snorted.
    Prance ignored that jibe. “By the by, does anyone know his address?”
    “Number 8 St. James’s Street,” Coffen replied.
    “How do you know that?” Prance demanded sharply.
    “Don’t worry. I haven’t been there. Saw him going in. Twice. Only reason I noticed, there was a herd of people with books they wanted him to sign.”
    “Oh,” Prance said with a wince of envy. “Do you think I should take him a copy of my Rondeaux as a sort of courtesy?” Round Table Rondeaux was the title of Prance’s long, stupefyingly tedious poem in iambic pentameters, fully footnoted, on the Arthurian legend. Despite its great length, it omitted all the more interesting parts. Lady Guinevere made no appearance.
    “No,” Coffen said without hesitation.
    Prance nodded consideringly. “You’re right. He would already have a copy.” Noticing Corinne’s pensive frown, he said, “ ‘Why so pale and wan, fond lover?’ Was Luten not gallant when he shoo’d us out and kept you