“I have enjoyed your hospitality so often since coming here that I would like to take you all to lunch at the hotel,” Prance said. Then he looked at Luten and Coffen, who showed signs of their morning’s activities and said, “You can wash up in my room. We’ll take a private dining room so no one will see those mud-stained buckskins, and we can make plans without being overheard.” Even Villier, he feared, could do nothing with those buckskins until the earth was completely dried.
“What about Coffen?” Corinne asked.
“He and Black are invited as well, ça va sans dire” Prance said, turning to smile the invitation at them.
“No, I mean what if Cripps keeps shooting at him?” she persisted.
“He’ll hardly come into the hotel with guns blazing,” Prance said, shaking his head at such female fears, though if he had been the potential victim he would have been hiding under the bed.
“But after lunch, he’ll need a new disguise,” she said. “The footman’s disguise didn’t work. They know about it now.”
“You’re right, milady,” Black said. “Cripps will be sore as a gumboil. We need a better disguise.”
“I’m not afraid of him!” Coffen scoffed. “Nothing I’d like better than to get my hands on the scoundrel. I will, too, before this is over.”
“We know you’re not afraid,” Corinne said. “But he doesn’t fight fair, Coffen. He’ll be shooting at you from hiding, like the coward he is. It would be foolhardy not to take precautions. We must use our wits to — to outwit him.”
Upon consideration, Coffen felt she had a point. What he really wanted was to darken Cripps’s daylights and draw his cork, and he couldn’t do that if he was dead. And he couldn’t find out who murdered Mary either. “What sort of disguise do you have in mind?”
“I have the black wig,” Prance said, “but one hardly feels that will do the trick.”
“No, we need a much better disguise than that,” she said firmly. After a moment’s thought she continued, “What would surely fool him is if Coffen dressed up like a lady.”
“No, that’s going too far!” Coffen said angrily. “I ain’t hiding behind my own skirts, and that’s the top and bottom of it.”
“Would you rather wear a shroud?” Luten asked. “You know perfectly well he’ll make it his goal to kill you now. Two or three days, what difference does it make? No one will know but us.”
“I don’t see what’s so disgraceful about wearing skirts,” Corinne said. “I wouldn’t object to wearing trousers to save my life. It would be fun.”
“Trousers ain’t skirts,” Coffen said.
“That’s exactly the point. No one would suspect you’re a man.”
“And anyhow, who could I be?”
“Anyone you want,” she said, hoping to jolly him along.
“I wouldn’t mind being Lettie Lade,” he said, naming an infamous lady famous for her racy reputation and her way with hurtling her phaeton through town.
“You can’t be someone that everyone knows,” Corinne explained, “or anyone who is likely to come down to Brighton at this time. And you must be someone who is on close terms with us.”
“And someone who has a reason to be at your house on Nile Street, since we plan to spend time there,” Luten added. “A female relative, for instance. You haven’t all forgotten we plan to ‘find’ the Czarina’s necklace?”
“I’d prefer if we had some excuse for me to be near him as well,” Black said. “Me and Mr. Pattle are used to working together.”
“I was thinking Coffen would stay with Luten and myself on Marine Parade,” Corinne said. “A lady doesn’t usually stay at an hotel without a female companion, you know. You could be her cicisbeo, Black, escort her about town.”
“It’d never work,” Coffen said. “I don’t talk like a girl.”
Prance sat, trying to think of something clever. He loved the idea of rigging Coffen up like a lady and foresaw great fun in teasing him. He didn’t mean to be left out of the masquerade. “Black shall be her cicisbeo and I shall be her cavalier servente. We can do most of the talking for her. “
“Him,” Coffen growled. “Me.”
Prance conceded the point with a nod. “As the lady you’re posing as will not be exactly a beauty, we ought to make her rich, to account for our devotion.”
Coffen, succumbing reluctantly to the idea, said, “How about Aunt Sophia? You know Sophia, Corrie. Lady Carter, old George Carter’s relict. Rich as Croesus, and ugly as sin. Folks say she looks a bit like me, actually.”
“Perfect. She practically never travels, and if she did she would stay with me if she were in town, for besides being rich, she’s as tight as bark to a tree. That’s settled then,” she said quickly, before he could change his mind.
“What shade of wig shall we require?” Prance asked, assuming the construction of the disguise would be left to him.
“Gray,” Coffen and Corinne said together. “Big mounds of gray,” Corinne added. “And a lorgnette.”
“What else?”
“She always wears black bombazine, in honour of her late husband, whom she heartily despised,” Corinne continued. “And she has a voice like a foghorn, so you needn’t worry about talking like a lady, Coffen.”
“I daresay I could put up with it for a few days,” Coffen said. “Pity I won’t be able to drive my curricle.”
“No, but Sophia adores riding,” Corinne reminded him. “Luten has had our mounts sent down, so that is no problem.”
“Yes, Coffen can use your mount,” Luten said to his wife, as he had no notion of giving up his own. When his wife cast a knowing eye on him, he added, “Or we can hire one.”
“She sounds delightful,” said Prance, who collected originals the way some folks collect seashells. “We must see about a black bombazine gown.”
Corinne said, “Mrs. Partridge will know someone who can make one up for us quickly.”
The planning continued over lunch at the Royal Crescent, which they reached without incident. After lunch they went to Luten’s house to speak to Mrs. Partridge about the gown and a bonnet.
Mrs. Partridge entered into the charade with enthusiasm. She was a strong admirer of the Berkeley Brigade, and especially fond of Mr. Pattle. “Who made up my black bombazine is Mrs. Cook, here in town. I’ll show you mine, and you see if that’s the sort of thing you want. We’ll need your measurements, Mr. Pattle.”
