Dancing on the Wind (The Regency Intrigue Series Book 8)

by M C Beaton

Jake pushed back his greasy three-cornered hat and scratched his shaven head. “Don’t be like that, Poll. We’d help if we could. Get you some poison.”

  Polly forced a smile. “I’m best left alone,” she said. “I don’t think about things much if I’m left alone. It’s better that way.”

  In vain did Jake and Barney beg her to accept their help. Polly only relented enough to thank them for their visit.

  She would have perhaps remained sunk in her peculiar state of numbness and lethargy had it not been for Miss Drusilla Gentle. Polly was standing in the exercise yard one morning near the end of May, rubbing her sore ankles where the leg irons had chafed them, when her attention was drawn to a huddled and weeping figure at the edge of the yard. Polly was used to weeping figures, but it was five in the morning, the time the cells were opened, and she knew she could normally depend on having the yard to herself. She had turned to go inside, but there was something so lost and desolate about that weeping.

  Giving an impatient click of her tongue, she crossed the yard and shook the figure roughly by the shoulder. A woman gasped and turned a tear-stained face up to Polly. She was a faded creature, perhaps around thirty-five. She had sandy hair which still retained traces of powder. Her gown, stained and shabby, was of fine silk.

  “It’s no use crying,” said Polly. “That don’t help. It’ll soon be over for all of us. What’s your name?”

  “Miss Gentle. Drusilla,” said the lady, drying her eyes on a scrap of cambric. “I try hard to be brave, Miss …”

  “Jones. Polly Jones. You can call me Polly.”

  “I try so hard to be brave, Polly, but I am in that cell over there with five coarse and rough women who jeer at me and torment me.”

  “Why should they be so unkind?” wondered Polly. “You’d think we’d all be sweet to each other, seeing the fix we’re all in.”

  “Oh, they’re horrid. Horrid!” said Drusilla passionately.

  Her accent was pure, clear, distinctly aristocratic.

  “You’re a lady!” marvelled Polly. “Didn’t reckon to see ladies in here. What did you do?”

  “Nothing,” wailed Drusilla, beginning to cry again.

  “Now, look here,” said Polly impatiently, “if you stop crying and pass the time for me by telling me your story, happen I’ll get them to put you along o’ me. I’m getting special treatment,” added Polly grimly.

  “Oh, that would be monstrous kind,” said Drusilla. “Walk with me a little and I shall endeavour to be calm.”

  As they walked, Polly looked down at her smaller companion curiously. Miss Gentle had a thin, angular figure and a weak, trembling face, pale eyes as gentle as her name, and a large soft mouth. But her voice had fallen on Polly’s ears like pure gold. All at once she remembered the marquess of Canonby’s voice, seductive in its beauty and clarity. Despite her plain face and figure, Drusilla Gentle moved with grace.

  At last, holding tightly onto Polly’s arm, she told her story. She came from a country family, members of the untitled aristocracy fallen on hard times. She had obtained a post as companion to a certain Lady Comfrey. This Lady Comfrey was a widow who, despite the fact she took lovers, liked to maintain a genteel front and used Drusilla’s patent respectability to supply that front. Her current lover had stolen a diamond brooch from her; Drusilla was sure he was the culprit. But Lady Comfrey was so enamored of this cicisbeo that she had accused Drusilla of theft, and so Drusilla was tried and sentenced to hang.

  “Hard, very hard,” said Polly, shaking her head. “Now I did steal things, but it still don’t seem wrong to me. When some people have so much and some so little, it don’t seem wrong to take a few things.”

  “But it is wrong. Very wrong,” said Drusilla.

  “It’s wrong, very wrong,” mimicked Polly, “to hang for something you did not do. There now, don’t cry again. You can stay along o’ me till we’re topped.” And with this gloomy consolation, she led Drusilla to her cell.

