Murder While I Smile Read Free

“I wonder if our hostess would care to sell this one.”
    “Poisson,” Coffen replied.
    “Pray what have fish to do with anything?” Prance asked, sniffing the air. “Mutton, I would say.”
    “What she wants me to look at—a Poisson. Is that a Poisson?” He peered at the painting, looking for a signature. No one had ever accused him of knowing anything about art.
    “Poussin?” Prance murmured. He and Corinne exchanged a look that spoke volumes of Pattle’s ignorance of art. He glanced at the painting above the chest. “The Watteau appears to be genuine.”
    They soon found themselves in Lady Chamaude’s saloon. It was not large, but its insignificant size was more than compensated for in elegance. Satin settees, a marble fireplace, tables littered with bibelots, a Persian carpet, and draperies of some material that emitted a golden sheen were the overall impression. Yet despite its charming decor, Corinne felt uncomfortable, as if she were in a prison. Was it the room’s size that caused it? Soon her attention was diverted to Lady Chamaude.
    It was hard to believe she was as old as arithmetic decreed. She was strategically placed with the light at her back, but even in the dull glow, one could see time had not got the better of her. Hair as black as jet was arranged in curls around a heart-shaped face. The darkness of her eyes was emphasized by delicately tinted skin, as flawless as a newly opened rose. No incipient sagging or wrinkling could be seen.
    That pair of impertinent shoulders might have been carved by Canaletto from alabaster. A wine-colored gown showed them off to great advantage. At her throat she wore a set of diamonds. The diamonds were perhaps paste; they did not sparkle as real diamonds should. At her side, like a dog guarding a particularly tasty bone, sat the corpulent, bewhiskered Marquess of Yarrow. Corinne decided it was his jailer - like pose that caused that sense of confinement.
    This gentleman was known to be quite an expert on art and ladies. He was one of the Prince Regent’s rackety crew who gambled for high stakes, drank too much, and enjoyed great favor at the Tory-dominated court. He was also, if memory served, a member of the Horse Guards, and therefore no doubt a crony of the Duke of York, who was commander in chief of that mysterious institution. They were not guards, nor did they ride horses, but their administrative office was at that address. Corinne understood they were very influential in military matters.
    “Lady deCoventry, gentlemen,” Yarrow said genially, rising to pump their hands. The creak of whalebone revealed he was wearing a corset to control his girth. “Did you ever see such grand weather as this? Delightfully warm for September.”
    They all agreed it was superlative weather.
    Lady Chamaude turned her brilliant orbs on them and said, “I don’t believe I have the pleasure of your friends’ acquaintance, Mr. Pattle.” Her voice was husky, and tinged with an alluring French accent.
    Coffen made the introductions. The loquacious Prance was bereft of words. He could only stare, employing the “under-look” in an effort to beguile the charmer.
    It was Coffen who said, “A dandy dress, Comtesse, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
    Lady Chamaude showed them to a seat and said, “Too grand for the evening I have planned, I fear. Lord Yarrow has been kind enough to help me in selecting an outfit in which to have my portrait taken. Actually, I shall be spending the night with a sick friend.”
    “Lady Chamaude says she has no use for a portrait, having no family to pass it on to,” Yarrow said. “Rubbish, say I. It will be for posterity, like the Mona Lisa.”
    The lady gave a dismissing shrug of her marmoreal shoulders. “I never thought Mona Lisa, the lady, very attractive, though it is a stunning painting. I shall have my portrait taken to remember in my old age how I looked when I was younger. I do not say young, for I am long past that. My