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

by M C Beaton

  Polly felt a sharp jab of conscience. Aunt Meg would have been horrified—poor Meg, so decent, so wise and so honest. Then she clamped down on these weak thoughts. It was a cruel, unfair world, and all she was going to do was even up the balance a little in her favor by taking a few trinkets from people who had more money than they knew what to do with. And without money, she could not afford the luxury of searching to find out what had happened to Meg on the last day of the old woman’s life.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Polly had not anticipated that fashion might keep her trapped in the room in Westminster.

  Certainly she made a breathtaking picture as she stood ready to go. Her gown was of salmon damask embroidered with gold and opening over a gold ruffled petticoat ornamented with knots of gold and salmon ribbons. It was cut very low at the bosom and the long-laced stomacher showed Polly’s tiny waist to advantage. There were ten ruffles on each elbow-length sleeve. Polly had powdered her hair and it was piled up over a cushion on her head to a great height, decorated with a long faux-diamond necklace wound in and out the powdery curls. One long ringlet fell to her white shoulders. Her face was covered with a white velvet mask ornamented with gold sequins. As well as the pockets in her petticoat, she carried an etui hanging at her waist, that indispensable ornamental bag in which the fashionable lady carried her needles and thread, her scissors and her pomadour. Polly’s was empty. She planned to fill it with more exciting trifles.

  After Jake and Barney had duly admired the effect, Polly draped herself in a long black cloak to hide all this magnificence from their unsavory neighbors.

  She just managed to get out of the room by edging sideways, and then found the size of her hoop would not allow her to go down the twisting, broken staircase which led to the street.

  “Better give up the idea,” said Jake with relief, for he and Barney were secretly sure that if Polly went through with her mad scheme, they would find themselves spectators at her hanging once more.

  “No!” said Polly fiercely.

  She looked around the room and then her eye fell on the discarded pulley.

  “You could lower me from the window,” she said slowly. The window had once been a door high up in the wall for loading and unloading goods, and the bottom of it still consisted of two thin double doors which opened out. Above was the actual window of two grimy panes of glass.

  “And have the whole street come running!” exclaimed Jake.

  “Let me see,” said Polly, thinking hard. “You, Jake, go down to the end of the street and create a diversion. Then when the street is empty, Barney can lower me down.”

  Jake argued for a few moments and then finally caved in before the force of Polly’s stronger personality.

  When Jake had left, Barney opened the window and looked out. Then he saw everyone beginning to run toward the end of the street. He fixed the pulley back on its hook in the ceiling, Polly tied the rope firmly about her waist, and then Barney draped her cloak over her and pulled the hood gently up over her head.

  As Polly was lowered down into the street, she was momentarily overcome with dizziness. The whole experience was so reminiscent of that terrible hanging. But she landed safely on the ground. Barney hurtled down the stairs and Jake came running down the street at the same time. “Quickly,” he said. “I told them there was a two-headed man and they’re busy searching, but they’ll soon give up.”

  One on either side of Polly, they hustled her through the streets. It had been planned to find a chair for Polly as soon as they reached the more salubrious neighborhood of Whitehall, but that wretched inflexible hoop would not allow her to get into a chair. Fortunately, Lord Hallworthy’s house was in the Haymarket so they had not very far to walk. Polly was wearing pattens over her shoes to protect them from the mud, and the iron rings on their soles made a sharp clatter as she hurried over the cobbles.

  “I cannot arrive on foot,” she said breathlessly. “I must think of something.”

  “There’s the house,” said Barney gloomily. “You’ll never manage it, Poll.”

  But Polly had come so far and was not going to turn back. A line of footmen in green-and-gold livery, gold swords hanging at their sides, flanked either side of the entrance. Carriages were driving up, their coachmen fighting and jostling for space.

  “At the back of the carriages … quick!” said Polly urgently.

  She waited until an aristocratic family had just alighted from their coach, swung off her cloak and thrust it at Barney and Jake along with her pattens and, to their horror, opened the carriage door at the far side and then made her exit through the other carriage door in front of the house. The footman, who had been about to shut the door, held it open again and assisted her down in a bemused way. He wondered why he had not noticed her earlier with his master’s party but the richness of her dress silenced him.

  Barney and Jake clutched each other in the shadows and watched tensely.

  Polly had learned from Drusilla that there was a separate etiquette for entering a grand house. It was known as “bridling.” A lady kept her head high and her chin tucked well in, stared straight in front of her and did not even deign to look at the servant as she proffered her card. If she had forgotten her card, then she gave her name in a clear voice and continued walking in the direction of the ballroom.

  “What name will she give?” asked Jake. The door was open and they could see Polly standing up in the entrance hall.

  “Don’t know,” said Barney. “Let’s hope she don’t say she’s Polly Jones.”

  “I have forgot my card,” Polly was saying. “I am Lady Mary Peters.”

  And then, without waiting to see how this was being received, she walked slowly up the staircase to the ballroom on the floor above.

