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ball and chain,” she said.
    “No need for that, my pet. I’m already a cripple. I shall just send off a reply to his note, while you change for dinner. You promised to dine with me, you recall.”
    With this bribe she went home satisfied, if not happy. She knew these apparently simple cases had a way of growing into tangled complexity. But at least this time Luten would be supervising the operation from the safety of his own house. In her innocence, she imagined no trouble could find him there.
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Chapter 5
    It was Coffen Pattle who made the next step forward in the case. He came to call just as Luten and Corinne were finishing dinner. His eyes swerved to the sideboard, where the remains of a fowl, a dish of ragout and other side dishes were being kept warm over basins of hot water.
    “You haven’t eaten, Coffen,” Corinne said, when she saw the hungry look in his eyes. Coffen had a full complement of servants, including a cook, but they were none of them capable at their jobs. His coachman couldn’t read a map, his valet hardly recognized an iron to see it, and his cook, Prance said, must have learned his trade at the poor house.
    “Have your port here, Luten, and I’ll remain with you to hear what Coffen has to say,” Corinne said. “As I’m the only lady present, you cannot whisk me off to the drawing room alone.”
    Luten nodded and gestured Coffen to the sideboard.
    “Thankee, I’ll just help myself,” Coffen said, darting thither. A footman handed him a plate and sliced off a leg of the chicken. “And a little white meat, as I see one breast is untouched. Just pour a little gravy on her,” he said, tilting the gravy boat higher when the footman wasn’t generous enough to please him. Potatoes, carrots, broccoli and green peas were heaped on. “I’ll come back for the ragout later,” he said to the footman. “Don’t take it away.”
    Corinne and Luten had another glass of wine while Coffen squared his elbows and dug into his dinner. He made quick work of it and was soon scanning the board for dessert. “A syllabub, dandy!” he exclaimed when it was placed in front of him. It, too, disappeared with alarming speed, and he only spilt three drops on his cravat.
    When he had dined to repletion, the group moved to the drawing room for coffee. Coffen was about to open his budget when Prance arrived, wearing a wounded expression and an exquisite jacket of pearl gray. His waistcoat of gray, gold and mauve stripes had nacre buttons, a new fashion of his own devising. After considerable discussion with his valet, Villier, they had decided on an amethyst cravat pin to compliment the stripes in the waistcoat. A quizzing glass hung about his neck on a purple silk cord.
    “I trust I’m not intruding on private business?” he asked, in a voice that revealed his state of pique at being left out.
    “Sit down, Prance,” Coffen said. “I see you’re in half mourning for Fogg. I daresay I ought to get some black crepe for the funeral.”
    Prance’s nostrils narrowed in sheer vexation. Prance had not expected his new ensemble to go unnoticed, but this was not the comment he expected. As he glanced at himself in the ormolu mirror, he saw it was well earned. “And I see you are fresh from the trough,” he riposted. “The stains on your cravat are still wet. “
    Coffen passed a careless hand over the spots, smearing them over a larger area. “So they are,” he said. “Have a seat. I’m just about to tell them about my visit to Somerset House.”
    Corinne offered Prance coffee. He waved away the preferred cup, daintily lifted his coattails to prevent wrinkling them and eased himself into a chair.
    Coffen ladled five or six spoons of sugar and a healthy dollop of cream into his coffee, blew noisily on it, and took a sip before beginning. “Well sir, if Fogg was carrying on with a lady, he certainly kept it dark amongst his fellow workers. Not a whiff of her. In fact, he didn’t chum around with any of