The array of old silver and crystal no longer intimidated her as it once had. The turbot in white sauce was tasty, the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding that followed were delicious. She was careful to chew on the left side of her mouth. She nibbled on a few bites of chicken and peas, leaving room for dessert, which turned out to be a mistake. She had been expecting something simple like a syllabub or apple tart, but when the dish arrived she was confronted with a French concoction called a
g
âteau de feuilletage
praline,
which Prance's French chef had recommended. That was enough to condemn it for her.
When she declined, Luten, so polite, whispered to the footman and a blanc mange suddenly appeared before her.
"I feared the
g
âteau
might be too rich for you, Mrs. Ballard," he said. "How have you been holding up lately? Not feeling too badly, I hope?"
It was unclear how the myth had sprung up that she suffered from some undefined malady. Actually she enjoyed excellent health, other than a little trouble with her teeth, but as the gentlemen never knew what to say to her, they had adopted the habit of inquiring for her health. One benefit was that an unspecified aliment made a good excuse for avoiding certain social occasions at which both she and the Berkeley Brigade desired her absence. The security of a permanent position for life was well worth these few harmless social dissimulations which she was careful not to call lies.
It was not how a minor clergyman's widow had expected to end her days, but she thought she would find village life boring now. Seven years she had wallowed in the flesh pots of London. How quickly the time flew! But she still went to church every Sunday, and said her prayers every night.
Coffen made a wretched mess of the nice linen tablecloth. Fortunately neither the spilled gravy nor wine splashed as far as her gown that evening.
There wasn't much to object to in the conversation either. She couldn't tell Luten if anyone in London kept bees, and he didn't seem much interested that her aunt used to keep two hives. Sir Reginald bored them about his new cat, Petruchio. What a name for a cat! The others talked about bees and Brighton and someone called Danby, whom she didn't know, and apparently they didn't know him very well either, for they spoke about finding out more about him.
When the gentlemen joined the ladies after taking their port, she would be accompanied back home across the street by a footman. At least she didn't have to accompany the countess to parties. As long as she was with Luten or Mr. Pattle, no harm would come to her. She was less sure of Sir Reginald, now that he had taken to rattling around town with that Lord Byron, who wrote naughty poems and had carried on shamefully with Lady Caroline Lamb, a married lady. At least that affair was over now. Corinne had told her Lady Caroline was recouperating in the country. It was hinted at her whist club that what she was recouperating from was Lord Byron.
Mrs. Ballard wondered, but didn't like to ask, if that meant she was enceinte, and if Byron was suspected of being the papa. Which might be a good thing in a way, for Lady Caroline's only child was some sort of imbecile or lunatic. Such a tragedy! But then if the weakness was not in her husband but in herself, Byron's child might be a crippled lunatic, which would be a double tragedy.
When the gentlemen joined the ladies, it turned out that Pattle was going to Brighton. At that hour of the night! Really it was amazing the way the young folks carried on these days. Fifty miles in the middle of the night was nothing to them. When she was his age, she hadn't been farther than ten miles from home. What could be so important to him that it couldn't wait till morning?
When she got home nosy old Black wanted to know everything that had happened, as usual, and where her ladyship was going that evening. He acted like a jealous husband. Dissatisfied with her answers, he darted across the street to find out more details from Luten's butler the minute the carriage left the door. Her duty done, Mrs. Ballard was free to retire to the morning parlour and read the latest gothic novel from the Minerva Press until ten-thirty, when she would order a posset and go to bed. After reading a page of the Bible and saying her prayers, of course.
Luten was sure he was free of Byron for one night as the poet was dining with the Hollands, who had engaged an Italian tenor to entertain the guests after dinner. He was understandably annoyed when the first face he saw at the Sinclair's party was Byron's. He caught only a fleeting glimpse of him through the admiring throng around him, but there was no mistaking that perfect profile. Worse, Byron saw him and fought his way through his fans to join the three-quarters of the Berkeley Brigade that had come to the do.
"I thought you would be at Lady Holland's concert," Luten said, forcing a smile. Byron was no more than polite to Corinne, and her manner was equally bland.