  “That’s that! She’s in!” Barney clutched Jake in his excitement. “Now we’ve got to wait here with ’er cloak ready till she comes out, for she can’t walk home to Tothill Fields in that rig.”

  Inside, Polly almost made the mistake of curtsying to the major-domo, he looked so grand and so proud. But she rallied quickly, and looking straight ahead, glad of her mask, she said firmly, “Lady Mary Peters.”

  “Lady Mary Peters!” roared the major-domo. Polly stepped past him and sank into a low curtsy before Lord and Lady Hallworthy. They were both in Elizabethan costume. Polly’s name meant nothing to them. They had barely heard it. Their secretary was responsible for the invitations.

  “Welcome,” said Lord Hallworthy. Lady Hallworthy murmured something, but their eyes were already straying past Polly to the next newcomer. Polly walked into the ballroom, under a blaze of hundreds of candles. Masked and costumed figues circulated about. Two pairs of dancers were performing the minuet.

  It was only then that Polly’s feeling of triumph began to ebb. She could not dance. She could not sit down because her wicker hoop would not bend.

  Then her courage returned. She had to thieve something, anything, and that something or anything would go to pay for a quilted petticoat with one of the new hoops sewn onto it, one of those hoops which folded up like wings when you got into a sedan chair.

  The music of the minuet stopped. A country dance was announced. Polly saw Lord Hallworthy approaching her and her heart sank. Why couldn’t he stay at his position at the door? But her arrival had been late and most of the guests had already been there by the time she made her entrance.

  “May I present Colonel Anderson, Lady Potters,” said Lord Hallworthy. “He is desirous of a dance.”

  Polly had not the courage to refuse. She miserably allowed the colonel to lead her into a set. The colonel, of all people! “Are you newly come to Town, Lady Potters?” she heard the colonel ask.

  “Peters,” corrected Polly, while inside she wildly wondered what on earth it mattered what he called her.

  “My apologies,” said the colonel. “Old Hallworthy can barely remember his own name, let alone that of his guests. Are you newly come to Town?”

  “Yes.” />
  “From far?”

  “Very far.”

  “How far?”

  “Miles and miles,” said Polly repressively.

  The music struck up. What am I going to do? thought Polly desperately. Then, giddy with relief, she realized the country dance was one she had been taught to perform at the parish school. Her capacity for living in the minute took over, and soon she was flying down the set with the colonel, briefly forgetting she was a thief and imposter, and enjoying all the heady delight of wearing an expensive-looking gown and dancing with a handsome man. For the colonel was handsome, she thought, even though his face was hidden with a black mask. He had good shoulders and fine legs and danced beautifully.

  The country dance lasted half an hour, half an hour in which Polly Jones briefly became Lady Peters inside as well as out. What dresses there were and what jewels! Everything glittered and shone and sparkled.

  And then two things happened to shatter the dream. The music ended, and the marquess of Canonby entered the ballroom. He was wearing a gold mask, and his hair was powdered, but Polly would have known him anywhere. In a daze, she realized her partner had also recognized the marquess and was waggling his fingers in his direction in that irritating way society had of signalling to their friends across the room.

  “I say, Lady Peters,” said the colonel enthusiastically, “you must meet my friend, Canonby. Lady Peters?” But his fair companion had melted away into the crowd.

  Polly’s heart beat hard. She must do the work she came to do and then leave. She was worried in case the marquess might recognize her.

  She glanced around the ballroom. There was a supper room to one side and a card room to the other, neither of them good places for a thieving expedition. There was bound to be a room off the hall where the ladies repaired their toilette and left their cloaks. That was it! Perhaps there were some china knickknacks on the mantel. She went slowly down the staircase, her head held high, her face rigid with hauteur. An impressed footman showed her to the room reserved for the ladies, and then bowed his way off backward.

  Polly went in and looked about. No one. There were rich, fur-trimmed cloaks and mantles piled on a table. Just one of those would do. But, thought Polly, what if the owner of one of those cloaks was not very rich and would miss it badly? That would be cruel. Taking the cloak from the marquess’s house had been another matter. She had been desperate then. There were bowls of powder on the toilet table, and little dishes of bone pins. But Polly had not come so far to steal items which would fetch so very little. There was nothing on the mantel or near the fireplace but the fire irons and coal scuttle.

  She was about to leave and try her luck in one of the other rooms when a low groaning coming from behind a lacquered screen in the corner of the room made her stop. “I cannot bear it,” said an elderly voice suddenly. “Oh, the shame!”

  Polly went forward and peeped round the screen. A massive lady was sitting on a closed stool, her wig askew and her face scarlet.

  “Your pardon, ma’am,” gasped Polly and made to retreat.

  “Don’t go, child,” wailed the elderly lady. “Now you have seen my predicament, I must beg for help.”

  “Have you trouble with your bowels?” asked Polly delicately.

  “A pox on my bowels,” said the old lady. “I’m stuck.”

