Corinne knelt down by Clare’s still body. His eyelids fluttered open and he gazed at her for a moment. “Mama,” he whispered. “Mama.” Then his eyes closed and a last, long breath came from him.
It was thirty minutes before the fire was quenched. A drenched, smoke-smeared, bedraggled Coffen joined her. “Got ‘em,” he said, holding out the black jacket, beard and a colored kerchief.
“What’s that?” she asked, taking the colored piece of gold material. “It looks like— yes, it is a piece of that moire gown with the wine stain that I gave Fanny. She’s made a tippet from it.”
“Good, more clues. I found it on the floor of Clare’s rig. She must have been wearing it. I told Ed, that’s the manager, to keep an eye on Clare’s body till Bow Street gets here. I left your pistol behind as well to prove it wasn’t shot. Just as well I didn’t take it into the stable. I might have shot myself, like Clare. Right, I’ll get you home, then,” he said, in his normal, everyday voice. It took a good deal to upset Coffen Pattle.
“Congratulations, you’ve done it again, Pattle,” Prance cried, when the Berkeley Brigade met later that night in Luten’s drawing room to hear his story. Coffen had gone home to change out of his soiled clothes and wash up, and looked quite respectable. With his blood still hot from battle, he had spoken sharply to his valet and wore a clean, ironed cravat. “You really ought to make him a Cabinet Minister when you take the reins of power, Luten,” Prance added.
“I would be honored to have him as a secretary,” Luten said. “To hold a cabinet post, he’d have to be a Member of Parliament.”
“No, thankee,” Coffen said modestly. “Nobody could read my scribbling. Just keep me out of court, if you can.”
“There won’t be a trial,” Luten said. “Clare is the murderer, and he’s dead. You’ll have to make a statement regarding the accident, or suicide. I daresay we’ll never know which it was.”
“Whatever it was, it’s better than dragging all that slime through the courts,” Prance said. “In deference to Clare’s family.
“I expect we’ll hear very little of it. An unfortunate accident while cleaning his pistol. That sort of thing.”
Coffen nodded. “Bad news for the silk rope merchants.”
Prance turned to Luten. “I trust Townsend will see Mrs. Bruton turfed out of her position.”
“Oh yes, Townsend has already seen to that,” Luten told him. “He spoke to Doctor Harper this evening. Harper had no idea of all this. The annex was ostensibly rented out at a modest fee to the poorer class of working girls–milliners, and so on–and the profits turned over to Morgate.”
Corinne said, “So, you’ll be visiting Carlton House tomorrow, Luten, to claim your reward.”
Their eyes met and held. “One of my rewards,” he said, lifting an eyebrow a millimeter in question.
Prance, catching the scent of romance, said, “Pattle, what do you say you and I nip over to my place for a moment? I want to bring a special bottle of champagne.”
“Luten's cellar is full of wine. Besides, you don’t need me to help carry one bottle. Dash it, Prance, I hope you haven’t gone thinking you’re in love with me.”
Prance rolled his eyes.
“Mon dieu!
You flatter yourself, my platonic friend.” He tossed his head in Luten’s direction and said in a low voice, “Give them a minute alone and they just might patch up their quarrel.”
“Ah, that’s what you’re up to. Good idea to get you out of here before you create more mischief. We’ll toddle along.”
They crept out without being noticed by the two lovers, who were staring at each other in mutual absorption, each trying to read the mood of the other, and gear his own to accommodate, or if necessary, to combat.
“Why the deuce did you go with Pattle?” Luten asked, taking care not to let all his anger seep into his voice.
“Because, contrary to what some people think, I do care about Fanny and those girls and justice. I wanted to help catch Clare.”
Luten batted an elegant hand. “You know that was just anger speaking. Jealousy, to give it its proper name. Byron is pretty stiff competition. If anything had happened to you–” The haggard look on his face spoke more loudly than words, though for Luten to utter the word jealousy in regard to himself was an advance in their relationship as great as Hannibal’s crossing the Alps.
She tossed her head in disdainful encouragement. “You would have had your politics to keep you warm.”
“Do you want me to reject the offer? I don’t have to accept the post. Brougham, Grey or Grenville could do as well.”
