Free Let's Talk of Murder by Joan Smith Page A

him doing at that antique place? I don’t believe a word of it.”
    “We met him at Lady Melbourne’s rout, actually,” Prance admitted, with an air of bravado. “We arrived too late for the concert and decided to pop in at Melbourne’s. Byron happened to be there.”
    “Where else would he be? He lives in Lady Melbourne’s pocket. You might have known a fellow like him would be itching to get into a house full of girls of that sort. He probably put half of them there if the truth was known. How did you come to tell him about this visit? It’s supposed to be a secret.”
    “He doesn’t know why we’re going. And you mustn’t tell him. As far as he knows, we’re merely touring the facility with a thought to helping the unfortunate girls. Corinne is going to talk to Fanny Rowan while we tour the place.”
    “Don’t try to drag me into your scheme! I came along to talk to Fanny, and talk to her I will. You’re treading on thin water, my lad.” Prance frowned, his usual reaction to Coffen’s mangled metaphors. “Byron!” Coffen muttered into his collar.
    “If you could forget your prejudices, I think you might like him,” Prance said.
    “Like him? What would I have in common with a prancing poet? Saint George and the dragon had more in common. And you know which one is the dragon!”
    “Setting up as a saint, are you?” Prance replied airily.
    “At least I ain’t a sinner, like you,” he shot back without thinking.
    But when Byron came limping out to the rig, Coffen’s quick sympathy recalled that the man was a cripple after all, and he was polite to him. He soon sensed that Byron might even prove useful. The poet’s first words after the greetings and introduction were, “Did you know this home is run by Morgate? You folks aren’t members of Morgate’s cult, are you? I believe I’ve seen you at the Chapel Royal, Lady deCoventry.” At least the pagan went to the right church.
    Corinne denied any connection except that of performing charity. Coffen, who always kept an eye on the main point, was more interested to discover how Byron knew of the Morgate connection. “You’re familiar with the place, then?” he asked.
    “Not with this place, but with Morgate. I met him through Will Cobbet, the journalist. A fascinating fellow, full of prejudices and misinformation he expounds so reasonably he makes you half believe him. I have a high opinion of Morgate. He’s a fanatic, as most of the Dissenters are, but a man of sound morals. I visited a few of his orphan schools. They’re run on more humane grounds than most of them. I daresay this place will be, too.”
    He turned to Corinne and continued, “Do you have a special reason for visiting the home, Lady deCoventry? Are you planning to hire a girl?”
    “I’m thinking about it,” she prevaricated. Perhaps she could find a place for some of the girls who had already given birth.
    “I doubt Fanny Rowan would make a suitable servant,” Coffen said, and received a sharp glare from Prance, which he ignored. He stared at Byron with an unblinking, blue gaze. “She was called a lady the last I heard.”
    “Shocking!” Byron said angrily, apparently taking no note of the name. “How can a father toss his daughter out of the house when she’s in such trouble! And then throw up his hands in horror when she ends up on the street, saying he always knew she was no better than she should be. What does he think is going to happen to her? And these men call themselves Christians! They don’t know the meaning of the word. Do they never read the Bible? Have they never heard of Mary Magdalene?”
    This tirade caused Coffen to look at the heathen with something like approval. Corinne was also impressed. Even Prance was surprised at the vehemence of his outburst.
    “Who is this Fanny Rowan you mentioned?” Byron asked Coffen.
    “Just a lady I happen to know,” he said vaguely.
    Byron did not undertake any strenuous flirtation with two other gentlemen in