Little Coquette by Joan Smith

that, Lydia,” he said gently.
    “What? What do you mean?”
    “What you’re thinking. That your papa lured Prissie out of town and killed her or had her killed. That he is mixed up in some way with whatever she and Dooley were involved in, and wanted to end it to avoid possible scandal at this time, when he is about to be honored.”
    She wrenched her hand from his. “I don’t think that!” she said at once, but the two red splotches on her cheeks belied the hasty denial. “But you must own it looks suspicious,” she added, peering to see what Beaumont thought. “Did you find nothing in his office? You were gone long enough.”
    “No, nothing. There was an interesting debate going on in the House. I listened in for a moment. Sorry I kept you waiting.”
    “Were they discussing Papa’s appointment?”
    “No, it had to do with counterfeit money. There is a new ring of smashers that has the Chancellor worried. It seems he got a bad bill himself. Eldon was delivering a fine rant.” As they drew up to Beaumont’s grand brick mansion on Manchester Square, he said, “What shall we do this afternoon? I shan’t suggest a drive, though the day is fine. I know you don’t want to waste any time enjoying yourself. You would rather be working on the mystery.”
    “I can’t think of anything more to do at the moment,” she admitted.
    Lydia had visited Beaumont’s London residence a few times in the past, on former visits to London. Her mama and Lady Beaumont were close friends. She had not been there for some years, however, and never alone with Beaumont. She still thought of the mansion as his papa’s house, though the late Lord Beaumont had been dead for a decade. It was strange to think a young man like Beaumont owned all this.
    Boots, the butler, rushed to the door to admit them. The place was much finer than her papa’s house, as Pontneuf Chase was altogether grander than Trevelyn Hall. The gleaming brown marble floor and carved paneling should have been gloomy, but light streamed in from windows set high overhead to brighten it. A double archway showed a glimpse of the saloon beyond. It was not paneled but done in embossed plaster. Golden yellow window hangings, heavily pelmeted, gave the room a regal air yet did not overpower the senses. It was a livable room.
    Beaumont handed his hat to the butler. “Two for lunch, Boots,” he said. “Right away. A cold plate will be fine.”
    He led Lydia into the saloon to a striped sofa. He poured her a glass of wine. All this formal treatment made her feel very grown-up. The last time she had been here, she slid down the banister.
    “I forgot how big this house is,” she said, looking all around.
    “Too big for one, certainly. I shall fill it with children one of these days.”
    “Do you have a—a special friend, Beau? I never thought to ask. That was thoughtless of me. There might be other things you want to do than help me.”
    “I have no one special in my eye. The Season was thin of beauties.”
    “And Miss Lawrence married a duke,” she added mischievously.
    “Just so. I and my broken heart are at your disposal. What shall we do this afternoon?”
    His light answer told her he was over Miss Lawrence, if he had ever actually been in love with her. They were soon called to lunch, served in the morning parlor, as the party was so small. Over a light luncheon of cold viands and salad, they discussed what further steps they could take.
    “If this Dooley man is a scofflaw, Bow Street might know his whereabouts,” Beaumont suggested, hoping she would confide in him. He would attend the Pantheon in any case to keep an eye on her, but he thought it was time she trusted him.
    “Why don’t you go to Bow Street this afternoon and make enquiries?”
    He studied her suspiciously. “Why don’t we both go?”
    “I want to think,” she said in a weary voice. “About—all this. Papa and the lightskirts and the Cabinet post and—I don’t know. It’s very