Free Let's Talk of Murder by Joan Smith

moment.”
    “Much better,” Prance agreed, chewing back a smile in the darkness of the carriage. “He is charming, isn’t he?” It didn’t even occur to her that Prance was referring to anyone but Lord Byron. He had that charismatic, larger-than-life sort of personality. “Did you notice the heads turn as we left the ballroom? I swear every lady in the room made an excuse to be at the library door to see what we were doing. I felt as if I were on exhibition, like the wild animals at Exeter Exchange.”
    “You loved every minute of it.”
    “I enjoyed it for one evening—and so did you, miss. Your face was positively glowing. I don’t know how he stands it on a permanent basis, though. Poor fellow. One has really to feel a little sorry for him. And he’s so young! It’s a wonder all the adulation hasn’t gone to his head.”
    “How old is he?” she asked.
    “Just four and twenty, like yourself.”
    “It’s odd, he seems much—older,” she said, but was unhappy with the last word.
    “Well, he is certainly a deal more experienced,” Prance admitted. “I felt like a mere whelp myself. He’s a charming man. Charming. I don’t know how any lady with blood in her veins could resist him.”
    As he spoke, he slanted a sly look at Corinne. She looked quite moonstruck. She didn’t answer, but just sighed softly in regret, or anticipation.
----
Chapter 8
    Prance called for Corinne at half past ten the next morning. He took her elegant toilette as a compliment to Lord Byron, for in the normal way she was too sensitive to flaunt her wealth and fashion at a home for unwed mothers. She looked quite ravishing in a teal blue suit that showed off her lithe figure to maximum advantage, and a high poke bonnet with a flurry of feathers tumbling over the brim. He hadn’t seen her eyes aglow with such excitement since the last time she and Luten had enjoyed one of their spats.
    “Perfect!” he purred. She didn’t smile as she usually did when he approved her ensemble.
    She just gave an impatient tsk and said, “Let us go.”
    Corinne felt like Judas when she waved to Luten, who was watching their departure from his saloon window. He blew her a kiss, which was not a Luten-ish thing to do. Coffen was already in the carriage.
    When Prance directed his driver to St. James’s Street, Coffen said, “That ain’t where the home is. It’s across the river. Westminster Bridge will be a tad shorter than Blackfriars. It’s half-way between, on the south side.”
    “We’re picking up someone,” Prance said.
    “Who?”
    “Lord Byron.”
    Coffen applied his finger to his ear. “Eh? Byron! What the devil for?”
    “He was with Prinney the night the shot was fired, you recall.”
    “What’s that to do with anything? I don’t recall he’s been in on it since then.”
    “His presence will guarantee us access into the home. No one would dare refuse him the entree.”
    Coffen turned a sharp blue orb on Corinne. “Are you in on this, Corrie?”
    A pretty flush colored her cheek. “Good gracious, you make it sound like some nefarious plot. Yes, I knew he was coming.”
    “Does Luten know?”
    “I didn’t bother mentioning it to him, in case he would worry,” she said vaguely, disliking the insinuation that he mistrusted her.
    “In case he wouldn’t let you come, you mean. That’s pretty underhanded. I smell the fine hand of Prance in this setup.” Coffen’s blue eyes could take on an amazingly hostile air when he was riled, as he was now. The eye he turned on Prance had such an air. “Trying to stir up mischief. ‘Pon my word, I’m ashamed of you, Prance.” Prance and Corinne exchanged a guilty look. “Using Corinne as bait: to catch Byron, just so you can swan around town with him. That ain’t going to make your demmed Rondeaux any better, my lad. When did you set this scheme up?”
    “It’s hardly a scheme! We ran into him last night. In fact, he invited himself along.”
    “What was a high flyer like