Lady Vengeance (4 page)

 George Rowsell, who was busy with the poker trying to coax some life into the dying fire, glanced up.

 ‘What’s that, sir? Your cravat pin? I believe Julian picked it up earlier.’

 The marquis walked back to the table and gave Poyntz a shake, but apart from a faint groan, his efforts met with no response.

 ‘He’s probably put it in his pocket. Try if you can rouse him, Rowsell, while I step below to order my carriage. There’s moon enough yet for me to travel to Thurleigh.’

 He found the landlord in the taproom, and had just ordered his carriage to be set to when Bishop Furminger came hurrying down the stairs.

 ‘My lord he does not have it!’ declared Furminger in a frightened whisper.

 When Bradgate had gone to do his bidding, the marquis turned a weary eye upon the cleric.

 ‘What are you talking about, sir?’

 ‘The ruby,’ hissed Furminger, ‘Poyntz says he does not have it. He gave it to the girl.’

 ‘What!’

 ‘Oh I said it was madness to touch her,’ muttered the bishop, wringing his hands, ‘Now everything is lost!’

 ‘Quiet, you fool! What do you expect the girl to do with it? She can’t sell such a distinctive ornament, at least not before I have had a chance to recover my property.’

 The landlord appeared at the outer door.

 ‘Your carriage is waiting, my lord.’

 Before the marquis could reply, an elderly gentleman came in behind Bradgate. His head was bare save for a grey tie-wig and his open greatcoat flapped about him. Distress was writ large upon his lined countenance. At the sight of Lord Thurleigh he stopped, breathing heavily.

 ‘My lord, I must speak with you.’

 The marquis waved a languid hand.

 ‘In the morning,’ he drawled dismissively, ‘I am going home.’

 ‘No, my lord. It must be now!’ The old gentleman barred his way. ‘I have a just and very serious grievance to take up with you.’

 A sudden hush had fallen over the room, although no man looked up from his tankard.

 ‘Mr Burchard, ‘twould be as well to wait until morning,’ muttered Bradgate.

 Lord Thurleigh’s eyes widened fractionally.

 ‘Burchard – I have heard that name somewhere before, I believe.’

 The old gentleman’s countenance displayed his anger.

 ‘Aye, sir! This very morning your carriage nearly rode down my wife, and now my child has come home to tell me she has been dishonoured!’

 Lord Thurleigh’s thin face was haughty.

 ‘Indeed, sir? And whom do you accuse of dishonouring your daughter?’

 Mr Burchard’s steady gaze never wavered.

 ‘She tells me, sir, that it was yourself and your party who forced themselves upon her.’

 In the tense silence that surrounded them, my lord laughed softly.

 ‘A fairytale, sir, dished up by the girl to save her own face. She came here, flaunting her charms, hoping to make a little money, I don’t doubt – as a matter of fact,’ he continued, watching the old man carefully, ‘she stole something of mine before she left. A ruby cravat pin. Damme, would I give such a thing to the girl? Tell her to bring it back to me, there’s a good fellow, and I will say no more about it.’

 Still the old gentleman stood his ground.

 ‘Nay, my lord. I demand justice!’

 Lord Thurleigh’s eyes darkened. He waved towards the bishop.

 ‘Do you have the audacity to imply that I, or a man of the cloth, would be party to such an outrage as you describe?’

 A pair of faded grey eyes stared accusingly at the two men.

 ‘I cannot doubt my daughter’s word, sir,’ he said deliberately.

 ‘And I say she is a liar,’ replied the marquis coldly. ‘Try, if you can, to find any here who will support her story.’

 Mr Burchard looked around the crowded taproom, but as his eyes swept over them, the men shifted uncomfortably in their seats and averted their faces.

 ‘What!’ he cried desperately, ‘will no one here speak up for my little Nell?’

 Thurleigh stood behind him, a full head taller than the old man and his fierce, hawk-like glance defied any man to speak. No one moved.

 ‘Come away sir,’ murmured Bradgate. ‘You can do yourself no good here.’

 The old man shook off his arm.

 ‘No. I will not come away until my daughter’s name has been cleared!’ His hand moved to the ancient sword strapped to his side.

 The landlord was horrified.

 ‘Sir, you will not fight his lordship,’ he muttered, but was ignored.

 The marquis was slowly drawing off his gloves.

