To Mourn a Murder (22 page)

"Pay her no heed, Reg," Coffen said. "She's been reading that book about women's rights by that fat lady that was married to Bill Godwin."

Prance was on thorns to inquire about Byron's party and let the subject drop. "Speaking of writing gentlemen," he said in a nonchalant way that didn't fool anyone, "what is this about Byron having a party this evening?"

"He ain't having it. He's taking you to one," Coffen said.

This was a letdown, but until Prance heard who was hosting the party, he remained calm. It might be Prinney, or one of the royal dukes. "What party is that?" he asked.

"The Guy Fawkes do at the Pantheon. You're to wear a green domino and let on you're Miss Winchley."

"The Pantheon!" Prance howled. And in a domino, so no one would recognize him. "You rushed me back to London for that!"

Coffen added insult to the injury by explaining, "We needed some fellow who could pass for a lady, you see, so naturally we thought of you."

Luten and Corinne rushed in simultaneously to re-phrase this blunt speech. "Because of your height," Corinne said. "Miss Winchley is about your height."

"What we need is someone who can handle himself in case of trouble," Luten added hastily. "Miss Winchley has been ordered by the Bee to make the exchange at the Pantheon party."

Prance would have stomped out in a huff if his partner for the evening were to be anyone but Byron. For this he had come scrambling back from Brighton, Villier had spent his day arranging a toilette that was to be hidden under a lady's domino, and no doubt he would be in a deal of physical danger besides. And to put the cap on it, he had to conceal his utter desolation.

"I am flattered," he said in a thin voice. "I shall make sure I have a close shave before leaving, lest any trace of masculinity remain visible. What are the rest of you to do while I risk life and limb at the Pantheon—in a lady's domino? Or have you all retired from the sleuthing business and left me in sole charge?"

"We're all going. Look at it this way, Reg. You'll be with Byron," Coffen said in a kindly way. "One of them dandy imbroglios he writes about. Wouldn't be surprised if he don't turn it into a set of verses and make you famous."

This was indeed some consolation. Further consolation was offered by abject apologies from Luten at foisting an inordinate amount of the work on to Prance, and praise for his efforts thus far. "Your findings in Brighton give us a deal of new information to conjure with. We could think of no one better for tonight's job, after the magnificent way you single-handedly captured Lord Simard's murderer when we were at Granmaison with you." As a clincher he added, "Byron was delighted with the plan. He's looking forward to working with you this evening."

As the plan was outlined to Prance, he began to see it offered some possibility of glory. Even in the worst case, if he were wounded (he did not consider death), he would be wounded in the company of Lord Byron. Really it would be quite amusing, posing as a female and teasing Byron.

Let Byron make a poem of it–Prance was all for that. But he, Prance, would turn it into a ripping tale for the dinner table and the clubs. By the time Black called them to dinner, he was back in curl.

"I just don't know how I shall tell Villier," he said. "He's spent hours slaving over my toilette."

"Don't tell him," Coffen advised and added his own version of a homily. "What he don't know won't bite him. He'll not see the domino. You won't be putting it on till after you've left home."

"True. One can always count on you for common sense, Coffen." Prance smiled, all insults forgiven.

They enjoyed a friendly dinner, then parted to their separate houses to make preparations. Coffen, of course, stayed with Corinne. Black, that redoubtable factotum, acted as his valet and turned him out in better style than his own valet had ever done, and it was a pity all Black's work was to be concealed beneath a domino.

Luten lent Prance his unmarked hunting carriage for the trip to the Pantheon. The blue domino Prance was to exchange for Miss Winchley's green one was kept in the carriage, to hide it from Villier. It was a shame the valet's work was to go unappreciated but Prance intended to shower him with imaginary compliments when he returned.

He wore his own dainty kid slippers as a lady's heeled slipper would have made him too tall. Once in the carriage he arranged his hair down over his forehead in a curl. He would have to leave the hood of the domino up all evening, but even that was preferable to the itchy discomfort of a wig. He rolled up the bottom of his pantaloons so that only a glimpse of his white silk stockings showed beneath the long domino. The carriage called first for Prance, he called on Byron, who looked menacingly magnificent in a black domino and half mask.

