Let's Talk of Murder Read Free Page B

behind?”
    “It’s not that. I was just thinking, if we do find the man and Luten is made Prime Minister, when will we ever have time to get married?”
    Coffen sniffed and refilled his glass. “Shouldn’t fret about that, Coz. Prinney’s not one to worry about keeping his promises. All a bogus sham. If by some quirk we find the fellow we’re looking for, Prinney will give Luten an engraved snuff box or perfume bottle, and that’ll be the end of it. Mark my words.”
    “I hope you may be right.” After the words were out, she colored and added, “Oh dear! I didn’t mean that. Luten would make a marvelous Prime Minister. And it’s what he has always wanted. Only...”
    “Don’t worry your pretty little head,” Coffen said. “Not a chance in a million we’ll find the scoundrel. And if we do, as I said, Prinney will renege on his promise. So, let us be off.”
    “And I shall be off to St. James’s Street,” Prance said, rising. But first he had to dart home and make a fresh toilette. One did not call on the premier poet of England in a shirt that had been on his back for two hours.
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Chapter 3
    Prance was as nervous as a deb when he drew up outside Number 8, St. James’s Street. He was surprised at the inelegance of Byron’s butler, a burly country-looking fellow who showed him into a saloon not unlike something Coffen might have contrived, had he spent some years in the east. A second look revealed books scattered everywhere, one clutter that Coffen would have avoided.
    Strange round leather footstools were littered about the floor. Byron was sprawled on an uncomfortable-looking sofa without a proper back. The prints on the wall and the brass and ivory bibelots sprinkled on various table tops had the air of the mysterious east. A marmalade cat with one eye gave Prance a look of contempt as he brushed past, flicking his boots with a swing of his tail.
    Byron stood up and extended his hand when Prance entered. Despite the disarray of a tumbling curl over his forehead, a white shirt open at the throat and trousers creased from sprawling, he was still the most beautiful, glamorous person Prance had ever encountered. His eyes, an indeterminate blue-gray like the sea on a cloudy day, were edged in inch long lashes that belonged on a woman. His skin had an interesting pallor, and his mouth—sensitive yet capricious—was straight out of a Renaissance painting of a mischievous cherub. Over all this physical glory hovered the tantalizing aura of his foreign travels, his famous poems and his many love affairs, causing a sensation not unlike intoxication.
    Prance, famous for his silver tongue, found himself speechless. His tongue literally cleaved to the roof of his mouth, and what issued from his throat was nothing else than a croak like a corncrake.
    Byron limped forward and clasped his hand in a firm grip. “Come in, have a seat, Prance,” he said, in a warm, friendly voice. “Good of you to call. I’ve seen you about here and there and have been looking forward to making your acquaintance.”
    “Too kind, milord,” Prance croaked, and sank on to one of the low leather stools, until Byron took him by the arm and led him to the backless sofa.
    “Forgive the shambles,” Byron said, but with no air of apology. “I leased this flat unfurnished as a pied-à-terre for a few weeks, or a few months, or a few something until I decide where to roost until I take off for sunny climes again. This ottoman and the bits and pieces you see are some of the loot I lugged home. I am quite a magpie in that respect, never come home empty-handed. This rubble will be sent along to Newstead Abbey eventually.”
    “Charming,” Prance said, gazing all around. A large yellow dog, vaguely hound-like, strolled into the room and clambered on to the ottoman between Prance and Byron. Prance steeled himself not to move away from the beast, as Byron began patting it fondly.
    “Let me offer you some refreshment,” Byron said.