 ‘Very well, clear a space. We will decide the matter now, and make an end to it.’

 There was much scraping of boards as tables and stools were pushed back and the candles arranged to give equal lighting to the combatants, while the two gentlemen removed their coats and rolled up their sleeves, preparing themselves for the contest.

 ‘My lord!’ Bradgate made a feeble protest, but a malevolent look from the marquis silenced him and he drew back unhappily.

 ‘This is most irregular!’ declared the bishop, unable to contain himself. ‘It will be nothing short of a brawl in a common ale-house. You need seconds, and a surgeon – arrange a proper meeting my lord, in heaven’s name!’

 He received a sneering look for his pains.

 ‘If it offends your sensibilities, Furminger then I suggest you go back upstairs with the others.’

* * * *

 Finally, the two men were ready. The marquis, tall and lean, his agile body in stark contrast to that of his opponent, a man well past his fiftieth year and so short and slight that he looked no match for his powerful opponent. The two men drew their swords, gave the briefest of salutes and with the scrape of steel upon steel they began. It soon became apparent that the older man was no expert with a sword. He parried where he could, the blades ringing together in the hushed room, but all too soon Lord Thurleigh’s lightning blade darted inside his feeble guard and buried itself deep in his chest. Without a sound the old man crumpled on to the floor and lay there, motionless. Bradgate jumped forward and turned the body, urgently looking for a sign of life. There was none. Lord Thurleigh wiped his bloodied sword upon the dead man’s shirt before returning it to its sheath. Then he looked around him.

 ‘Let that be a lesson to you all,’ he said. ‘It is not wise to cross the marquis of Thurleigh.’

 With that, he drew on his coat, and without another word he stepped over the lifeless body of his opponent and went out to his carriage.

 ‘My lord!’ Bishop Furminger ran out after him. ‘What of the ruby?’

 The marquis curled his lip contemptuously.

 ‘Do you expect me to convey Burchard’s body to his house and demand my cravat pin tonight? Calm yourself, man. My men shall call upon the widow and her daughter first thing in the morning, never fear.’

* * * *

 The following day Lord Thurleigh’s men arrived at Rock Cottage to find the house deserted, and their enquiries in the village were met with blank stares. The hapless widow Burchard and her daughter had vanished.

September 1753

 It had been a fine, sunny day and although darkness had now closed over Paris, there was no chill in the air, for the richly carved stone buildings that had basked all day in the sun’s rays now surrendered their bounty to the night. The Duc du Bellay made his way at a leisurely pace up the steps to the ballroom of Madame Briàre’s grand town house.

 ‘You are sure Madame will have no objection?’ said his companion, a corpulent gentleman who wheezed slightly from the exertion of mounting the stairs.

 ‘My dear Julian, she will be enchanted to have you at her soirée.’

 ‘And shall we find Monsieur Briàre at home?’ asked the corpulent gentleman as they reached the top of the stairs.

 The
duc
chuckled and shook his head.

‘Our host dislikes such evenings as these and invariably absents himself. Madame has no shortage of attendants willing to take his place at table – or in bed, when necessary.’

 He bowed to a diminutive lady who now appeared through the crowd. She was dressed in cream figured silk, powdered curls piled high upon her head and at the corner of her mouth she wore a scarlet patch that gave her countenance a charmingly roguish look as she smiled her welcome.

 
‘Monsieur le Duc –
why are you
always
so late!’ she chided him gently, as he bowed over her hands. ‘I had quite given up hope. It is too bad of you.’

 
Monsieur le Duc
spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

 ‘Alas, Madame, I have no defence and must crave your pardon. However, I have hopes of regaining your favour by bringing my good friend Julian Poyntz along with me: I believe you are old friends.’

 For the first time Madame’s dark eyes moved to the
duc’s
companion and they widened slightly as she took in the heavily laced coat of salmon pink satin over an embroidered waistcoat that was cut generously to cover the gentleman’s ample proportions. She gave a little trill of laughter.

 ‘Truly,
m’sieur,
I would not have known you.’ She smiled disarmingly, holding out her hands to him.

 ‘I, on the other hand, could never forget you, Madame.’ The Englishman gallantly kissed her fingers.

 The lady made no reply but allowed her eyes to dwell expressively upon the rounded form before her.

 ‘I have grown a little stouter since we last met, eh?’ chuckled Poyntz.

