pacify them, Byron brought his cup over to Coffen’s chair. “Any sign of Vulch?” he asked.
Prance, as jealous as a lover, noticed them and said, “What plan are you two hatching?”
“It’s already hatched,” Coffen said, and told them where he’d been, and what he’d seen and overheard. “Vulch seems to think Lady Richardson would be interested in the body, but according to his girlfriend, she’s more interested in meeting us.” Having finished his tale, he dug into the plate he’d heaped with food.
His last sentence pleased Prance. He was always eager to meet anyone who admired him. “Will you oblige the lady, Byron?” he asked.
“They’re on the list of guests for the Christmas party.”
“It’d be interesting to pick their brains before that,” Coffen said.
“Are you on calling terms with them?” Corinne asked. “We could pay them an afternoon visit as a courtesy to local worthies.”
“Is the man a Whig?” Luten asked. “From what Coffen says, his pockets are deep. He might make us a useful M.P. one of these days.”
“Yes, I am on calling terms with them, Corinne,” Byron said. “They paid me a visit the last time I was here. As to their politics, Luten, the Redleys were always dyed in the wool Tories. They’d vote for a jackass if his hide was blue. Sir William may be his own man, however. We only discussed forestry. Sir William was planting a windbreak behind his house. We can call and deliver cards to the party if you like.”
“I shall make up a card for them tomorrow,” Prance said, and it was settled that they would call on the Richardsons.
When Coffen rose and took his cup for a refill, Corinne said, “You’re limping again, Coffen. Did you hurt your knee?”
“It’s the raw weather,” he said. “The sawbones warned me it would cut up for a while in the damp.” Mrs. Ballard murmured something about a bandage. “It’ll not slow me down,” he continued. “I’ll nip into the Green Man tomorrow and see what I can ferret out about Vulch. And the Richardsons,” he added, to cover all bases.
As the long case clock struck eleven chimes, Corinne stifled a yawn and said, “I’m turning in now. All this fresh country air ..."
Mrs. Ballard shot out of her chair to accompany her, nearly upsetting her tea in the process. She would as soon be alone in a roomful of tigers as with four gentlemen. The ladies said their goodnights and left.
Prance kept an eye on the clock. He didn’t want to be late for his meeting with Grace. Coffen had his own plan to be at the Monks’ Avenue at midnight. The two of them left, and Byron and Luten remained behind, discussing politics.
----
Chapter 6
Prance’s valet, Villier, wrapped a warm muffler about his master’s throat in preparation for the tryst with Grace. Villier was his master’s confidant in more matters than his toilette. He knew all about the gothic novel, about Grace being Lady Lorraine, about his master’s unstated longing for fame. Prance had often thought, when browsing through Plato’s Symposium, that Villier was the other half of himself that man searched for. They even looked somewhat alike. Indeed their physiques were so similar that, in a pinch, Villier could be sent to Weston to be measured for a new jacket for Prance. He was the recipient of all Prance’s cast-offs. This was no small perquisite, for Prance bought many jackets, and did not wear them into the ground.
He had never had such a close relationship with anyone else, even his beloved Comtesse Chamaude. There was nothing homoerotic in it, but the relationship went miles beyond the usual servant-master one, past friendship to something rare and necessary to their mutual happiness. All this, without Prance ever quite losing sight of the fact that Villier was his servant.
“You have the guinea for Grace?” Villier asked as Prance headed to the door.
Prance patted his pocket. “Right here. You needn’t wait up for me, Villier.” The look that
Prance, as jealous as a lover, noticed them and said, “What plan are you two hatching?”
“It’s already hatched,” Coffen said, and told them where he’d been, and what he’d seen and overheard. “Vulch seems to think Lady Richardson would be interested in the body, but according to his girlfriend, she’s more interested in meeting us.” Having finished his tale, he dug into the plate he’d heaped with food.
His last sentence pleased Prance. He was always eager to meet anyone who admired him. “Will you oblige the lady, Byron?” he asked.
“They’re on the list of guests for the Christmas party.”
“It’d be interesting to pick their brains before that,” Coffen said.
“Are you on calling terms with them?” Corinne asked. “We could pay them an afternoon visit as a courtesy to local worthies.”
“Is the man a Whig?” Luten asked. “From what Coffen says, his pockets are deep. He might make us a useful M.P. one of these days.”
“Yes, I am on calling terms with them, Corinne,” Byron said. “They paid me a visit the last time I was here. As to their politics, Luten, the Redleys were always dyed in the wool Tories. They’d vote for a jackass if his hide was blue. Sir William may be his own man, however. We only discussed forestry. Sir William was planting a windbreak behind his house. We can call and deliver cards to the party if you like.”
“I shall make up a card for them tomorrow,” Prance said, and it was settled that they would call on the Richardsons.
When Coffen rose and took his cup for a refill, Corinne said, “You’re limping again, Coffen. Did you hurt your knee?”
“It’s the raw weather,” he said. “The sawbones warned me it would cut up for a while in the damp.” Mrs. Ballard murmured something about a bandage. “It’ll not slow me down,” he continued. “I’ll nip into the Green Man tomorrow and see what I can ferret out about Vulch. And the Richardsons,” he added, to cover all bases.
As the long case clock struck eleven chimes, Corinne stifled a yawn and said, “I’m turning in now. All this fresh country air ..."
Mrs. Ballard shot out of her chair to accompany her, nearly upsetting her tea in the process. She would as soon be alone in a roomful of tigers as with four gentlemen. The ladies said their goodnights and left.
Prance kept an eye on the clock. He didn’t want to be late for his meeting with Grace. Coffen had his own plan to be at the Monks’ Avenue at midnight. The two of them left, and Byron and Luten remained behind, discussing politics.
----
Chapter 6
Prance’s valet, Villier, wrapped a warm muffler about his master’s throat in preparation for the tryst with Grace. Villier was his master’s confidant in more matters than his toilette. He knew all about the gothic novel, about Grace being Lady Lorraine, about his master’s unstated longing for fame. Prance had often thought, when browsing through Plato’s Symposium, that Villier was the other half of himself that man searched for. They even looked somewhat alike. Indeed their physiques were so similar that, in a pinch, Villier could be sent to Weston to be measured for a new jacket for Prance. He was the recipient of all Prance’s cast-offs. This was no small perquisite, for Prance bought many jackets, and did not wear them into the ground.
He had never had such a close relationship with anyone else, even his beloved Comtesse Chamaude. There was nothing homoerotic in it, but the relationship went miles beyond the usual servant-master one, past friendship to something rare and necessary to their mutual happiness. All this, without Prance ever quite losing sight of the fact that Villier was his servant.
“You have the guinea for Grace?” Villier asked as Prance headed to the door.
Prance patted his pocket. “Right here. You needn’t wait up for me, Villier.” The look that
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