To Mourn a Murder Read Online Free PDF

the letters in any case, for he is actually Jergen's nephew, not mine, and one never knows. He might have told Jergen. He only stayed a moment yesterday. He had left long before Lady Callwood arrived, so he wasn't privy to our weeping session."
    They got Lady Callwood's address on Duke Street and left. "Let us hope Lady Callwood is more informative than Lady Jergen," Prance said.
    "She could hardly be less so. And in any case, she's a demmed sight prettier. A regular dasher is Lady Callwood."
    The gentlemen exchanged an anticipatory smile as they went out to the carriage.
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Chapter 4
    Although a known dasher, Lady Callwood was not in the habit of receiving gentlemen callers at such a farouche hour, especially when one of them wore a violet kerchief with yellow dots. But when the butler saw the magical name Lord Byron on the other person's card, his face thawed and he ushered them into the best drawing room, ordered coffee and sent a maid dashing upstairs to hasten her ladyship's toilette.
    Some quarter of an hour passed before the lady arrived. This left plenty of time for the callers to admire the splendours of an Adam's drawing room of exquisite proportions, two classical fireplaces in white marble, a medallioned ceiling and pelmetted windows, the whole of it transmogrified to near vulgarity by a superfluity of mismatching ornaments, gilt trim and furniture upholstered in patterned scarlet.
    "Strange," Byron drawled. "This reminds me of Ali Pasha's palace, yet it hasn't a single detail in common with it, other than a suffocating surfeit of silk and gold and knick-knacks."
    While they waited for their hostess to arrive, Byron amused Prance with stories of Ali Pasha, one of the great and powerful rulers of the Ottoman empire and an alleged cannibal. He spoke of his visit at Tepaleen, Ali Pasha's country palace, and the lavish entertainment shown him while Prance listened as one in a trance.
    He was almost disappointed when he heard the soft tread of footsteps heralding Lady Callwood's entrance. Her appearance, however, did much to overcome his annoyance. She was a diamond of the first water. Prance judged her age to be at the latter end of the twenties. Time had removed any hint of innocence but had not yet made any small inroad on her beauty. She was a pocket Venus, and like Adam's room, perfectly proportioned.
    A halo of blond hair and a pair of lustrous blue eyes with lashes like fans brought to mind an angel. Not by Botticelli, but by Filippo Lippi who, by tradition, had used his mistresses as models. Or was that for the Virgin Mary? In any case, it was the whisper of wickedness in her full lips and saucy smile that gave rise to the thought.
    She had not taken time to make a full toilette, but wore a becoming boudoir gown of blue velvet. It was little more than a plain circle of material with holes cut for the arms and head, yet on her its sinuous folds seemed the epitome of elegance. Although it made no secret of her charms, the archbishop himself could find no impropriety in its actual construction. As one could see more of a lady's charm in a muslin gown, it was hard to see just what lent that delightful air of diablerie.
    She raised her shapely, marmoreal arms in welcome. "You must forgive my deshabille," she said in a warbling, throaty voice. "When I heard the great Lord Byron and Sir Reginald had come to call, I was too impatient to wait a single minute." She offered them each in turn her hand. Prance noticed that she had included him in her welcome, though he was not so optimistic as to think that "great" included him.
    "You will join me for coffee. I've just this minute arisen from my bed. I'm only half awake until I've had my coffee." She rubbed her eyes playfully. "I am awake, am I not? I'm not dreaming that you're calling on me?" Those sinful eyes positively fondled Byron. She remembered to bat her lashes at Prance as well.
    As Byron seemed too besotted to speak, Prance said, "I fear your pleasure may