Free Murder's Sad Tale by Joan Smith

for Reg. What could one do on such a day but peruse the shops and see the latest gewgaws? He’d send for his carriage and drive to Bond Street. Some little toy — a new vase or a little statue, or perhaps a minor jeweled stud for his cravat might cheer him up. Something different — an onyx stud, for instance, would look stunning against a snow-white cravat for mourning occasions, or a large pearl in a black stock for funerals. February was bound to kill off someone he knew. He sent for his carriage. When it arrived Coffen was just coming out of his house, carrying the abominable hat.
    Reg called him over to his carriage. “Where are you off to, and why are you on foot? Don’t tell me you’re afraid to send a footman for your carriage.”
    “Course not. It happens Fitz ain’t up to it this morning.”
    “Been at your wine again, no doubt.”
    Coffen didn’t bother to deny it. “I suppose you’re chasing after Byron,” he said in retaliation.
    “Certainly not!”
    “Good, then if you were just planning to cruise Bond Street, you can give me a lift.”
    “Where are you going?”
    “To see Miss Barker.”
    “Where does she live?”
    “On Grosvenor Square, with some cousin or aunt.”
    “Oh very well. Hop in.” Lady Dunn lived on Grosvenor Square. Perhaps he would run into her ... A mention that he hoped to see her at some ton do this evening — Lady Middleton’s musical soiree was this evening — and she might invite him to her do. He needn’t go if Byron wasn’t. Pity he was with Coffen. The fellow looked as if he’d hopped out of the ragbag. The hat on his head was hardly better than the one he was carrying. Reg had no intention of wasting a half hour calling on a Miss Barker, although the house, when Coffen pointed it out, was really rather impressive. A fine brick house with pillars and a pedimented doorway, right next door to Lord Falkner’s. Hardly the residence one imagined for Mrs. Ballard’s friend. Miss Barker might be worth knowing after all.
    “I don’t suppose you’d care to step in with me?” Coffen said.
    “Why not? I have nothing in particular to do.” His post boy, like all his servants, was as well trained as a Guardsman . He was down from his perch with the door open and the steps let down before Coffen got his gloves picked up off the floor where he’d dropped them. Prance noticed he’d stepped on them, smearing the York tan leather with mud. “Is she expecting you?” he asked.
    “No, but the whole whist club crowd know we’re on the case, so she’ll let us in.”
    The butler who answered their knock looked so fine he made Coffen nervous, and sent Reg’s hope soaring. “I wonder if we might have a word with Miss Barker,” Coffen said.
    The butler lifted an eyebrow, but before he could utter the setdown his expression hinted at, Reginald stepped forward, handed him a card and said in his iciest manner, “Sir Reginald Prance and Mr. Coffen, with regard to the matter Lord Luten is looking into for Miss Barker and her friends.”
    “Ah, the Berkeley Brigade!” the butler said, and actually smiled. “Right this way, gentlemen.” He bowed and gestured them in with a wave of his hand. Reginald’s chest swelled in pleasure, as it always did when he was recognized by strangers.
    Their coats and hats were taken, they were shown into a fine, lofty saloon whose only fault was a surfeit of age-dimmed gilt. They were given a glass of wine while awaiting Miss Barker. Very good wine too. His interest in Miss Barker rose higher.
    “Pretty good set-up, eh?” Coffen said. “I wonder what she’s like.”
    Before Reg could reply, a lady came trotting into the room. She seemed completely out of place amidst all this grandeur. Racking his brain for a simile, Reg mentally likened her to a dairymaid in a drawing room. He felt she would have been more at home in the establishment’s kitchen, perhaps baking bread, or sweeping the floor. But he arose, like the gentleman he was.