She blinked in astonishment. As he watched, her face clenched in anger. “No! No, of course not. You shouldn’t even say such a thing! You make me sound like a–one of those horrid managing women, always insisting on having her own petty way. How could you think such a thing of me?” Despite her outburst, she was flattered to death. She hardly knew whether the tears that glazed her eyes were tears of relief, or joy or anger.
He gazed a long moment into her green eyes, dark with emotion and glittering with unshed tears. He should make some gallant speech, say life was nothing to him without her. It was not pride that dictated his words, but native honesty and respect of her judgement.
He said, “I would only do it if forced to make a choice between you and my work. I would compensate in other ways, accept some lesser position in the cabinet, that demanded less time. A man must have work of some sort. You’d soon despise me as much as I would despise myself if I did nothing.”
It was enough. Luten was never one for the grand gesture, but what he said, he meant, and he kept his word. Her smile was small, but warm. “I am touched, Luten. I’d never ask you to curtail your work. You wouldn’t be you if you did less–but I do retain the right to carp a little.”
He reached warily for her two hands. When she didn’t draw away, he said, still warily, “Does that mean —”
“Kiss me, you idiot,” she said, and pulled his head down to hers.
He kissed her, with the pent-up passion of a man who has recovered his love, that he thought irrevocably lost. She would have swooned had she known the thoughts that swirled through his brain. That he loved her to distraction, more than life itself; that he had actually felt a hot tear scald his cheek when he feared he had lost her; that he never meant to let her go again. At length he lifted his head. “Then we’re re-engaged?” was all he said. But the rough tone of his usually silken voice betrayed the depth of his feelings.
“So it seems,” she replied coolly.
“As I happen to have the ring weighing down my pocket….” He drew it out and slid it on her finger. She smiled ruefully as the weight of the diamond pulled it palmward, out of sight, leaving the gold band uppermost. “Perhaps Byron was right. We’ll exchange it for a proper one.” Then he drew her back into his arms.
Black, watching from the hall, refused to allow Prance and Coffen entry when they returned with the champagne. “Tomorrow will be soon enough to celebrate, when his lordship is Prime Minister,” Black said.
Prance sighed. “Smelling of April and May in there, is it? Looks like it’s just you and me, Pattle.” He put his arm over Coffen’s shoulder in a companionable way.
Coffen jerked away. Tahrsome fellow. “I believe I’ll just toddle on home, Prance, thankee very much.”
* * * *
The Berkeley Brigade was out in force to see Lord Luten drive to Carlton House the next morning, where, after cooling his heels for half an hour, he was accompanied by a pair of royal footmen outfitted in blue livery and gold lace to the prince’s glittering, gilt-trimmed office, that was rigged out as grandly as the Palace of Versailles.
“Your majesty,” Luten said, bowing. “I have done what you asked. With the help of my friends, the case has been solved.”
“Good lad. We are highly gratified, my dear Luten. Details, if you please!”
Luten was not asked to have a seat, which he took as a bad omen. He told his tale standing up, leaning on his cane, while the prince gave an occasional royal “tsk” or frown of consternation at the unsavory details that sullied his ears. When Luten was finished, the prince rose.
“Pity it was Clare behind it all. His poor mama. The lady is a saint, Luten. The time and money she donates to charity! She will be greatly dismayed at what you tell me. And indeed Lady Hertford will be very much distressed to hear that young Fogg was– Well, no need to call names.” He shook his head and scowled, until Luten felt he was somehow responsible for all this sordid business.
“Perhaps we can spare her that. Yes, we see no reason why Lady Hertford’s delicate ears must hear such things. The story hangs together well enough without it, eh? We shall wrap the details up in clean linen, and of course see that affairs at the Morgate Home are put on a respectable basis. And now for your reward. We have not forgotten that!”
Luten took a deep breath. The Prince was so unhappy with the whole tale that Luten feared he might renege. As he looked at the prince, he became aware that the arch smile of yore was missing, to be replaced by something akin to shame.
“Yes, we have been busy on your behalf–your grace.” As the prince spoke, his voice adopted a playful tone, and his gray eyes gleamed slyly. Luten just looked in confusion.
