Murder While I Smile by Joan Smith

Hatchard’s in time. He hates taking hired hackneys.”
    “He didn’t mind today.”
    “Aye, he’s merry as a grig about seeing his book in the window. I wonder what ails Hatchard. The book is a clinker, ain’t it?”
    “I fear so, but you didn’t hear it here.”
    “Well, my Poosan ain’t. Mercier tells me it’s the genuine article,” he said with satisfaction. “You’ll have to help me decide where to hang it.”
    “Oh, in your bedchamber, surely, where you can see it every morning and evening.” And where she would never have to see it again.
    “Not sure I want a suicide picture staring me in the face before I’ve had my morning tea. I’ll think about it.” He helped himself to a glass of wine. “Seems we ought to be doing something about poor Inwood,” he said.
    “Luten was wondering if he was going to vote for Congreve’s rocket.”
    “Very likely.” He had thoughtlessly carried a copy of the Rondeaux into the house with him. He opened it, furrowed up his brow, and rubbed his ear.
    “Here’s an odd thing,” he said, and showed Corinne the flyleaf of the book.
    She read, ‘To Lady Chamaude from an admirer, Sir Reginald Prance.” She sat staring at it a moment in confusion.
    “That’s the book Prance gave Chamaude,” Coffen said.
    “Yes, I realize that. But where did you get it?”
    “Reg gave it to me before I went to Mercier’s. It’s the copy Marchant gave him to sign. Marchant didn’t buy a copy at all. She gave it to him—the comtesse. Poor Reg. We’ll not tell him about this, eh? Bruise his feelings.”
    “But this means Marchant called on Chamaude. Where else could he have got this?”
    “Aye, I mind he said he bought a copy last night, and he went out for dinner. He must have gone to Chamaude’s and taken it home with him. They’re friends, or cohorts. Clear as a pikestaff she’s influencing him to vote for Gresham. We ought to tell Luten.”
    “You had best drive to Whitehall, Coffen. It would look odd for a lady to go. Take the book, and tell him where you got it. He’ll understand what it means.”
    “Yes, by Jove. And mind you don’t tell Reg.”
    Reggie’s sensitive feelings were the least of Corinne’s worries. But the cloud had one silver lining at least. It would prove to Luten that the comtesse was a cunning, low conniver.
    Mrs. Ballard came downstairs, and they began to discuss wedding plans. The dame was concerned that she would lose her post after the marriage and was reassured that her mistress would still require a dresser.
     

Chapter Ten
     
    Luten was kept waiting longer to see Lady Chamaude than he expected. The boulevardier-butler showed him into a small parlor, poured him a glass of wine, and withdrew. The desk in the corner suggested Yvonne used this room as her study. While awaiting his summons to enter the saloon, Luten made a quick examination of the papers on the desk, a few bills and one half-written letter. It was from Manchester—Gresham? No, a female called Sylvie. The subject appeared to be gowns, but it was interesting that Yvonne had connections in Manchester, where Gresham’s armaments plant was situated.
    The paintings on the wall were also of some interest to him. One was a watercolor of the Louvre; another was of a young girl done in the style of Greuze, the French genre painter from the last century. In this picture, Greuze (if the artist was Greuze) had restrained his love of melodrama. The girl was not mourning the loss of her sparrow or canary but smiling.
    Something in that smile held an echo of the young Yvonne he had known a dozen years ago. Was this a portrait of her? The face was fuller, the eyes less large and lustrous and more innocent, but it was possible. The loss of weight might have given the eyes more prominence, and the trials of her life since then explained the loss of innocence. Greuze was still painting at the turn of the century, when Yvonne would have been this age.
    He had not been working in England,