She was back in a trice with her Sunday best gown. When she held it up to Pattle, it looked as if it would fit, other than being an inch or two short, for Mrs. Partridge was comfortably upholstered. “Try it on,” she urged.
He objected, but was talked into it and went abovestairs to put it on, with Prance’s assistance. “We must pad your bosom,” Prance said, staring at the loose folds above the waist.
“I don’t have a bosom,” Coffen scowled.
“Precisely. We shall borrow some face cloths from the linen cupboard.”
“If you know Sophia, it’s towels you’d be borrowing.”
“We shall compromise on pillow cases. Many a compromise has been made there, I fancy.” Coffen didn’t understand him, or Prance would have been called to account. He didn’t approve of broad talk.
“I don’t see how you ladies keep from killing yourselves on the stairs in these things,” he scolded, when he came down, holding the skirt up to his knees. Having delivered him to the drawing room, Prance left to borrow what was needed from Boo.
Luten stared at Coffen, pinched back a grin and said, “It will do admirably, Lady Carter. A pity it isn’t a shade longer and we wouldn’t have to wait for Mrs. Cook to make you up one like it.”
“Why it has a good three inch hem,” said Mrs. Partridge, who had waited to see the transformation. “I could let it down for you. Mrs. Cook will be busy this time of year, though I daresay she’d give your lordship preference.”
“We can’t take your gown, Mrs. Partridge,” Corinne said. But she was aware of the convenience of getting Coffen into skirts as soon as possible. “Let us buy it from you, and Mrs. Cook can make up a new one for you.”
Mrs. Partridge objected, but was talked into it without too much difficulty. Truth to tell she was glad to be rid of that old black bombazine. She had had her eye on a new gown for the past two years. In a daring departure from black, she wanted a navy blue gown with jet beading down the bodice.
She measured how much the hem would have to be let down, and as soon as Coffen returned it to her, she set to work on the job. Prance returned with the gold-rimmed lorgnette and gray wig. He had even purchased a bonnet decorated with an abundance of black feathers with a few claret-coloured ones for variety. Coffen groaned when he saw it. “If anyone I know sees me in this I’ll never hold up my head again,” he said.
“Your own mother wouldn’t recognize you, Mr. Pattle,” Black said. He directed a sharp glance at Prance and added, “You may be sure none of us here would be scaly enough to rat on you.”
Coffen, under no misapprehension as to which one might be so scaly, glared at Prance and said, “He better not, if he knows what’s good for him.”
“You make too much of it,” Prance scoffed. “I did not cavil when you made me dress me up like a lady to go to the Pantheon on Guy Fawkes night.”
“You were tickled pink,” Coffen charged. “You got Byron for your escort.”
“And you shall have me and Black. What do you plan to do about your room at the hotel? You might as well give it up. Why pay when you won’t be staying there?”
“I’ll go and pack up my duds and tell them I’m leaving,” Coffen said. “I’ll need some excuse. I reserved the room for two weeks.”
“You were called back to London on urgent business,” Prance suggested.
Coffen nodded. “I’ll leave the curricle and carriage there for you, Black.”
“Wouldn’t you take one of them to London?” Luten said.
“You’re right. We don’t want to arouse suspicion. Fitz could take the closed carriage and hide it out of town. I wouldn’t like to trust him with my grays.”
Black was thrilled with the arrangement but answered in his usual stolid way, “I’ll take care of the curricle for you then.”
“We might as well go along to the hotel and do it now. How do I get back here?” Coffen asked.
“You’ll have to leave with Fitz to make it look as if you’re leaving for London,” Luten said. “He can drop you off here. Just make sure you’re not followed.”
“Yes, do be careful,” Corinne added.
“I doubt Cripps would attack in broad daylight, and right outside the hotel,” Black said. “He’ll be driving the closed carriage so Mr. Pattle will only be in the open while he darts into the hotel and back out to the carriage.”
“Don’t forget to take your bags when you leave the hotel,” Luten said. “You needn’t bring everything, but you’ll want a change of linen. You can leave what you don’t need with Black.”
“Right,” Coffen said. “Shall we get on with it then?”
Sir Reginald accompanied Coffen and Pattle to help keep a lookout. They made it to the hotel without attack. Pattle gave his excuse for leaving, terminated his bill and sent for his carriage as soon as he entered. Then they all went up to his room to sort out what necessities he should take to Luten’s house.
“Don’t forget your razor,” Prance said. “And use it often. I shouldn’t think Lady Carter has whiskers.”
“No,” Coffen said, “just a little moustache on her upper lip, and a bit of bristle on her chin.”
“We didn’t think of shoes for you,” was Prance’s next speech. “One can hardly wear topboots with a gown.”
“Sophia can,” Coffen said. “I ain’t going to wobble about on high heels. I’d break my neck.”
Prance agreed that Coffen and high heels could well prove a lethal combination “Take your patent evening slippers. That’s what I wore when I went to the Pantheon with Byron. All set? Shall we go now?”
Black picked up the suitcase and they all went downstairs. Fitz stowed the bag, Coffen climbed into his carriage and waved goodbye. Black walked with Prance back to Luten’s house, keeping an eye out to make sure Mr. Pattle was not followed till the carriage was out of sight.
At Luten’s house, Coffen checked to see the coast was clear, got out with his bag and scuttled inside. Fitz drove the carriage to an inn ten miles from town, where he was to remain until further notice.