Let's Talk of Murder Read Online Free Page A

disliked to leave without some little discussion of poetry. He saw a note pad on the ottoman by Byron’s side and was eager to see what he was writing. Some mention of the Rondeaux would also have been welcome.
    Byron rose. Something in his expression told Prance the poet also had something else he wished to discuss. Better to let him initiate the subject.
    “About Lady deCoventry,” Byron said. “She is a widow, I believe?”
    This was as good as saying she was available. A gentleman would never seduce a maiden, but a widow knew the way the world wagged and was considered fair game. Prance knew it was his duty to tell Byron she was engaged to Lord Luten. His reply was, “She has been widowed for three years now. As I said, we’re neighbors. Drop in on me any time, milord. I’m sure she would be as thrilled to make your acquaintance as I would be to oblige you.”
    Byron’s dark eyes gleamed. A saturnine smile curved his lips. “Where do you live? Leave me your card, Prance, or I shan’t remember your address.”
    “Let us exchange cards,” Prance replied. He would leave Byron’s casually on a sofa table or mantle for any caller to see. Byron rifled through some papers on the table and found a card. The address on it was Newstead Abbey, his ancestral home, but Prance was not likely to forget the London address.
    Prance drew a calling card from his pocket and handed it to Byron, feeling a dastard and a traitor as he did it. But he knew that this would bring Lord Byron calling on him, and that was worth any pangs of guilt or any retribution fate might exact. When Byron called, he would tell him that Corinne was engaged to Luten. No harm in postponing it. And it would be good sport to see Luten fuss and fume, and pretend he wasn’t jealous as a green cow.
    He left, highly pleased with the visit, rehearsing how he would casually drop a mention of this visit and any subsequent visits into future conversations. Pity they hadn’t discussed poetry, but that might come on their next meeting.
    He went straight to Luten’s house to report, as requested. Corinne and Coffen were already ensconced before the grate in the painted drawing room, enjoying a cup of tea. “What news?” he asked.
    “Lady Hertford fears the shot was intended for the prince and is most eager that we find the perpetrator, but she had absolutely nothing useful to add,” Corinne said. “She made rather a point of letting us know both her husband and her son were at their clubs, with plenty of witnesses.”
    “They’d hardly kill the goose that lays the golden eggs for them,” Coffen said. “I got Fogg’s address, rooms at Albany, but he wasn’t in. In fact, he didn’t come home last night. That’s pretty odd, don’t you think? Maybe the shot was meant for him, and the fellow followed him and got him. We was just wondering if we ought to have a word with Bow Street.”
    “Did the prince not want absolute discretion?” Prance asked.
    “That’s just what we was talking about. A word about Fogg’s disappearance needn’t involve the prince. Did you discover anything?”
    “Byron had nothing to add. He didn’t even see the shadow. Felt the shot was meant for him, until I pointed out the unlikelihood of attempting murder in the prince’s presence, as you said, Coffen.”
    “Did he praise your Rondeaux ?” Coffen asked, knowing this would be of interest to Prance.
    “We didn’t take time to discuss poetry. We shall have that interesting discussion when Byron calls on me. As I knew you were in a rush, Luten, I darted straight here. Byron made a point of discovering where I live and says he’ll call soon. A charming fellow,” he added. A god, was what he meant, but was ashamed to say.
    “Can I pour you a cup of tea, Prance?” Corinne asked.
    “You wouldn’t have any hock and soda water in the house, Luten?”
    “No, I’m afraid not. When did you start drinking hock and soda water?”
    “Plain as a pikestaff. It’s what Byron