  In the days that passed, Polly took the mad idea into her head to die a lady. She knew, like all the condemned, that she was to say a few words from the scaffold. She would quit this wicked world of London a lady. Drusilla, at first amazed at being begged to teach Polly how to move and speak like a lady, soon found the teaching made the weary days more pleasant. The odd couple became fast friends. And then, two days before the execution, a blow befell Polly. Lady Comfrey had tired of her lover and relented of her treatment of the companion who had supplied her with so much badly needed respectability. She bought another diamond brooch and claimed to have found the one that had been lost.

  Poor Drusilla clung to Polly in farewell, torn between grief for her friend and joy at her own escape from death. “I’ll pray for you, Polly,” she said, before she was led away.

  “Don’t waste your breath,” called Polly in her new, well-modulated voice. “There isn’t anyone to hear you.”

  * * *

  Mr. Barks was mincing along Bond Street, enduring all the agonies of tight lacing. But he knew he had to be laced tightly to show off the width of the skirts of his new whalebone-stiffened coat. In one hand he held a scented handkerchief and a bottle of smelling salts. A chicken-skin fan dangled from his wrist. In the other, he held a tall clouded cane embellished with scarlet ribbons at the top. He was feeling at ease in his mind, for Mrs. Barks had been stricken of the fever and could not leave the country … yet.

  “Halloa!” Mr. Caldicott’s voice in his ear made him jump.

  “Don’t startle a man so,” wailed Mr. Barks, swaying back and forward on his high heels and trying to regain his balance. Mr. Caldicott caught him by the shoulder and steadied him.

  “I have good news, my friend,” said Mr. Caldicott. “Troth, but you will love me when you hear it. To St. James’s. We must be comfortable.”

  It was only a short walk from the Bond Street Straits, as the narrow part in which they stood was called, to White’s Club in St. James’s Street. But Mr. Barks protested that his ankles were about to crack and he must be borne in a chair.

  “I don’t know why you insist on the heels of your shoes being made so high,” grumbled Mr. Caldicott as he walked along beside the sedan chair. But secretly he was envious and planned to order a pair just the same.

  “Never mind that,” said Mr. Barks. “I saw Canonby t’other night and he gave me a half bow. Must be thawing.”

  “That man’s a monster of ingratitude,” said Mr. Caldicott. “But only wait until you hear what I have done for you. You will have Canonby eating out of your hand.”

  “Odso!” Mr. Barks felt quite dizzy with anticipation by the time he tittupped into the coffee room at the club.

  “Now,” said Mr. Caldicott, fishing in an embroidered pocket when they were seated. “I have here a present for you to give to Canonby.”

  He held up a piece of paper.

  “What is it?” Mr. Barks’s face had fallen in disappointment. He had been prepared to see some wonderfully chased and jewelled trifle.

  “It is a ticket for a hanging. Best position. Right at the front under the gallows.”

  “A hanging,” said Mr. Barks, pouting.

  “This ticket,” said Mr. Caldicott in slow, measured tones, “cost me two hundred and fifty pounds.”

  “Stap me!”

  “Yaas,” drawled Mr. Caldicott, enjoying the expression of amazement on his friend’s face. “Have you not heard of this fabulous beauty who is to be topped?”

  “I have heard gossip, yes.”

  “And do you know the name of the beauty?”

  “Can’t say as I do.”

  “Polly Jones.”

  “Polly Jones!” said Mr. Barks wrathfully. “Do you mean to tell that old abbess has had the gall to get the girl topped instead of handing her over to me?”

  “Quietly. Our friend Miss Jones stole articles from Meresly. The law must take its course. But all London is fighting to see this hanging. Think on’t. Canonby will be revenged on the strumpet who ran away f
rom him. Only think how he will laugh to see her kicking her pretty legs in the air.”

  A slow smile lit up Mr. Barks’s painted features. “You are a genius. Wait a bit. The body rightly belongs to me. I paid for her. Think I can grab her after she’s cut down and sell her to the anatomists?”

