Murder While I Smile by Joan Smith Page A

milady,” Black said with a gracious smile. “You must be fagged.”
    “No, we’ll go back and have another look at that Poussin,” Luten said. He grabbed Corinne’s hand, and they darted across the street.
    Coffen answered the door himself, holding a poker in his hand. “Oh, it’s you,” he said. “I feared it might be the burglar back for another go at my stuff.”
    “Where is that picture, Pattle?” Luten asked.
    The picture was retrieved from behind the chair and taken into the saloon to be examined, while Luten told Coffen what Black had seen.
    “This is my picture, right enough,” Coffen said, fingering the nick in the frame.
    Corinne said, “Why would the fellow have carried along a big, bulky parcel when he was doing a spot of burgling?”
    A triumphant smile quirked Luten’s lips. “Because he wasn’t doing a spot of burgling,” he said.
    “He got away with my brass jug and silver candlesticks,” Coffen reminded him.
    “Window dressing. What he came for was to exchange the pictures.”
    “Then he’s a fool, for he didn’t do it. I still have my original.”
    “Who is to say you had it before his call? You hadn’t opened the parcel.”
    “That don’t make any sense, stealing a copy and leaving an original.”
    “It does if Yvonne originally gave you the copy and feared you would know the difference.”
    “Why would she think I know the difference now, if she didn’t think it a few hours ago? She knew you and Prance would see it. You know about art, ifI don’t.”
    “He’s right,” Corinne said.
    “So am I,” Luten insisted. “She planned to palm off the forgery, but something changed her mind.” After a frowning pause, he added, “Or someone.”
    “Yarrow?” Corinne said. “He found out what she was up to and made her exchange the pictures? And who would she use for the job but her other suitor, the tall, handsome Frenchman we saw calling on her the first evening we were there. You weren’t there, Luten,” she added. “You know who I mean, Coffen.”
    “I do. Not his name, nor where he lives, but I’d recognize his phiz if I saw him again, the scoundrel.”
    “Chamaude is using Yarrow to authenticate her paintings, then selling copies,” Corinne said. “You ought to warn Yarrow, Luten.”
    Luten cocked his head and pointed a shapely finger at the Poussin. “He already knows, to judge by this evening’s work. But to be sure, we’ll take this to Mercier’s tomorrow for authentication. Come, let us go. Lock the door behind us, Coffen.”
    “I will, and I’ll take my Poosan to bed with me. Dashed Frenchies.”
    Corinne could not fail to notice Luten’s cheerful mood as he accompanied her home.
    “Presuming you are right,” she said, “though in fact we don’t know that the burglar was carrying a painting at all, it might have been something else entirely, or the footman who wrapped it up may have made a mistake and wrapped the wrong one. But if you are right and Yarrow made her exchange the paintings, how did he find out what Chamaude was up to?”
    “I have no idea. It seems we have stumbled into another imbroglio.” He cast a playful smile at her. “Do you think it will leave us time to plan our wedding?”
    Corinne felt a shiver of apprehension up her spine. She trusted Luten, but she could not trust Chamaude. “We could get a special license and do it up in a hurry, before the comtesse decides to substitute a different bride,” she suggested, and listened eagerly for his reply.
    He smiled insouciantly. “Oh, I think I would notice the difference, after a day or two.”
    “Luten!”
    He was about to kiss away her little fit of pique when Black opened the door. “Tomorrow morning. Ten-thirtyish,” Luten said. Then to Black’s deep chagrin, he kissed the countess.
     

Chapter Nine
     
    Luten called on Corinne at ten the next morning. She had breakfasted and was having a second cup of coffee with Mrs. Ballard, bringing her companion up-to-date on