Polly and the Prince (19 page)

“Don’t blame her.”

“You too are angry?”

Ned appeared to search his mind, then shook his head. “Don’t think so. But I unnerstand why Poll is. Rotten thing to
do to a girl.”

“Lady Sylvia told me Polly thinks I was mocking her, pretending friendship.”

“Fine woman, Lady Sylvia.
Very
fine woman. Love her,” said Ned with drunken earnestness. Kolya recalled that in general he was most abstemious. “Want to marry her,” he went on, “take care of her, but she’s a lady ‘n’ I’m jus’ a bailiff.”

“She wishes to see you. She told me to bring you back with me.” With the clarity of detachment Kolya noted that as usual his English improved when he was slightly top heavy—and a fine English idiom that was.

Ned brightened, then sank back into gloom. “No good,” he
said despondently, shaking his head. “Ever’one’ll say ‘m a for…a for…a fortune hunter. ‘Sides, all she wants is to offer me a job again. You really a prince?”

“Yes, but a destitute prince. I want to marry your sister, but I cannot support a wife.”

“No good.” Ned shook his head again, this time finding it difficult to stop. “No money no good, an’ anyway a prince can’t marry a commoner. An’ anyway, Polly don’ want to marry anyway...anyone. De’cated to art. Husban’ll stop her painting. Tol’ me so. ‘Swhy won’t marry Lord Fitz.”

“
I
shall not stop her painting. I wish to encourage her.” With some surprise he remembered the purpose of his journey. “There is going to be an exhibition of her work in Brighton. I came to fetch her pictures.”

“Goo’ fellow, Kolya.” A huge yawn overcame him. His eyelids drooped, and Kolya was just in time to rescue his glass from suddenly slack fingers.

Ned was no lightweight. After carrying him up the
stairs, dropping him on his bed, and pulling off his boots, Kolya decided against saddling up and riding on to the manor. He removed his own boots, coat, and neckcloth, abstracted a quilt and a pillow from under his snoring friend, and dossed down on the floor.

Prince or no, on the long journey between St Petersburg and Tunbridge Wells he had slept in many worse places.

Chapter 16

The hired chaise bearing Mrs. Howard and her daughter’s pictures, escorted by Ned and Kolya on horseback, reached Brighton early the next evening. As they passed the church on its hill and continued down Church Street, the white domes of the Pavilion blazed in the golden light.

“I am certain that Polly must be painting,” Kolya said to Ned. “I wish to look for her. You will continue to Dean House?”

Absorbed in his own thoughts, Ned merely nodded. Kolya trotted south on the New Road wondering just how much his friend remembered of their conversation last night.

Polly was just where he expected to find her. Concentrating on her painting, she did not notice his approach, so he rode on to the vast, domed Royal Stables, left his mount, and walked back to her.

“Kolya!” She looked up with a glad smile in her deep blue eyes. A matching smear of indigo decorated her chin, he noticed with loving amusement. Her smile faded. “I beg your pardon—Your Excellency.”

He
shook his head, laughing. “First thought is best thought, Polly. Lady Sylvia told you I have gone to fetch your pictures for the exhibition?”

“Yes, and I’m very grateful.” She sighed. “How difficult it
is to continue resenting your deception when you are so kind!”

“Is much too difficult. You must not try.” He tore his gaze from her rueful face, turning to the canvas on her easel where sunset-flushed domes stood out against a darkening sky. “This painting is one of your best, I think. Will be ready in time?”

“Yes, just a few finishing touches.” She returned to her work. “I caught it at precisely the right moment yesterday. Oh, Kolya, Nick and I were looking for you yesterday. We saw some most peculiar goings-on down in the Pavilion cellars, but no one would take any notice of what we said.”

“In the cellars! Why were you and Nick in the cellars?”

“We followed some men.” Continuing to paint, she explained.

“I have a bone to pluck with young Nicholas,” he said grimly, when she finished the story.

“Bone to pick. Crow to pluck,” said Polly, setting down her paintbrush. “There, that’s done.”

“Was wrong to take you with him,” Kolya persisted.

“I could not let him go alone, and I could not stop him. Anyway, there has been no outcry so it seems they did no harm.” She began to pack up her equipment. “Those who refused to believe us were right.”

He was not so sure. “Where did you see these men?” he asked, helping her fold the easel. “Where did they enter the Pavilion?”