"God, or Zeus, or whatever benign deity rules the universe, took mercy on us sinners," Byron said. "The tenor had a sore throat and failed to show up. When Lady Holland threatened us with a game of whist, I escaped. But not before Holland threatened and flattered and cajoled me into speaking in the House again. Have there been any new developments in the mystery, Luten?"
"Nothing on this end. Prance told us you'd been speaking to Danby at your club. Is he a regular there?"
"Truth to tell, I'm hardly a regular myself these days. I used to dine there, but recently I've been taking dinner at Alban's Hotel when I'm not invited out. I see Lady Jergen is here. We might have a word with her. Pattle had the notion her house was the throbbing centre of all the trouble." He looked around. "Where is Pattle tonight?"
"He had an appointment elsewhere," Luten replied vaguely, which told Corinne that Byron was still under suspicion. She noticed that Byron was careful to pay just the proper amount of attention to her. He smiled and complimented her on putting all the other ladies in the shade, if she would forgive him an "odious caparison", and immediately turned to ask Prance if Petruchio had tamed any shrews lately.
"Only my shrewish self," Prance replied. "He has me in complete subjugation to his every whim. My valet is ready to rise up in rebellion like the Luddites. Petruchio keeps him busy removing cat hairs. Such a lot of bother and work."
"What, a mere cat?" Byron scoffed. "You don't know what bother and work are until you've kept a pet bear. I used to keep one when I was at Trinity College. I called him Ursa Major. But I think my favourite pet was Boatswain, a Newfoundland dog I had at Newstead. He died of rabies four years ago. I erected a tombstone for him. Some said it was a sacrilege, but he was the best friend I ever had." A sad smile came over his face at the memory.
He spoke with such sincerity and passion that Luten found himself revising his opinion of the poet. What a lonesome young man he must have been. Whatever else he was or wasn't, he was a confirmed animal lover. He would never have killed Queen Mab. Of course that story could be a fabrication, but he couldn't believe such a thing would even have occurred to Byron. He had a quick, clever tongue, but Luten was beginning to realize that his air of world-weary cynicism and ennui was invented to hide his uncertainty, and perhaps even shyness. He hadn't been born to wealth and privilege, like most of his class. His early days, according to dame gossip, had been harsh and impoverished.
"I'm fond of dogs myself," Luten said, "but I think they're better off in the country."
"You're right, of course," Byron agreed at once. "It's selfish of us to keep them locked up, but damme, a man needs a dog. Where else can he find such undemanding devotion?"
"It seems to me you find it in the ladies," Prance said with a roguish grin.
Byron rolled his beautiful eyes ceiling-ward. "No, no. I said undemanding. It's hardly devotion either. Just a brief infatuation with this season's freak. I put myself in the same class as Beau Brummell, but not so well dressed, of course. Next season it will be a magician, or Italian tenor, or three-legged hen. And the demands on one's time and patience are by no means insignificant. Last week I had to scramble in the kitchen window, ruining a good jacket in the process, to avoid a fellow who wanted me to 'just have a glance' at a poem he'd written. The manuscript weighed a stone. And then that idiot of a Fletcher accepted it at the door. I've ordered him to read it and give the man his advice. Well, you know how we poor scribes are put upon, Prance. You're a scribbler as well."
"Dreadful," Prance agreed, as if he shared these delightful nuisances. Alas, his
Rondeaux
had enjoyed only a brief
succes d'estime.
"The worst of it is that when my next drivel comes out, the fellow will likely claim I've plagiarized his opus. But enough literary chit chat. Is there anything I can do to help in this case, Luten? As I drew you into it, I must do whatever I can to help you. Truth to tell, I enjoy any sort of intrigue."
Luten thought a moment, then said, "Since Danby belongs to your club, you might see what you can find out about him."
Byron said in surprise, "You really think he'd bother with this sort of petty thievery when he's worth a million?"
"But is he?" Luten asked, lifting an eyebrow. "We know he speaks of investing fortunes here and there, but no investments are made. When his carriage breaks down, he doesn't buy a new one. He goes to Newman's to rent one, and in fact ends up in a hack."
Prance said, "P'raps he's one of those skints who doesn't like to part with a sou. The rich are like that, sometimes."