"Well sir, what think you of all this?" Prance asked archly, as the two masked gentlemen went out to the carriage.

"I'm demmed glad our faces are hidden 'neath a mask," Byron replied. "Not that you're not a pretty fellow, Prance, but you wouldn't do my romantical reputation any good."

"And we all know how tarnished an article that reputation is," Prance joked. "What is it like to be London's premier bachelor?"

"Demmed fatiguing. We shall find us a cozy corner at the Pantheon and sit and drink soda water until the Bee makes his approach. The great God Luten has warned me against overindulging in wine."

"I wonder how the Bee will approach me?"

Byron gave the drawstring a pull and the carriage lurched off towards Curzon Street to pick up Miss Winchley. "A note, I should think. He won't expect a lady to attend without an escort, yet he'll want to separate her from him for the transaction."

"Which means poor
moi
will have to face him alone."

"You'll be watched closer than a miser watches his money, Miss Winchley. Luten has arranged to have his table near ours. When you leave, we'll not be far behind. With three cripples limping to your aid, you needn't fear being stung. From long experience, I limp faster than most, and a lame man, you know, has a horse's kick in his arm. We're also carrying pistols—ready to save you from a whole swarm of bees, if necessary. You have a gun as well, I expect?"

"Luten mentioned there would be one in the side pocket." He rifled in the pocket, pulled the pistol out, ready to slip in his pocket after he had exchanged dominoes.

As they approached the Winchley's house, Byron said, "Keep your head down. The Bee might be watching to see who's taking Miss Winchley to the party."

Prance bent down while Byron scanned the street for spies. He couldn't see anyone, but then he knew the Bee was too clever to be in plain view. The Winchleys were greatly honoured that Byron was calling on their daughter. As they had no notion that the masquerade party he was taking her to was at the d
é
classé Pantheon, they welcomed him heartily and were well impressed at his sobriety in refusing a glass of wine before leaving.

Byron was favourably impressed by Miss Winchley as well. She was tall–he hated a stumpy woman–and sensible without being bookish. "Don't be alarmed when you get into the carriage," he said after the door was closed behind them. "There's a man concealed inside. He'll be helping us tonight."

Prance, always a pattern-card of manners, hardly knew how to manage the introduction when he had to sit doubled over. "This fellow hasn't actually lost his head," Byron explained, "but is hiding in case your tormentor is watching. Allow me to introduce Sir Reginald Prance."

"Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Winchley," Prance said, raising his hand but not his head, which gave the bizarre impression of a headless body speaking. Miss Winchley gave a nervous laugh and shook his hand.

As the carriage turned the corner, Prance sat up and the plan of substituting Prance for her was explained. "Then you had best take this," she said, and reached in her pocket for the brown bag containing the five thousand pounds. "Don't take any risks, Sir Reginald," she urged. "If anything goes wrong and you find yourself alone with the Bee, just give him the money and make sure you get the letter."

"We're meeting Lord Luten on a side street before we reach the Pantheon," Byron explained. "You two had best exchange outfits now."

After ascertaining that they were not followed, the coachman turned into a side street to allow Miss Winchley, with a pang of regret at being so soon separated from Byron, to transfer to Luten's waiting carriage. The hunting carriage continued on to the Pantheon.

This pleasure dome in Oxford Street had been built as a place of public amusement at a cost of fifty thousand pounds during the prosperous second decade of the present king's reign, to allow the wealthy to continue their wallow in opulence during the winter months when Ranelagh Gardens was closed. It had, besides a magnificent suite of ballrooms and fourteen large apartments, a rotunda with a glazed dome encircled by a colonnade. The place was frescoed in the Italian style. Subdued light emanated from lamps hidden in antique vases which hung from the ceiling on gilt chains; other lights were attached to pillars. Copies of classical statues from antiquity looked down with sober mien from their pedestals on the doings of mere mortals.

The gloss had long tarnished in the forty years since the Pantheon's opening. The gilt had dimmed, the painted walls acquired a patina of smoke and dust and the quality of the patrons, in particular, had declined. But as the music wafted down from the ballroom, Prance felt the place still held some magic. He lifted the skirt of his domino and tripped daintily up the staircase to the painted ballroom, matching his stride to Byron's halting pace.

