Murder While I Smile (26 page)

“Why isn’t he going with her?” Corinne asked, her voice rising in alarm.

“I shouldn’t think he gets to a party like this very often. He’ll try his hand with some of the debs.”

“What’s keeping your rig?”

“I can’t imagine. It’s been all of two minutes,” he replied in his infuriating, bored drawl.

Coffen, who spent most of his time in the refreshment parlor, spotted them and came forward. “Are you two leaving?” he asked. “Glad to see you’ve patched things up.”

“Nothing is patched up. We’re following Yvonne,” Corinne said.

“Ah. Still have that ‘feeling,’ do you? Prance was telling me about it.”

“Yes, stronger than ever.”

“I’ll tag along in my own rig. Never know, another hand might come in handy if there’s trouble.”

He called for his carriage, then went off in search of Prance, who decided to remain behind and keep an eye on Lachange. Corinne and Luten had left when Coffen got back, but he assumed they would be following Chamaude to Half Moon Street and headed in that direction, or as close to it as Fitz could manage.

There was still considerable traffic on the street at midnight. Even in the autumn little Season, there was more than one party a night to be visited. It seemed unlikely that anything could happen to the comtesse during the short drive to Half Moon Street. Corinne was on the lookout in case the carriage stopped to allow Yarrow’s henchman to enter. She saw no suspicious dark forms loitering about the streets, however. The comtesse was nearly home. When the rig slowed down to make the turn at the corner of Curzon and Half Moon Streets, there was still no sign of a footpad.

Busily scanning the street and roadway, Corinne missed seeing the man. If the man hadn’t had to open the carriage door, Luten might not have seen him either, for the comtesse’s carriage did not slow down. The opening door of her carriage could only be seen from Luten’s window. It flew open and a dark form leapt out, stumbled, then regained its balance and fled into the shadows of the night. When Luten jerked the drawstring, Corinne was momentarily stunned.

“Luten, why did you
—
”

Before the carriage stopped, he was out the door, chasing a shadow between two dark houses, while the comtesse’s carriage continued for a few yards, then stopped. The driver had heard the door banging to and fro and worried for the safety of his passenger. He climbed down from his perch and went to the door. He stuck his head into the carriage, then leapt back.
“Sacre bleu!”
he cried, looking all about the dark street.

Corinne waited a moment, tense in every muscle, her heartbeat pounding in her ears like thunder. Why had the comtesse’s carriage stopped? She was certain no one had got into it to harm Yvonne. Why had Luten left his own rig? Had he seen Yvonne running away? Luten’s driver clambered down from the perch and came to the carriage door.

“Should I take you on home, milady, or wait for his lordship?”

“We’ll wait a moment,” she said. As they were stopped, she decided to see if Yvonne was in her carriage and have a word with her to discover what was going on. John Groom assisted her down to the street and accompanied her to the carriage. She was glad for his presence. It helped to control the tightening knot of terror that was growing inside her.

As she approached Yvonne’s carriage, she saw the driver standing in the street with a ghastly expression on his face.

“What’s the matter?” she demanded.

“Madame—she is
blessée
.
”

Corinne hastened to the carriage door and looked inside. The comtesse was lounging against the cushioned seat. “Are you all right, Comtesse?” she asked. There was no answer.

As the groom had not put down the step, Corinne braced one foot on the coach floor, put her hands on either side of the doorframe, and pulled herself inside. The groom had lit a lamp and appeared at the doorway behind her, holding the light high. In its flickering glow, she saw the dark stain against Yvonne’s white breast, saw the head lolling at an unnatural angle, and knew her worst fears had been realized.

“My God!” she gasped, taking the comtesse’s hands.

The dark eyes opened, pale fingers clutched on to hers. “Milady,” the comtesse whispered.

“Don’t talk. We’ll get you to a hospital. Or send for a doctor.”

“Wait!” Yvonne held on to her with a strength that seemed out of proportion to her condition. “Yarrow,” she said. “He has Sylvie. Save her.”

“Did he do this to you?”

“His man—in carriage—”

“He was already here when you got in? Is that it?”

“Oui. C’est
ça
.
”

The comtesse breathed out her sorry tale, stopping often to regain her breath, slipping into her native French at times, then rousing herself to try to say it in English. “
Il
y a quinze
années
, j’ai fait sa connaissance
à
Brighton.”