  “Stuck!”

  “Yes, stuck fast, my child, and too embarrassed to have one of these footmen come snickering around me.”

  “Then you must let me help you,” said Polly, trying not to giggle. What an odd beginning to her life of crime! So far she had not stolen one trinket, and now she was going to have to waste precious time by extricating this dowager’s bottom.

  She put her arms round the old woman’s waist, or where her waist used to be, and with her strong country arms she gave a mighty heave. Just when Polly thought her muscles would crack, there came an odd smacking plop like a massive spongy cork being removed from a bottle and the old lady fell forward against her.

  “Free at last!” crowed the dowager. She straightened up and smoothed her crushed skirts. “Odd’s fish, you have the strength of Samson, my child. What is thy name?”

  “Lady Mary Peters.”

  “And I am Mrs. Worthington.” She leant on Polly’s arm and allowed her to help her round the screen.

  “La! We seem to be walking on firewood,” exclaimed the old lady.

  Polly looked down and stifled a groan of dismay. Her strenuous efforts in freeing Mrs. Worthington had shattered Polly’s fragile wicker petticoat, and little bits of wood fell to the floor with every movement.

  Her face flaming scarlet, Polly tried to laugh. “It is my petticoat, ma’am. A new invention. I made it myself out of wickerwork for a whim.”

  Old Mrs. Worthington began to laugh, a deep sound which started somewhere inside her capacious body and then surfaced in a full-blooded roar of merriment. “What a pair we are!” gasped Mrs. Worthington when she could. “Me stuck in a closed stool and you with your shattered petticoat. Lor’! When did I last laugh like that? Here child, my husband will be waiting for me. Take this trifle with an old woman’s thanks.” She thrust something into Polly’s hand and rolled from the room, still chortling, her great sides shaking with mirth.

  Polly opened her hand which she had automatically closed around the object and stared at it. It was a huge emerald and diamond ring, the stones set in a hoop of heavy gold.

  She sat down suddenly and the remains of her petticoat dug into her, making her jump up again with a yelp.

  In a dazed way, Polly made her way out. Two footmen leapt to open the street door for her which had been closed after Lord Hallworthy had decided to join the dancers.

  “May I fetch you a chair?” asked one footman.

  “No,” said Polly. “I shall walk.”

  Foxed, thought the footman. I told them the claret punch was too strong for the ladies. He bowed again and closed the door behind Polly.

  Polly walked off down the street in a dream. Jake and Barney came hurrying up, Barney swinging the cloak about Polly’s shoulders to hide her gown. “Put your hood up,” hissed Jake. “Who’s to know the diamonds in your hair ain’t real?”

  Dreamy Polly said hardly a word on the road home and her henchmen tactfully remained silent. They were sure she had failed to steal anything. Polly had her skirt looped over her arm to hold the extra material that had been supported by her enormous hoop before it broke.

  “Put on your pattens,” fussed Jake, breaking the silence. “You’re fair ruining those shoes in the mud.”

  But Polly walked on in a daze of relief. She had not stolen anything and yet she had the ring.

  It was only when they were safely back in their stuffy room that she showed it to them, listening to their gasps of awe.

  “How on earth did you come by it?” asked Barney at last.

  “An old dowager gave it to me,” said Polly. “I didn’t steal it. I mended a tear in her gown.” Polly had no intention of telling Barney and Jake Mrs. Worthington’s real predicament. “So we can sell it fair and square and get a good price for it.”

  “It’s your money,” said Barney. “What you going to do with it, Poll?”

  “It’s our money,” said Polly, “and the first thing we’re going to do is find us a decent place to live.”

  Which all went to show it really was Polly’s money, for left to themselves Barney and Jake would have drunk and gambled it all away. But they were weak men, and the very strength and energy of Polly’s personality made her appear almost sexless in their eyes. It was much easier to go along with what Polly wanted than to try to stand up to her.

  “I am tired of searching and searching for this beauty of yours,” said the marquess of Canonby crossly. “Are you sure you did not imagine her?”

  “Not I,” said the colonel. “One minute she was by me, the next she was gone.”

  “You have been seduced by a pretty figure,” said the marquess. “The reason she fl
ed is probably that the unmasking at midnight would have revealed a pockmarked face.”

  “She had such grace, such delicacy,” said the colonel, kissing his fingers. “And those eyes. Like jewels.”

  “Rubies?” said the marquess nastily.

  “No, amethysts. But lighter. Violet. Odd color.”

  The marquess went very still. Then he visibly relaxed. “My dear friend, you have been flirting with none other than Lady Lydia Meresly. Look! There she is over there, affecting not to see that idiot Pargeter who wanders after her like a shadow.”

  He waved across the room with his quizzing glass. The colonel looked eagerly and then said, “No, that is not she. Lady Lydia is dressed as a Greek goddess and her hair is unpowdered. My goddess was not in fancy dress, her hair was powdered, and she wore a mask of white velvet.”