Free Murder While I Smile by Joan Smith Page A

to him. He mentioned that Gresham is in town, putting up at Reddish’s Hotel, ostensibly having his portrait taken, but actually trying to sell the Ordnance Committee on his rocket. We thought it a good idea to see who he calls on. He didn’t call on Yarrow, but then Yarrow is too cunning to meet the man publicly if there is any trickery afoot between them. Gresham did call on Yvonne.” He cocked his head aside and lifted his eyebrows over his intelligent gray eyes. “Interesting, n’est-ce pas? I had sent for my hunting carriage and risked driving past her place on Half Moon Street a few times. Gresham was there for an hour.”
    With her fears regarding the hunting carriage allayed, Corinne turned her attention to Gresham’s suspicious behavior. “Perhaps Gresham met Yarrow there,” she said.
    “No, Yarrow didn’t show up. He was at the House all afternoon, but it’s an odd coincidence, Gresham’s visiting Yarrow’s mistress.”
    “Perhaps she is trying to influence Yarrow to choose her friend, Gresham’s, rocket,” Corinne suggested.
    “Yarrow is the likelier culprit. He’s the one who would be engineering any chicanery. But enough of politics. You now know why I was driving my hunting carriage.” A teasing smile creased his face, for he was flattered at her jealousy.
    “Black did mention it. Knowing its function, I wondered.”
    “Surely you didn’t suspect me of carrying on with a lightskirt, when we are planning our wedding!”
    “Why, no, Luten, to tell the truth, I suspected a lightskirt of trying to get her claws into you. She made no secret of her intentions. Are you not flattered at my concern?”
    “Vastly flattered, but one does not hanker after ale when he has champagne at hand.”
    He set aside his glass and drew her into his arms to convince her he was marble-constant in his devotion. As his arms crushed her against him and his lips seized hers in a fevered embrace, she was left in no doubt.
    Their lovemaking was interrupted by a commotion at the front door. “Dash it, this is more important than snuggling!” Coffen scolded.
    “The estimable Black is barring the door,” Luten said, as the scuffling grew louder. “We’d best find out what ails Coffen. Too much maraschino, I fancy. How he could guzzle down that disgusting syrup!” He rose and opened the door. “What is it, Coffen?” he asked irritably.
    Coffen barged in, his finery all askew, his hair hanging in oily strands over his forehead, and his blue eyes bulging. “I was burgled while we was at Carlton House!” he announced.
    Corinne jumped up from the sofa. “Good gracious! What was taken?”
    “That dandy brass jug from the hall table, the one I put my hat on; my silver candlesticks that I had in the saloon—I don’t know what all.”
    “How did they get in?” she asked. “Your servants were there.”
    “Playing cards in the kitchen. Three sheets to the wind, the lot of them. They got into the wine cellar. My butler left the door on the latch for me in case I forgot my key—which I did.”
    “Let us go over and see what else is missing,” Luten said.
    “We’ll search for clues,” Coffen added. He placed a strong reliance on the efficacy of clues.
    They all darted across the street. Prance, who had been pacing his saloon to aid conjuring up a theme for his next oeuvre, noticed the movement and joined them.
    “What is up?” he demanded.
    “Coffen’s been burgled,” Corinne told him.
    “The Poussin?”
    “By the living jingo, that’s it!” Coffen cried.
    His penitent butler, Jacob, stood in the hall listening, with his head hanging in shame and a strong aroma not of wine but of ale emanating from him. He looked like a scapegallows and was, in fact, a poacher from Coffen’s country estate who had been lured from decimating Pattle’s game by the offer of employment in London. He was a dark-haired man with round shoulders and a shifty eye.
    “The picture is in your study,” he said. Then as he