Fifteen years ago in Brighton, Yarrow had come to her humble little cottage to charge her with selling his wife a forged painting done by Boisvert. The comtesse, in her innocence, had not known Lord Yarrow was an art expert—but she knew he was a powerful man. He had terrorized her with threats of prison. She had used the only weapon she had, her beauty. She had become his mistress. Yarrow knew of the art collection her husband had secreted in France and had offered to smuggle the art to England for her during his official visits to France for the government. He arranged the sales—and kept the money, giving her barely what she required to live on. Even her jewels were only paste.

He told her he was investing the money for her to buy a house. He also arranged to have her daughter raised by Mrs. Yonge, in Colchester. When she realized he had no intention of buying the house or letting her have her money, she had turned again to forgery.

“Mon bon ami,
Alphons Boisvert
—
”

“Who killed him, Yvonne?”

“Yarrow’s henchman—Daugherty. Yarrow had my house watched. His man followed Maurice—my butler and friend— to Boisvert’s and saw the Watteau. Yarrow feared I would make enough money to be free of him, so he had Boisvert murdered. It was all I wanted, to take Sylvie and run and hide from him. But he got her before me.”

“That’s why you returned to London?”

“Of course. Find her, milady!”

“We’ll find her, Yvonne.”

Yvonne tried to squeeze her fingers, but her strength was ebbing quickly.
“Oui, je me fie
à
vous, madame,”
she whispered.

Tears filled Corinne’s eyes. “I trust you,” Yvonne had said. “We’ll find her,” she repeated, and placed her hand tenderly on Yvonne’s brow. It already felt cold.

“Tell Luten—the papers. Use them. Catch that devil Yarrow.” Madame’s eyelids flickered one last time over her dark and stormy eyes. With her last breath, she whispered, “Sylvie.”

When Luten returned, he found Corinne, with tears running down her cheeks, cradling the dead comtesse in her arms.

“My God!” he cried, staring at the lurid scene before him. “What happened?’

“Yarrow had a man hiding in the carriage. He stabbed her. Did you
—
”

“He got away. Is she
—
”

“She’s gone. What should we do? Take her home?”

Luten laid the body gently on the cushioned seat and led Corinne from the carriage to the shadows beyond. He held her a moment tightly against his chest, making soothing sounds until the trembling stopped.

“Yarrow has Sylvie, Luten,” she said. “I promised her I’d find Sylvie, get her away from that devil. He has kept Yvonne a virtual prisoner for fifteen years.”

He let her anger boil, to keep the hysterics at bay. While he listened to her tale, he began to hatch a plan to catch Yarrow. There was little time; he had to trust people he didn’t know; a hundred things could go wrong—but he had to do something. When a carriage rattled by, he realized they were attracting attention and told the groom to drive on to the comtesse’s house. He and Corinne rode inside with her body, while his own driver drove around the block, to be back soon if needed.

Coffen’s carriage had gone astray and come by a different route. It was just approaching the comtesse’s house from Piccadilly as Yvonne’s rig arrived. Luten and Corinne got out and told him what had happened.

“The blighter will get off scot-free if we don’t do something.” Coffen scowled. “He’s sitting in his club with a dozen witnesses to say he was nowhere near the comtesse when she was done in.”

“Then we’ll have to break his alibi for a start. If we could get him to come here
—
”

“He knows she’s dead. You couldn’t drag him here tonight with a dozen wild horses.”

“I wonder what he’d do if he thought she had escaped. Say I, or Prance, drove her home? If she threatened him by note, he’d come running.”

“Send for Townsend, have him land in on them. Or would the driver go along with it? I expect he’s Yarrow’s man.”

“He’s French,” Corinne said. “I think he’s Lachange’s friend. The French seem to stick together.”

Luten said, “I’ll have a word with him.”

Before he spoke to the groom, the butler came out, wearing an anxious expression on his dissipated countenance. “Is something the matter, melord?” he asked.

The comtesse’s groom ran up to him and began talking in French. The two men spoke rapidly, with many gesticulations in the French manner. Luten, listening, heard the driver say that that devil Yarrow would try to lay the blame in his dish, but they both knew who had done this heinous thing. Satisfied that both men were faithful to their late mistress, he began to formulate the details of his plan.

