Free Murder While I Smile by Joan Smith

her.
    “That would be asking too much,” Prance said modestly. But he’d drop around and have a look all the same. “Shall we tackle a rout? No, I believe I shall go home and give some thought to my next oeuvre.”
    “I could do with another glass of that masherino,” Coffen said, looking about for a footman.
    “Let us all go home,” Corinne said. “You have had enough to drink, Coffen, and we have all had enough of crowns and crownets for one night. We came in my carriage,” she added, looking to Luten.
    “Prance and Coffen can take it home. It is time we lovebirds had some privacy.”
    The warmth and tenderness in his eyes went a long way toward dissipating her fears. But she would still find out why he had come home in his hunting carriage.
     

Chapter Eight
     
    Lord Luten did not receive his usual familiar greeting from Black as the butler admitted them.
    “Wine, your ladyship?” Black inquired, pointedly ignoring Luten.
    “We don’t want to be disturbed,” Luten said, and handed Corinne’s mantle to the butler.
    “Why am I in Black’s black book?” he asked, as they took up a seat on the sofa before the grate.
    She gave Luten a quizzing smile. “Perhaps he suspects you of some foul deed. You know how closely he monitors all our comings and goings.”
    “You should keep better discipline among your servants.”
    “He has my best interests at heart. How can I chastise him when his nosiness practically saved my life last spring? So what have you been doing all afternoon, Luten?” she asked, handing him a glass of wine.
    “I called on Grey to let him know I’m back. The Tories are sending rockets to Spain. That is a secret, by-the-by. Grey has appointed Henry Brougham to handle it, in my absence. Brougham and I are to work together. He’s a clever fellow, a Scot. Matriculated Edinburgh University at thirteen. He’s published scientific papers and is a lawyer and writer besides—and he’s only a few years older than myself. Makes one feel a bit of a loafer. He’s also a fine orator. I see him as Fox’s successor as leader of the party.
    “He suspects, as I do, that the Tories are up to some chicanery with the tenders, giving the contract before the House resumes for autumn.” He lifted his glass in a silent toast and they drank.
    “The exigencies of war cannot wait until the House resumes,” she pointed out.
    “The exigencies of war make a credible excuse, at any rate.”
    To discover more of his doings, especially regarding the hunting carriage, she said, “Coffen was wondering if you had sent his Poussin home.” It was not precisely a lie, merely a prevarication.
    “I sent it hours ago! Did he not receive it?”
    “If you sent it, then I assume it’s there. He dined with Reggie.”
    “Did you not dine with them?” he asked, surprised.
    A flush of remembered annoyance warmed her cheeks. “No, I had thought you and I would dine together, since we haven’t seen each other for nearly three weeks.”
    He gave a charmingly rueful smile. “I had been looking forward to it. I was detained. This rocket business ... Sorry, love. We’ll make it up tomorrow.”
    “Sure it was not this Comtesse Chamaude business?” she asked, softening the question with an arch smile.
    Luten either misunderstood or chose to misunderstand. “I shouldn’t be surprised if it’s all part and parcel of the same thing. Yarrow is on the Ordnance Committee that will assign the contract.”
    “What can that have to do with her?”
    “Perhaps nothing.”
    “Did you call on her?” she asked, her heart beating faster. She knew Luten disliked being questioned about his doings, but as his fiancée, she felt it her right.
    “Why do you ask that?”
    “Why do you not answer?”
    “No, I didn’t call on her. I was busy following a portly country gentleman in an ill-cut jacket, answering Brougham’s description of Gresham. Gresham is the other contender for the rocket contract. It was Brougham who put me on