  “Not at this hanging, friend. The crowd would tear you to pieces.”

  “Let us go and see Canonby now,” said Mr. Barks. “I cannot wait to see the look of pleasure on his face.”

  The marquess of Canonby was just preparing to go out when they arrived. His scarlet satin coat was worn open to reveal a long white silk waistcoat heavily encrusted with gold embroidery. Mr. Barks gawped enviously at that waistcoat and tried to console himself with the fact that the red heels of the marquess’s shoes were only of moderate height.

  “Gentlemen,” the marquess said, giving them a half bow. He then stood impatiently as Barks and Caldicott made elaborate bows in return, their noses almost touching their knees, their scented handkerchiefs flourished in the air.

  “Do you remember Polly Jones?” asked Mr. Barks when he had finally straightened up with a long scrape of his foot along the floor.

  “I cannot remember her, since I am not aware of having ever known anyone of that name.”

  “She was the present I gave you.”

  “Ah, yes.” The marquess took a delicate pinch of snuff, his face immobile. Then his gaze suddenly sharpened. “There is a Polly Jones who is to hang tomorrow. The same?”

  “The same,” laughed Mr. Barks.

  “I never knew her name,” said the marquess, half to himself. “How very beautiful she was.”

  “Indeed, indeed,” chortled Mr. Caldicott, rubbing his hands. “And friend Barks here has a ticket for you to the hanging. Best view, I assure you.”

  The marquess frowned and the two friends stood shoulder to shoulder, watching him anxiously. “What is her crime?” he asked at last. “I mean, I know she is being hanged for theft. What did she steal?”

  “She stole trinkets from the earl of Meresly. That hanging ticket cost all of two hundred and fifty pounds,” added Mr. Barks desperately.

  Meresly again, thought the marquess. Did this Polly take the stuff because she was one of Lady Lydia’s family’s bastards? But she had stolen from him. And yet …

  “Thank you,” he said, taking the ticket. “You are most kind.”

  “Not at all. Not at all, my lord,” said Mr. Barks gleefully. “Now, if I may ask you …?”

  “I regret I have pressing business, gentlemen. I shall no doubt see you at the play this evening, where we may talk further.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Mr. Caldicott. He tugged at Mr. Barks’s sleeve.

  “Best to play touchy coves like Canonby like a fish,” he explained as the couple walked round St. James’s Square.

  The marquess of Canonby did not go out. He went into his library and sat at his desk and thought about Polly Jones. A common thief. And yet, there had been a certain bravery and gallantry about the girl. The marquess detested hangings. His father had taken him to the hanging of a highwayman as a treat on his tenth birthday and the experience had made him ill. The highwayman had been cut down while he was still alive, his head had been shaved, he had been disembowelled and then plunged headlong into a barrel of boiling tar. Then his body had been hoisted up again on irons to hang as a warning to other presumptuous highwaymen.

  He rang for his secretary, a middle-aged man called Mr. Peter Beauly. “Mr. Beauly,” said the marquess, “here is a draft on my bank for two hundred and fifty pounds. You will no doubt find Mr. Barks in White’s. Present my compliments and say I have decided to buy this ticket he was offering for sale. Then when you have done that, you are to find the direction of the public hangman and bring him to me. Bribe him to come, if necessary.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Mr. Beauly, concealing his surprise.

  “It’s all your fault!” wailed Mr. Barks half an hour later. “You didn’t say it was a present. Oh, dear. Oh, dear. We must go back to St. James’s Square and explain.”

  But when they returned, they were told the marquess was not at home. They tried again and again and at last took to waiting on the other side of the square until they saw him go in.

  Mr. Beauly received them and said his master was not at home to anyone. The secretary refused to take back the draft. My lord, he said, would be furious if the money were not accepted. My lord did not like to be told he had been wrong about anything and had assumed Mr. Barks had been offering the ticket for sale.

  “Well, that’s that,” said Mr. Barks gloomily. “Damn Polly Jones.”