"It's possible," Luten said, "though he's open-handed enough with small sums, like tips for Jergen's servants. You might express dissatisfaction with your man of business, Byron, and ask Danby who manages his fortune."
"I'll do it, of course, although old Spooney—Mr. Hanson—would have a fit if he ever found out I was defaming him, and after he's been so good to me. I must say Danby doesn't act like a skint. He's the first to offer a round of drinks. Generous with his pourboires as well."
"I expect I was wrong," Prance said. "A skint is usually skintish in all his dealings."
They talked a little longer, then Byron's fans bore him off on a tide of fawning flattery. Prance clung like a barnacle to his hero's side, basking in the reflected glory of the season's star.
Corinne said to Luten, "I assume you've overcome your suspicions of Byron, since you let him know we suspect Danby."
Luten never blushed, but he looked a little sheepish as he said, "Any man who loves animals can't be all bad." He gazed a moment into her eyes, then added in a softer voice, "I wonder what can have made me dislike him in the first place? You don't suppose it could be his admiration of my fiancée?"
"No," she replied archly, "for in that case you would dislike a great many gentlemen. I believe it's that you thought your fiancée harboured a fondness for him."
"I don't believe it's just that either," he said, suddenly serious. "Because you still do harbour a fondness for him. And so do I, now. I never thought I would find myself saying this, but I feel a little sorry for the most popular, handsome, talented gentleman in London."
They both looked across the room to where Byron was surrounded by a jabbering throng. "Yes, it must be dreadful to have to fight the ladies off with clubs," she said, and smiled ruefully. Byron looked like a baited animal.
Corinne felt a tugging at her elbow. Turning, she was surprised to see Mrs. Huston, a lady with whom she worked on a charity committee to provide for orphans, but was not usually at such ton parties as this.
"Good evening, Mrs. Huston," she said, smiling. Mrs. Huston did not return the smile. A deep frown drew two grooves between her eyebrows.
"Could I have a word with you in private, Lady deCoventry?" She lowered her voice and added, "I know a party's not the place, but it's a matter of some urgency. I called on you at home and your butler told me you were here. I've had a letter from that man who calls himself the Bee. Lady Jergen suggested you might be able to help me."
Corinne knew this should be bad news, but the leap of her heart had much of joy in it as she turned to inform Luten of Mrs. Huston's request.
"Mrs. Huston would like to have a word with us in private, Luten," Corinne said. "It's a matter of the utmost urgency."
What Luten would normally consider of the utmost urgency at that time would have been the French General Malet's conspiracy against Napoleon in France. The war Wellington was waging against Napoleon's forces in the Peninsula was also important, and to a lesser extent, the new president in the colonies, this Madison, who had recently defeated deWitt Clinton. While these matters were all of importance and indeed of much interest to Luten, he knew it was none of them that had put that sparkle in his beloved's eyes. It could only be the Bee.
What confused him was the absolutely insignificant, respectable appearance of Mrs. Huston. Simple coiffure, the sides of her dark hair frosted with gray. The sagging at the corners of her jaw, the overly full bosoms and the squarish bulk of her hips spoke of middle age as surely as her gown suggested a provincial modiste. The dark gown with only a simple pearl brooch did not suggest either fashion or wealth. The wife of a dean or some clergyman of the middle rank, or possibly of a scholar, he would have guessed. He judged her age to be close to the half century, surely too old to be involved in sexual peccadilloes, and too respectable for any other sort.
Corinne said in a low voice, "It's about the Bee, Luten. Mrs. Huston has had a note from him."
His eyes, though he would have been horrified to know it, sparkled as brightly as Corinne's. "Let us see if we can find a private parlour," he said at once, and cupping Mrs. Huston's fleshy elbow in one hand, his fiancée’s in the other, he propelled them off to the library. Finding not less than three couples resting there, he hustled them on down the hall to an empty visitors' waiting room.
"I shouldn't be pestering you with this at a party," the dame began with an air of apology. "But he has demanded that I meet him tonight, and when you weren't at home, I feared all was lost. Your neighbour, Mr. Pattle, was just getting into his rig. He could see I was greatly upset, and was kind enough to bring me here to see you. In fact, were it not for him, I wouldn't have been allowed in the door, for I've never so much as the met the hostess."