discussing Lady deCoventry's wedding."
Byron gave her his famous underlook, achieved by lowering his head and peering soulfully up through his inch long lashes. "Then the dreadful rumour is true, milady? We are about to lose you. On behalf of London's bachelors, I object—and offer my compliments." He lifted her fingers and touched them to his lips. Prance watched, noticing that, as usual, Byron dared to go that inch too far, and get away with it. Etiquette decreed that the lady's hand should stop in inch from the gentleman's lips. Prance was eager to try this new contact kiss on some dashing lady who wouldn't slap his face. Lady Callwood came to mind.
"I trust you will be wearing black, to denote the death of our dreams," Byron said, smiling.
"Marry in black, you'll ride in a hack," was Coffen's contribution.
That brought conversation to a halt. After a stunned pause, Byron turned to Prance. "I'm here about that business you were kind enough to help me with, Prance. The Bee has stung again. Can I steal you away for a minute, or ..." His raised eyebrows tacitly asked if the Berkeley Brigade knew of the affair.
"If there's been a third, we should all hear about it. Coffen already knows," Prance said with a nervous glance at Corinne. Her head turned to him, her body stiff with attention. He didn't have to look at her face to know it would be alive with accusation.
Byron nodded. "I agree."
Prance briefly outlined the situation, causing Corinne's nostrils to pinch in mute fury at her and Luten's having been left out.
"You ought to have told us in the first place," Coffen said. "I could have been looking for clues sooner. That carriage of Lord Horner's, for instance."
"I asked Lady Jergen about that," Byron said. "She thinks she felt a hole in the upholstery, which she says could have been blue. Hardly corroboration, but–"
"It was the same rig," Coffen said. "I just dropped in to tell Prance what I learned at Maida Vale, which by the way, ain't where you said it is, Reg."
"Don't be absurd. Of course it is."
"It ain't the way I got there, but never mind. That bridge is under the water now. Daresay Fitz took a wrong turn."
“He shouldn't have turned at all."
"Then how was he to get from Berkeley Square to Edgeware Road? Coffen demanded, his voice rising in anger.
"That soon he went astray!"
"Get on with it, Coffen," Corinne said sharply, and earned a smile from Byron.
"That Mr. Hummer that was supposed to have bought the rig, all a hum. There's no such person. Who lives at the Oaks on Maida Vale Road is a Mr. Winkler, and he's neither young nor wears a face you'd easily forget, which is how the man who bought Horner's rig was described. Winkler has such a squint I thought for the first few minutes he was talking to one of his hives. He runs an apiary, which ain't an ape hatchery as you'd think. There's no apes there. It's a place where they sell honey. I've got a few combs in my rig."
"A home for bees, en effet,” Prance said.
"That as well," Coffen nodded. "You can't get honey without bees. Don't bother telling me it's a metaphor or some dashed thing, for I can see well enough the fellow is pulling our legs. Hummer, bees. All a hum. Winkler didn't know what I was talking about when I accused him of buying Horner's carriage. He was mad enough that his bees' names had been taken in vain that he let me look all through his stable. He has a rickety old black rig and a dog cart and a wagon for delivering his honey into town, but he don't have Horner's carriage. He does have a team of bays, but who don't, unless you're a Corinthian who thinks it's smart to drive greys. Mind you, I've nothing against greys when they don't act ups. Too frisky by half."
After this tirade, he helped himself to a glass of wine. Prance, recalled to his duties as host, relinquished Petruchio to Byron and served his guests. He couldn't decide whether he was flattered or offended that Petruchio cuddled up so cosily in Byron's arms.
"This
Byron gave her his famous underlook, achieved by lowering his head and peering soulfully up through his inch long lashes. "Then the dreadful rumour is true, milady? We are about to lose you. On behalf of London's bachelors, I object—and offer my compliments." He lifted her fingers and touched them to his lips. Prance watched, noticing that, as usual, Byron dared to go that inch too far, and get away with it. Etiquette decreed that the lady's hand should stop in inch from the gentleman's lips. Prance was eager to try this new contact kiss on some dashing lady who wouldn't slap his face. Lady Callwood came to mind.
"I trust you will be wearing black, to denote the death of our dreams," Byron said, smiling.
"Marry in black, you'll ride in a hack," was Coffen's contribution.
That brought conversation to a halt. After a stunned pause, Byron turned to Prance. "I'm here about that business you were kind enough to help me with, Prance. The Bee has stung again. Can I steal you away for a minute, or ..." His raised eyebrows tacitly asked if the Berkeley Brigade knew of the affair.
"If there's been a third, we should all hear about it. Coffen already knows," Prance said with a nervous glance at Corinne. Her head turned to him, her body stiff with attention. He didn't have to look at her face to know it would be alive with accusation.
Byron nodded. "I agree."
Prance briefly outlined the situation, causing Corinne's nostrils to pinch in mute fury at her and Luten's having been left out.
"You ought to have told us in the first place," Coffen said. "I could have been looking for clues sooner. That carriage of Lord Horner's, for instance."
"I asked Lady Jergen about that," Byron said. "She thinks she felt a hole in the upholstery, which she says could have been blue. Hardly corroboration, but–"
"It was the same rig," Coffen said. "I just dropped in to tell Prance what I learned at Maida Vale, which by the way, ain't where you said it is, Reg."
"Don't be absurd. Of course it is."
"It ain't the way I got there, but never mind. That bridge is under the water now. Daresay Fitz took a wrong turn."
“He shouldn't have turned at all."
"Then how was he to get from Berkeley Square to Edgeware Road? Coffen demanded, his voice rising in anger.
"That soon he went astray!"
"Get on with it, Coffen," Corinne said sharply, and earned a smile from Byron.
"That Mr. Hummer that was supposed to have bought the rig, all a hum. There's no such person. Who lives at the Oaks on Maida Vale Road is a Mr. Winkler, and he's neither young nor wears a face you'd easily forget, which is how the man who bought Horner's rig was described. Winkler has such a squint I thought for the first few minutes he was talking to one of his hives. He runs an apiary, which ain't an ape hatchery as you'd think. There's no apes there. It's a place where they sell honey. I've got a few combs in my rig."
"A home for bees, en effet,” Prance said.
"That as well," Coffen nodded. "You can't get honey without bees. Don't bother telling me it's a metaphor or some dashed thing, for I can see well enough the fellow is pulling our legs. Hummer, bees. All a hum. Winkler didn't know what I was talking about when I accused him of buying Horner's carriage. He was mad enough that his bees' names had been taken in vain that he let me look all through his stable. He has a rickety old black rig and a dog cart and a wagon for delivering his honey into town, but he don't have Horner's carriage. He does have a team of bays, but who don't, unless you're a Corinthian who thinks it's smart to drive greys. Mind you, I've nothing against greys when they don't act ups. Too frisky by half."
After this tirade, he helped himself to a glass of wine. Prance, recalled to his duties as host, relinquished Petruchio to Byron and served his guests. He couldn't decide whether he was flattered or offended that Petruchio cuddled up so cosily in Byron's arms.
"This
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