"Pity to let a fine old place like this deteriorate," Byron said. "It makes me eager to see Italy. We must spend some time in Italy on our trip, eh Prance? I missed it on my first jaunt."

Prance had seldom experienced a happier moment. His heart swelled with joy and pride, to hear his young idol speak so casually of their traveling together. What price a few bullets for such glory as this! "I could happily live there, surrounded by the treasures of antiquity," he sighed.

"And of more recent times. I hear the signoras and signorinas are charming. Black-haired, black-eyed, passionate. P'raps we'll set us up a harem in the eastern style."

"Ah, there is nothing like that Latin streak!" Prance said. "I must tell you sometime about the true love of my life, Comtesse Chamaude. But not tonight. It's a sad story."

"You're repeating yourself, Miss Winchley. You already said it was a love story. Truly now, is there any such thing as a happy love story, outside of fairy-tales, I mean? And they, you will notice, venture into no details of the 'happily ever after.' It's unimaginative of the writers to always end their tragedies with a death. A marriage would serve as well."

"I had no idea you were a misogynist, Byron!"

"No more I am. I'm uncommonly fond of the ladies. It is marriage I dislike."

"Ah, then I used the wrong word. You are a misogamist, which only means you haven't met the right lady yet."

"I have met hundreds of she's I could be happy with for a week or a month, perhaps even a year. It's the daunting prospect of ‘ever after’ that frightens me out of love."

Warmed by this cynicism, Prance merrily continued the climb. The page showed them to an apartment overlooking the ballroom below. The dancing was in full spate. Other couples strolled around the edge of the room, the ladies batting their fans and flirting. Prance was dismayed to count at least three green dominoes.

Their apartment held three tables for two, three tables for four and one larger one to seat a dozen. They were shown to one of the small tables. Byron ordered hock and soda water, but it was mostly the soda water they drank. For Prance's part, he required no other intoxicant than this private conversation with Byron. He amused the poet with tales of his exploits in Brighton and to flatter Byron, he exaggerated Betsy Grolier's interest in him.

"Do drop in to see her if and when you visit Brighton. Tell her I sent you. I think you will be amused at her pretensions and accent."

"I don't mind common speech. Some of my best friends talk like stable hands. It would be vulgar to poke fun at it."

"It is not her own accent that amuses, Byron, but her efforts to elevate it. Surely some of the world's best comedy is based on our wish to appear a notch higher than we are."

"True. Where would we be if we didn't want to better ourselves, if we didn't care what our fellowman thought of us? I, for one, would be wallowing in the fleshpots of the east, eating myself into obesity, drinking myself into a stupor–and enjoying to excess other delightful sins of the flesh. And you, Prance, where would you be?"

Prance couldn't imagine a life in which he didn't care for the opinion of others. "Bored to tears, as good as dead," he admitted.

The other tables began filling up. The company for the largest table came in three separate groups. When two ladies, accompanied by gentlemen, one tall, one short, both limping, were shown to a table for four, Byron said, "The Berkeley Brigade have arrived. Do you think the Bee is already amongst us?"

"Let us discreetly scrutinize the other tables and see if we recognize anyone. I'm quite sure that loud gentleman in the corner is Boo Mainwaring. No other animal with only two feet has such a braying laugh. And that means the fellow with him is his chum, McAllister, and the women are lightskirts."

"The drunken set next to us are officers," Byron said. "I've eavesdropped. They've come to try their luck with the muslin company. There, two of 'em are going down to the ballroom now."

One couple at a table for two had let down their masks and were already quite drunk. Prance recognized the man as a prominent lawyer. The woman with him wasn't his wife.

"The couple holding hands in the corner could be the Bee and a lady friend,' Prance said. "They're the likeliest bet, although that one really large table might hold a hymenopteron. Do you recognize any of them?"

"I'm not sure, but the dashing creature in the red domino at the large table has all the little feminine poses of Lady Callwood. See how she tilts her head like a bird?"