Murder While I Smile by Joan Smith Page B

such aspects of the Chamaude affair as would not dismay a simple village vicar’s widow. Any mention of the comtesse’s attempting to steal Luten away was avoided. It was of the Poussin that they spoke.
    “Good morning, ladies,” Luten said, when Black showed him into the morning parlor. It was a small room, but cheerful with sunlight splashing through the east-facing window and onto the table.
    He thought his fiancée looked particularly delightful in a green worsted walking suit with a fichu of Mechlin lace at the collar. It did not occur to him that it was similar to the outfit in which Yvonne had looked so delectable the day before. Mrs. Ballard, as usual, wore mouse-gray to match the gray hair beneath her widow’s cap.
    “You’re early. It’s only ten o’clock,” Corinne said. “Sit down and have some coffee, Luten. Coffen won’t be ready a minute before ten-thirty.”
    “I thought we’d go on ahead in my rig and meet them downtown. I left word with Prance, as there was no answer at Pattle’s. Jacob is sleeping it off, I expect.”
    “Very likely. I shall just get my bonnet, then.”
    Luten exchanged a few pleasantries with Mrs. Ballard before joining Corinne. One was always expected to inquire for her health, though she had never been sick a day in her life so far as he knew. Perhaps it was just that she was difficult to talk to.
    A night’s sleep had repaired Black’s humor.
    “I’ll keep me daylights open for mischief whilst youse are gone,” he said, in quite a civil manner, as he held the door for them.
    “If the Frenchman comes back, follow him,” Luten said.
    “Not likely he’ll show his phiz hereabouts, is it?”
    “No, not likely,” Luten agreed, and left, topped—again—by a butler.
    It was a beautiful, balmy autumn day. The sky was that deep azure blue of a tropical clime, with not a cloud to be seen. The sun was already warm. By noon, it would be hot.
    “A lovely day for a wedding,” Luten said, looking about.
    “We should have taken the curricle, to enjoy that sun.”
    “The closed carriage gives more privacy. That seems a short commodity, between Black and Ballard and Prance and Pattle.”
    “And Brougham,” she added, suppressing the name Yvonne as she settled into the luxury of deep blue velvet squabs and silver appointments.
    “And Brougham. He has dibs on my company for this afternoon, which is why I hoped we could steal a few moments together this morning. I asked my driver to take us to Hyde Park. It should be fairly private at this hour.”
    “What we really ought to do is go to Southcote Abbey for a week, just the two of us. Well, the three of us. I could not go without Mrs. Ballard, but the abbey is big enough for us to lose her.” She looked hopefully to Luten.
    “A tempting notion,” he said, but his diffident tone suggested the temptation would be overcome.
    She waited a moment, then said, “But? What prevents it?”
    “This Yarrow and the rocket business. If we can prove corruption, it will go a long way toward unseating Mouldy and Company. My thought was that while I work on this, you could make the wedding arrangements. Nothing lavish, I expect, as this is not your first—that is—”
    “As I am a widow,” she said bluntly.
    “Well, yes. That was my meaning,” he admitted, with a sheepish smile. “But if you wish a big wedding, I have no objection. Saint George’s, Hanover Square, perhaps?”
    “Certainly not,” she said, rather sharply. She could not say exactly why she was annoyed, although his refusing to go to the abbey had something to do with it. It was unlike the suave Luten to bring up that she had already been married when they were discussing their wedding, but it was only the simple truth after all. No, what annoyed her was his putting politics first and fobbing her off with making the wedding arrangements, so that she would not object to his absence from the courtship.
    “You don’t have to snap my head off. Shall we choose a