  “It’ll be a pleasure to see her swing,” said Mr. Caldicott viciously. “I don’t care what it costs. We are going. We owe ourselves the pleasure of watching that strumpet’s last moments.”

  In the brothel in Covent Garden, Mrs. Blanchard had her maid clean and iron her best gown in preparation for the hanging. Mrs. Blanchard no longer mourned the loss of Jake and Barney or the money she had wasted on Polly. The joy of seeing that girl dance in the air would make up for anything.

  “My sweet, do not cast me forth,” begged Bertram Pargeter, down on one knee before Lady Lydia.

  Lady Lydia looked at him impatiently. The earl was down at Meresly, fussing about repairs to that horrible old manor. He was growing oddly stubborn again, and Lady Lydia dreaded he might insist she live part of the year in the country. She took a sweetmeat from a dish on the table beside her and popped it into the mouth of the wheezing pug on her lap.

  “You know I promised Meresly not to have anything more to do with you, Bertram. Besides, you know the rules of an affaire. Once it is over, it is no use kneeling there trying to blow life into cold ashes.”

  Bertram went slightly pale. “I am dying of ennui,” went on Lady Lydia petulantly. “Every day is the same.”

  “I may be able to provide you with amusement,” said Bertram.

  “You?” mocked Lady Lydia, and Bertram flinched. When she had lain under him, moaning with passion, he had never dreamed that the day would come when she would behave as coldly as this.

  “I have reserved a place for my carriage next to the scaffold at Tyburn tomorrow for this famous hanging,” said Bertram.

  “I only heard about it this morning,” said Lady Lydia with marked interest. “As you know, I have had the vapors, and am behindhand with the news. It is some vastly beautiful girl, I believe.”

  “As beautiful as you are yourself.”

  “Then I shall go with you,” said Lady Lydia, giving him a bewitching smile. He tried to bury his face in her lap, but had forgotten about the pug, which snarled and bit him on the nose. Lady Lydia laughed and laughed. “I declare I am grateful to you, Bertram. I have not laughed this age. Come, you shall have your reward.”

  She rang the bell and, when a footman came in, handed him the pug.

  When they were alone again, Bertram lifted her in his arms to carry her to the bedroom. “Put me down,” said Lady Lydia. “We must stay here. The maids are cleaning the bedroom.”

  “Very well, my love,” said Bertram huskily. He set her gently on the sofa and then reached out to unlace her stomacher. Lady Lydia slapped his hand away. “Can’t you just raise my skirts,” she said crossly. “It took the maid simply hours to lace me in.”

  What followed might have looked like rape to any onlooker, had there been one, as Bertram released himself of all his pent-up passion and rage and humiliation, going on and on and on, deaf to her pleas for him to stop. At last, spent and exhausted and sick at heart, Bertram looked down at her, his eyes pleading for some sign of love, but the beautiful, violet eyes that looked up at him had a sated, animal glaze. Despite her pleas for mercy, Lady Lydia had obviously enjoyed his savage lovemaking more than any of his former tenderness and delicacy.

  “What is her name?” asked Lady Lydia sleepily.

  “Who?”

  “This girl who is to hang tomorrow.”

  “I can�
��t remember,” lied Bertram. The pain eased at his heart as he thought of what his cruel mistress’s reaction would be when she saw that girl Polly, who looked so amazingly like her, on the scaffold.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Polly missed the company of Drusilla quite dreadfully. In keeping Drusilla’s spirits up, she had managed to forget her own plight. Now, on the eve of her execution, she sat in the “condemned pew” with eighteen others who had been sentenced to death, listening to the chaplain begging them to repent of their sins. To remind them of the gravity of the situation, a coffin had been placed in the condemned pew alongside them. The condemned pew in the prison chapel was more like a pen at a cattle auction, being square and surrounded by high wooden spike-topped walls over which spectators gawped at the prisoners.