Read Online Murder While I Smile by Joan Smith - Free Book Online Page B

none, she glanced to the doorway, where she saw a dark head standing a little above the throng of bald pates, grizzled heads, and feathered turbans. Luten! And looking, as usual, as if he had just stepped out of a bandbox. Now, what on earth was he doing here? And why had he not told her he was coming? The comtesse! She looked all around but saw no sign of her. She noticed that Luten was also looking about, probably for herself. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves and went forth to meet him.
    “Luten,” she said, not acknowledging his bow with a curtsy. “What are you doing here?”
    His slender eyebrows arched in a quizzing way. “Need you ask? Whither thou goest, my pet. Ah, I have just caught Prinney’s eye. I had best go and make my bows. These princelings take a pet so easily. Don’t go away. I shall be right back.”
    She watched as he went forward to do the pretty with Prince George. The contrast between the two gentlemen was remarkable. The prince so fat and common-looking in his garish outfit; Luten so leanly noble in a sedate jacket of dark green. The First Gentleman of Europe’s smile was somewhat strained. The meeting was brief.
    When Luten came back, Corinne returned to her question. “How did you wangle an invitation?”
    “I dropped in to speak to Yarrow while I was at the House this afternoon and dropped a few broad hints. The invitation was waiting for me when I got home.”
    She was gratified to hear that Luten had really been at the House and had been at pains to join her in the evening’s outing. She was still curious to discover why he had called for his hunting carriage, but disliked to quiz him, especially at the prince’s party.
    Coffen spotted him and came hastening forward, his brow crumpled with curiosity. “Told you not to worry,” he said to Corinne, who gave him a sharp poke in the ribs.
    They discovered Prance across the room, staring like a moonling at the prince’s back, and joined him.
    “We can have a glass of wine now. It’ll buck us up,” Coffen said, and stopped a passing footman to snare four glasses. He sipped the red liquid, frowned, and sipped again. “What kind of wine is this?” he demanded.
    “It’s not wine. It’s maraschino,” Corinne told him. “A cherry liqueur.”
    “Dandy stuff,” Coffen said, and emptied the glass.
    “We are to dedicate our next book to him,” Prance announced in a hushed voice.
    “Are we indeed? I wager Byron was not invited to do that,” Luten said.
    Prance looked around the room, fearing he might espy his nemesis, but he was soon assured of his absence. Other guests came forward to chat, and after a deal of lively bantering, during which Prance stood mute and Coffen downed two more glasses of maraschino, an extremely meager repast of anchovy sandwiches, crackers, and cheese was served. The prince was on another diet. Soon the prince led his claque to the card parlor, and the guests were free to leave.
    “We are to dedicate our next book to the Prince Regent,” Prance said again, still in that unreal voice that sounded like an echo.
    “I am very happy for us, but perhaps now that you’re outside, you can drop that persona and become you again, Prance,” Luten said. “The royal we is not contagious.”
    “A fine gentleman, the prince. I did not hear him spouting of Childe Harold. What we poets must do is keep alive the English myths, and never mind the pashas and banditos. Now, what should w— I write about next? My patron is eager to know. It should be something to reflect on him, don’t you think?”
    “Have you considered Punch and Judy?” Luten suggested. “A fine old English tradition, and Princess Caroline is well suited to her role.”
    “It is not a joke, Luten. I shall be writing for the prince—and for posterity.”
    “Famous! I shouldn’t be at all surprised to see the Rondeaux in Hatchard’s window tomorrow.” Over Prance’s shoulder, he winked at Corinne, who felt a sudden warmth invade