The butler came forward. “Let us take her ladyship into the house,” he said. “It is not
comme il faut
to leave her body in the carriage.”

“A word, before we touch anything,” Luten said. “We agree that whoever plunged the dagger, it was Yarrow who is responsible?” Vociferous agreement, in both French and English, volleyed forth. “Then let us see if we cannot arrange some rough justice. Coffen, that watch I left at Melbourne’s. Could you fetch it?”

Coffen drew it from his pocket. “This one? I decided to pick it up. Planned to throw it in the Serpentine. Mean to say, bound to be discovered in a day or two, there where you left it.”

“Excellent. We’ll send word to Bow Street to alert Townsend. But first, a note to Yarrow at White’s. For that we shall require the comtesse’s stationery.”

“And her purple ink,” Coffen added. “A nice touch. Bound to fool him. Try if you can find a sample of Cham—Yvonne’s handwriting.”

The butler, listening, began to grasp the rudiments of the plan. “I’ll take you to her study. She has notebooks.”

Luten interrupted his planning only long enough to suggest to Corinne that she have his driver take her home. She did not condescend to argue, but only said, “I shall stay, Luten, but Coffen should have his rig removed before it’s recognized.”

“If you insist on staying, then perhaps you could forge a note for me. A lady would do a better hand. The butler will take us to Yvonne’s office. I’ll tell you what to write.” He asked Coffen to remove his rig.

They went inside; she studied some samples of the comtesse’s handwriting and practiced imitating it. Her hand moved stiffly at first, but Yvonne’s writing was not so different from her own feminine style, and she soon felt the forgery would fool Yarrow.

Luten lit the pages on which she had been practicing and threw them into the grate to remove the evidence. He dictated while she sat at Yvonne’s desk. “Dear Yarrow: No, forget the ‘Dear.’ It is not a billet-doux. Write, ‘Yarrow: Your plan failed. I have certain papers re Mr. Inwood and the Gresham Company that I shall discuss exchanging for Sylvie. I will meet you in Hyde Park in the carriage, on Rotten Row, just at the east end of the Serpentine. If you aren’t there before one o’clock, I shall give the papers to Lord Luten.’ Sign it Lady Chamaude. That should bring him.”

“Hyde Park?”

“He wouldn’t risk killing her here, with servants about.”

“But would she risk meeting him there alone at night?”

“She would if she had the papers hidden elsewhere. He’d not kill her until he got his hands on them. I’ll ask her butler to deliver the note to White’s.”

“You mean to have Townsend catch Yarrow with the body?”

“I do.”

“How can you account for calling Townsend to Hyde Park? An anonymous note?”

“I believe Lady Chamaude should write to him on her crested stationery saying she is meeting a gentleman at Hyde Park and expressing some concern for her safety. She’ll ask him to have a man there. Townsend will be there in person if I know anything. He’s taking an interest in Boisvert’s death.” He dictated another note and Corinne wrote.

She was just sealing it when Coffen poked his head in at the door, then sauntered in. “My rig’s around the corner in the shadows. Was just thinking, Luten. What about the weapon? I didn’t see any knife in the carriage. The assassin must have taken it with him. Will this do?”

He pulled a small dagger from his pocket. It had a bone handle and a blade eight inches long. “I could put a bit of her blood on it.”

Corinne made a gagging sound. Luten said, “Fine. It doesn’t have your initials on it, does it?”

“No, it’s a common sort of knife. You see them everywhere. I keep it in the side pocket of my rig, since I never seem to have a pistol handy when I’m held up.”

“Good. And put the watch in Yvonne’s fingers, as if
she had torn it from his waistcoat. I believe we’re all set. What time is it?”

Coffen glanced at Yarrow’s watch. “Half past twelve.”

“Then we’d best get a move on.”

Coffen took the watch out to the comtesse’s carriage. He tried to forget she was dead as he wrapped her cold fingers around it and pressed the knife against her bloodied chest. He then placed it in her lap, as if
it had fallen, or been pulled out.

Luten gave the butler the note to deliver to Yarrow. The butler suggested the footman take the other note to Bow Street to indicate that it was from the comtesse. It was explained to Yvonne’s coachman that he had driven the comtesse home. No one had got into the carriage. She had told him to wait, gone into her house, then come out and asked him to drive her to Hyde Park.