Murder at Newstead Abbey Read Free Page B

see the ones he didn’t hire. The beauty with black curls and liquid black eyes with, perhaps, a glint of appraisal in them, smiled shyly before darting out of the room. The blond one with bold green eyes lingered, casting the leer of invitation at them, until Byron said, “Thank you. That will be all, Sally.”
    “If you need me later, just let me know, your lordship,” she said, and bobbed off with her rump swaying.
    Prance gave him a knowing smirk and said, “Where do you find these ugly wenches? But we were speaking of the skull cup.”
    Before Byron could reply, Coffen came shambling into the room, looking like an unmade bed.
    “How did you find the breakfast room?” Prance asked.
    “Just followed my nose.”
    Prance and Coffen were a study in opposites. Prance was tall and lean, with a face that bore some resemblance to a greyhound. His toilette was not the most important thing in his life, but it accounted for a good deal of his time and money and artistic talent. Although he didn’t really care for country life, he liked dressing up and had indulged in a frenzy of preparations for the visit. He wore a new jacket of a rougher material than his customary superfine, made up in a heather shade for this visit. His usually flowered or striped waistcoat had been replaced by one in a solid mustard color. He had also brought along a stout blackthorn walking stick and walking shoes.
    It was impossible for a short, stout gentleman with mud-colored hair to look elegant, but Prance saw no reason that Coffen must put a scarecrow to shame. As usual, his mud-colored hair was unkempt, his cravat badly tied, his jacket wrinkled and his topboots dusty. To judge by the cut on his jaw he had shaved at least. That was something.
    “You were imagining things, Prance,” Coffen said, lowering his eyebrows over his sharp blue eyes. “There wasn’t a sign of a ghost in that room. I slept like a dog.”
    “Like a log, you mean.”
    “That as well. Time for fork work, is it?” he asked, lifting his nose like a hunting hound and sniffing the air.
    Byron led them to the sideboard, where Coffen heaped his plate with gammon and eggs and potatoes, and Prance poked about for the smallest piece of gammon and one piece of toast. Byron took only the toast.
    Before long, the other members of the party joined them. Luten was as elegant as ever, even in country clothes. His cravat was immaculate, his jacket freshly pressed and his top boots shone like a mirror. Corinne wore a new scarlet riding habit that Prance had talked her into. She looked like the illustration of Little Red Riding Hood in his book of fairy tales. He wasn’t sure he had chosen the color wisely but as he was responsible, he had to compliment her on it. There was no counting on Luten to do it, which was a dangerous lapse for a fiancé, in Prance’s opinion.
    “Byron, you mentioned you have a lady’s mount in the stable,” she said. “I thought I might have a ride this morning, as it’s such a lovely day.”
    “I also have two mounts for gentlemen,” Byron said. “Why don’t I accompany you and Luten? I’ll show you the local sights, such as they are.”
    Luten, a slave to the Whig party, had some work he wanted to do and suggested that Prance or Coffen accompany her and Byron.
    “I planned to have a look around the place. P’raps I’ll spot a ghost,” Coffen said.
    “You’ll not see ghosts in the day time,” said Corinne.
    “I know, but I mean check out the cloisters and all that, so I’ll know where to look tonight. I believe I spotted some sort of a ruin in the lake as well.”
    “Two, actually, in the upper lake,” Byron said. “You might want to have a look at the larger one. It has no reputation of being haunted but I wouldn’t want to go there alone after dark. The fifth baron built a fortress on the island there, reputedly for the purpose of holding orgies. I’ll have one of the footmen row you over. It’s not far.”
    “Thankee kindly.