She pointed towards the southern end of the building. “We first noticed them over there. They went through a door in the southern end, by the kitchens, and...Kolya, look! Did you see
him?” She clutched his arm with multicoloured fingers.

A furtive figure with a coil of rope slung over his shoulder dashed from one bush to the next. “Yes, I see, and there is another. I must follow.”

“It’s much earlier than yesterday, there are only two of them, and they have no barrels. Perhaps they are nothing to
do with the others.”

“They move as you described, to stay hidden.” Probably because they did not wish to be seen taking a short cut across the Pavilion grounds—Kolya did not really believe anything was seriously amiss. He rather fancied the smuggled brandy theory; it would be typical of the crazy English, he felt, to have a king who was in league with smugglers.

However, no more than Nick could he resist the possibility of an adventure. “I will follow.”

“Then I’m coming too. If it’s the same men, then I can show you which way they went. Here, take these.” She thrust the easel and her paint box into his hands, picked up her stool and the
canvas in its sling, and set out in pursuit.

Kolya caught up with her and made an unsuccessful effort to
dissuade her from going with him. Together they
hurried between the piles of building materials, then through the bushes, until Polly stopped and pointed out the door by which she and Nick had entered the Pavilion.

The men had disappeared. Probably they had gone innocently about their own business, but in any case Kolya wanted to investigate. He headed for the door, Polly close at
his heels.

The cellars were just as she had described them. They left her painting things hidden near the entrance and made their way cautiously towards the
far end.

“I don’t believe they are here,” Polly whispered. “I haven’t seen
a sign of them. Yesterday we kept catching glimpses. I’ll show you the room they went into, though.”

The door to the
room was ajar when they reached it, outlined by a dim light beyond. Effortful grunts and the sound of heavy objects being moved issued from within. Kolya crept closer, trying to
see what was going on without being seen.

The light wavered and went out.

“Hell and damnation,” swore a hoarse voice softly. “Didn’t you refill the bloody lantern, you fool?”

“I thought there were plenty left.” The second man sounded scared.

“We’ll have to pinch some oil from one of them lamps. Come on, hurry.”

Uncertain footsteps approached the door. Kolya moved backwards, nearly stumbling over Polly who was once again at
his heels. Two men came out of the room and made for the nearest unlit lamp.

“Stay here,” Kolya hissed over his shoulder and slipped into the room. It was pitch dark but for the
faintest of illumination from a distant lamp farther down the cellar.

As he paused to allow his eyes to adjust, that illumination was momentarily cut off and he realised Polly had followed him—and the bobbing light of the lantern was close behind her. He pulled her back against the wall, found her hand, and felt his way around to the far side of the room, cursing himself for letting her come with him.

The brick wall gave way to a dirt-lined alcove. They crouched there, huddling into the corner, as the narrow beam of the dark lantern played over the pile of barrels in the center of the brick floor.

“It’ll do,” said the hoarse voice. “Give that lantern here.”

“I dunno,” the
other whimpered. “It don’t seem like such a good idea, after all.”

“Why should his fat majesty revel in luxury he ain’t paid for while our children starve,” the first man snarled. The lantern moved abruptly, bobbing floorward. “There. Let’s get a move on now.”

Before Kolya could react, the door slammed shut and the key clicked in the lock.

The lantern was gone but a flickering light provided a brief glimpse of Polly’s white face as he sprang up. He knew what he would find as he strode round the stack of barrels.

Towards the stack a lilac flame crawled inexorably, releasing suffocating fumes. He had seen similar fuses used by Russian sappers—a core of compressed gunpowder wrapped in waxed hemp, burning at two feet per minute. Ten feet to the point where it disappeared under the nearest barrel, one of a pyramid he could not hope to move so fast.

Dropping to his knees beside the fuse, he felt in his pocket. “You have knife? Quick.”

Polly was at his side, handing him the little penknife she used to sharpen her charcoal sticks. “Can I do anything to help?” Her voice trembled.

“Pull it taut. Will cut more easily.” He sawed at the sinister snake with the pitifully frail blade.

* * * *

Raising the brass lion-head door-knocker, Ned wondered what his reception at Dean House would be. Vaguely he recalled opening his heart to Kolya last night, but just what had been said escaped him. He was ashamed of his overindulgence.