“Your reward, my dear Luten! We promised to confer a dukedom on you, and we hope we know how to keep our promises.” Luten could only stare at this piece of royal hypocrisy. His career was littered with broken promises. “How will you like having strawberry leaves on your carriage, eh? You will want to think about what title to choose, and a crest and all that. Unfortunately we cannot give you the lands or money often accompanying such an elevation. Finances are tight with the war. We have discussed the matter with Liverpool and he sees no difficulty in conferring the title. An old, distinguished family, and a Whig, which will show the world the Tories are not getting all the perquisites.”
“But I thought–”
“You are overwhelmed,” the prince said, smiling uneasily. “It is indeed a great honor. A dukedom, of course, is more usually reserved for those who have distinguished themselves on the field of battle. We shall personally oversee the festivities. We are said to have a knack for such things,” he said modestly.
“We” said more, but Luten was not listening. A dukedom! The son-of-a-bitch! It was all he could do to keep his tongue between his teeth, and his hands from balling into fists to smite his majesty. Luten left as soon as he could politely get away, and returned to Berkeley Square with his head bowed, caught between anger with the prince and shame at his own vaulting ambition. All his grand plans to save the country reduced to this jape. Another handle for his name. He wouldn’t accept it. And he would have to tell his colleagues how he had misunderstood the prince’s promise.
The humiliation, the disappointment! Dammit, he hadn’t misunderstood. Prinney had used the word “leadership.” The prince had gulled him.
Prance had arranged a celebration at Luten’s house during his absence. The champagne was chilled, the dainties arranged on silver trays. A banner in red and white bunting, red being the Whigs’ color, was festooned across the archway into the drawing room. “Hail the Prime Minister, Lord Luten,” he trumpeted, sketching a bow.
They mistook Luten’s dragging step to be due to his sprained ankle. The cheer went up as he entered the room. Luten looked at the banner, then he hooked the handle of his cane over the bunting and pulled it down. He looked at his friends and shook his head. “Make that the Duke of Folly,” he said.
“Duke?” Prance cried. “A dukedom as well! Then Byron was right.”
“Not as well. A dukedom, period. That was the reward he meant. Or so he says. I’ll be damned if I’ll accept it.”
“Any land or money to go with it?” Coffen asked.
“No.”
“Oh Luten, I’m sorry,” Corinne said, and put her arm around his waist. He smiled ruefully down at her and squeezed her fingers.
“That will teach me to count my chickens before they’re hatched. Bad as it is for myself, I now have to confess my folly to my colleagues. God, I’ll be a laughing stock.”
“No, no! We make the prince out an ogre, renegging on his promise!” Prance said. “Surely that’s the way to go.”
“He never actually said he would boot out the Tories,” Luten said. “Although that is certainly what he meant–or what he knew I thought he meant. He can’t have been unaware of the rumors swirling around the House this past week. He did nothing to squelch them.”
“It’s unconscionable!” Prance said, then added more leniently, “Though it would be fine to be a duke, too.”
“Duke bedamned, that’s just politics to dilute his having created so many Tory peers to shoehorn their bills through the Upper House,” Luten howled. “He’ll not use me to whitewash his scoundrelly behaviour.”
Coffen listened to their chatter, then spoke. “If you ask me, which you didn’t, I’d say he has another stunt up his sleeve as well. Breaking two eggs with one stone. He did it to drive a wedge between you Whigs. How would Grey and Grenville and the older members of the Upper House feel to see you suddenly boosted up to a duke? A bit of a slap in the face for them. Bound to cause resentment.”
“By God, you’re right!” Luten said.
“Dissension in the ranks! Divide and conquer,” Pranced added.
Plans were afoot to counter Mouldy and Company’s latest stunt. Henry Brougham, Luten said, was the man to exploit this in print. Corinne poured the champagne and passed it around. She was not entirely unhappy with the prince’s trick, if it was a trick. Lord Luten was kept quite busy enough as a minister in the shadow cabinet. She would never see him if he were Prime Minister.
“I’ll drop in on Brougham this afternoon,” Luten said. Then he looked at Corinne, and added, “He can attend to this little matter while Corinne and I are in Ireland for our wedding.”
“Providing someone doesn’t murder someone else before we get away,” she added resignedly. “Meanwhile, a toast.” She looked around for someone to propose it.
Coffen raised his glass. “To the best Prime Minister there ever wasn’t,” he said.
Luten put his head back and laughed. At Coffen, at himself, at life. There would be other opportunities, and no doubt other murders, but he wouldn’t let them delay his wedding again.