 Madame Briàre laughed up at him and tucked her tiny hand into his arm.

 ‘That is a certainty,
m’sieur
! Henri, you may go away and amuse yourself for a while,’ she commanded imperiously. ‘It should not be difficult, for you are acquainted with everyone present, I think, and I wish to have
M’sieur
Poyntz to myself!’

 The
duc
shrugged his shoulders.

 ‘If that is your wish, Madame, of course I will go. But I am mortified that you should prefer such a
stout
English gentleman to myself!’

 ‘Careful, Henri, or I shall be forced to call you out!’ laughed Poyntz, wagging a fat finger at his friend.

 ‘Observe, you have terrified me,
m’sieur
– I go at once.’

 With another graceful bow, the Duc sauntered away, leaving Madame Briàre to lead her guest across the crowded room.

 ‘Come, Julian, we will sit and talk. There is a quiet corner where we can find a little privacy. Do you object if I call you Julian? It used to please you.’

 ‘It does that still, Madame.’

 She pouted. ‘Ah, but you do not call me Thérèse! Have you been away from Paris for so long that you have forgotten we were once lovers?’

 His faintly protuberant blue eyes grew misty.

 ‘How could I forget anything so delightful?’ he murmured. ‘But after so many years I hesitate to remind you of the fact, lest I offend.’

 They had reached a secluded alcove set between stone pillars and part-shielded from the main chamber by heavy drapes. Madame Briàre settled herself upon a sofa, carefully arranging the folds of her dress to make room for her escort. She patted the seat beside her.

 ‘And what brings you to Paris, Julian? Are you perhaps on your way to Rome to visit your Stuart king?’

 ‘I am on my way back from here,’ replied the gentleman, sitting beside her, ‘I have also been to Avignon to see the prince.’

 ‘Ah, such a charming man.’ Madame sighed. ‘But so much changed! I saw him shortly before he was obliged to leave Paris. So many years of disappointment. They are taking their toll of him. But tell me, is there another plan to restore the Stuarts to the English throne?’

 ‘There is always another plan,’ came the weary reply.

 ‘And it is still milord Thurleigh who makes these plans for you to obey?’ Her sharp eyes observed his sudden wary look and she smiled. ‘Oh Julian, you must not be alarmed, there is no-one to overhear us.’

 ‘What do you know of Thurleigh’s plans?’ he asked her cautiously, but the lady only laughed.

 ‘Why Julian, nothing more than the gossip that surrounds every Englishman who comes to France these days. But you need not be concerned - I do not think anyone here really cares about your little intrigues.’ She paused, her smile slightly teasing. ‘Except … there is perhaps one who would be interested, a young English milord who is exceedingly handsome…’

 Poyntz gave a nervous laugh. ‘Then pray do not tell him anything about me, Thérèse, for it is all nonsense, you know!’

‘Have no fear,
mon cher
,’ she told him, patting his hand. ‘I chatter, but I do not give away my secrets. Now, I have had you to myself long enough, and if I do not let you go, we shall find ourselves the target for mischievous tongues’ – she tapped her fan playfully against his bulging waistcoat, her eyes twinkling wickedly – ‘I do have my reputation to consider. But you need not be too unhappy. I know of at least one lady here tonight who truly admires men of your stature. She really is very agreeable,
m’sieur.’

 Poyntz chuckled as he struggled to his feet. ‘Thank you, ma’am, but I shall survive, I believe, without your kind offices! I see du Bellay over there and as he has been kind enough to house me during my sojourn here in Paris, I must not neglect him. In any event, should I require an introduction, I am sure he can serve me admirably.’

 With a parting bow Mr Poyntz walked away, leaving his hostess smiling after him for a moment, tapping her fan thoughtfully against her fingers, until the demands of her guests once more occupied her attention. She moved between the little groups, a word here, a smile there, but she would not be detained. Madame had spotted her quarry, a tall gentleman, standing apart from the main company, and she made her way purposefully towards him.

 ‘Ah, Viscount Davenham,’ she gave him her enchanting smile, ‘you do not mix, sir. Does the company not please you?’

 The gentleman’s blue eyes rested upon her, but Madame could not read the thoughts behind his steady gaze. She was aware of a faint tingle of excitement within her: this tall Englishman with his plain dark coat and no jewellery, she was reminded of a blackbird in a flowerbed, yet his very austerity attracted her.