To Mourn a Murder by Joan Smith

that."
    Indeed he did know it, and this famous fencing master would presumably know his own pupils, and know that Sir Reginald Prance had never darkened his door. "Oh he's not my teacher. I have an Austrian fellow, an ex-colonel. Best not to change masters in mid-stream." Oh lord, had he really said that? He was seeing too much of Coffen.
    "Suit yourself. I have to keep up the strength in my arms. My legs are no good to me, but I have the kick of a horse in my arms." He curled his fingers into a fist and boxed the air. "Mr. Bee will feel this tonight.”
    * * * *
    Lady deCoventry did not intend to be left out of the night's activities. When neither Luten, Prance nor Coffen would allow her to join them she decided to ask her butler to accompany her. Black occasionally acted as her escort in such ventures. They were the highlights of his life, providing fodder for daydreams until the next outing.
    When he accompanied his mistress he became, in his own mind, Lord Blackwell, wealthy scion of an ancient noble family. It was in the guise of Lord Blackwell that he dared to say, "I'll go with you, of course I will, but I'll not let you get close enough to get yourself shot at. What we'll do, we'll park the rig a few blocks away, say at the British Museum, and foot it towards the destination. I know the place like the back of my hand. The thieving scoundrel chose his spot well. There are no handy trees to hide behind."
    "Perhaps we could hide at the side of a nearby house. Dressed all in black, no one will see us at night."
    "Exactly my thought, milady. As an added precaution, I suggest a hired hackney. It wouldn't do for a certain marquess to see your carriage there," he said roguishly.
    "A good idea, though the gentlemen will be much too busy fighting to pay any attention to us. I just want to see it. It's ridiculous the way they never want a lady to have any excitement."
    At eleven-fifteen Black came into the drawing room, where his mistress sat waiting, dressed all in funereal black, but the twinkle in her eye had no mourning aspect.
    "His lordship has just left, milady," Black announced. "The others went a while before him."
    "You'd best go and find us a hackney, Black."
    He gave her a smile of great condescension. "I have one waiting round the corner, madam." He laid his finger aside his nose and said, "I'll dart out and be back in a tick." He left, a blissful smile on his usually dour countenance.
    They were soon rattling along in the hired hack that smelled of dust and sweat and wine. In deference to his mistress, Black had placed a blanket over its seat. The darkness lent a special touch of enchantment to the trip for Black. They couldn't see each other and as neither spoke, he could enjoy an imaginary conversation of his own invention. They passed a few elegant chaises delivering their occupants to and from their evening entertainments. Too soon, the hulking shadow of the British Museum loomed ahead of them. The driver drew into a lane and stopped. Black leapt out, let down the step for the countess and offered her his hand for the descent. It was a moment to be cherished, the placing of those dainty little fingers on his arm.
    "Wait here for us," Lord Blackwell commanded the driver and led his mistress down the street with his fingers just touching her elbow.
    They stopped half a block short of the designated corner in the shadow of a house and waited. It seemed a very long time to Corinne. Ragged clouds dimmed the moon to a pale, opalescent glow. A brisk wind whistled around the corner, creeping under her shawl and pulling at her skirt. She scanned the area but her cohorts were so well hidden that she could see no trace of them, though there was no fog to hamper vision. Twice the silence was broken by the sound of an approaching carriage, causing her to come to attention. The first carriage proved to be Lord Castlereagh's, the second was one she recognized as belonging to the Mansfields, a perfectly respectable couple.