Though he had come to Brighton today to escort his mother, at her insistence, he knew that sooner or later he would have had to
see Lady Sylvia again. Her sweet face had haunted his dreams since he stormed away from Westcombe in a passion of hurt and despair. He was ashamed of that, too.  In general his temper was as equable as his sister’s, and he should have turned down the offer of a position with calm courtesy. But he did not want to be her agent!

One of the maids opened the door.  “Oh, sir, her ladyship’ll be that glad you’re come!”  She turned and called down the hall, “Mrs. Borden!  Mrs. Borden, ‘tis Mr. Howard.”

Ned saw the plump housekeeper hurrying towards them, wringing her hands, her face sagging with worry, and his pleasure at his welcome faded.  “What is it?” he demanded.  “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Miss Nettie and Miss Winnie, sir, and Master Nick.  He’s that good about bringing them home for their tea, but they should have been in an hour and more since.”

 “What is it, Ned?” called Mrs. Howard from the chaise. “Did I hear Nicky’s name?”

She was fumbling with the door. Ned hurried back to help her out, paid the coachman and gave him swift orders to unload the luggage and Polly’s pictures.  By the time he turned back to the front door, Lady Sylvia was standing on the step. He led his mother to her. It did not seem the moment for formal introductions.

“I daresay it is nothing,” said her ladyship, her lower lip trembling, “but you know how good Nick has always been about bringing the girls home on time. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Howard, this is a poor welcome. Pray come in.”

“Where’s my Nicky?” she asked suspiciously, stepping over the threshold.

“He took my daughters for a walk, ma’am, as he does often. He has been very good to them. I’m sure he has simply forgotten the time.” Lady Sylvia turned to Ned and held out both hands. “Only I cannot help remembering the
threats Mr. Welch uttered when you…when I was forced to dismiss him.”

Ned took her hands in a comforting clasp but had to release them at once when his mother let out a shriek.

“Nicky! He has been abducted and murdered, I know it!”

“Of course he has not, Mother. Welch was all bluff and bluster.”

“Come and sit down, Mrs. Howard.” Lady Sylvia regained her composure as the older woman lost hers. “You must be quite tired out after your journey. Ned—Mr. Howard is quite right about Mr. Welch, of course; it was foolish of me to
think of him. They are not so very late. Mrs. Borden, tea in my sitting room, if you please.”

Ned followed the ladies, his heart overflowing with love as he saw how her ladyship soothed and comforted his mother. As soon as Mrs. Howard was settled on the chaise longue and a maid had been sent for lavender water and hartshorn, he asked quietly, “They are gone up on the downs? I shall go and look for them at once.”

The look in her soft brown eyes told him that his reassurance about the dismissed overseer had convinced her no more than it had convinced him. She pressed her lips together, then said in a tolerably steady voice, “Please. I will take care of your mama. Be careful.”

He
could not resist kissing her hand before he strode from the room, across the terrace and garden, and out through the gate in the wall.

The sun was still well above the horizon, the long July day scarcely waning. As he climbed the slope, Ned’s fear that Welch might have abducted the children warred with his happiness in Sylvia’s dependence on him. He hallooed as he went, stopping to peer down into every green coomb. They could not have gone far, he thought; the little girls had short legs.

Walking the crests of the hills, he circled the deep valley where he had strolled with Sylvia so short a time before. Nick had talked of playing hide-and-seek in the bushes down there, and there was the ruined house, though he had promised to stay
away from it.

An hour passed during his circuit. Another hour and darkness would be drawing near. Ned hurried down into the valley, shouting his brother’s name.

As he pushed through the bushes, he realised that they were the remnant of an abandoned shrubbery—laurels, ilex, and privet—now tied together in an almost impenetrable thicket by ivy and wild clematis. He emerged into a clearing where rose bushes flourished in tangled abandon, a profusion of scented flowers reverting to their single-petalled ancestors after years without pruning. From here the house was clearly visible.

He had not been close to it before. Now he saw that it
was indeed a ruin, nothing left of the centre part and the south wing but charred timbers. The north wing was somewhat better preserved, if no more livable. The roof had caved in and the windows of the upper floors gaped glassless, but the westering sun struck shards of light from the ground-floor windows. Purple-pink fireweed grew tall through the
gaps in the terrace paving.