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

by M C Beaton

  “You are stealing souls, sir, a much more heinous crime than any of mine.”

  They had come to a stop facing each other, the marquess angry and amazed at Polly’s insolence, Polly hurt and furious because—although she did not yet realize it—he appeared totally unaware of her as a woman.

  A twig crackled behind them. The marquess whipped about, dived into the blackness of the shrubbery and emerged, dragging Jake behind him.

  Jake stood sheepishly in front of Polly, his three-cornered hat askew and bits of leaves and twigs decorating his coat.

  “Here is your rich and handsome cavalier,” sneered the marquess.

  Polly dropped him a curtsy. “Thank you, my lord,” she said sweetly. She took Jake’s arm, cast a ravishing smile up into his face, and then led him away, back down the walk.

  “Doxy! She is naught but a doxy,” said the marquess between his teeth.

  He caught up with them and walked straight past without looking at them, but so close that the cloth of gold of his coat swished against Polly’s gown.

  “Where have you been?” cried Colonel Anderson when he returned to his box.

  “Lor’, don’t ’e look cross!” giggled one of the fair ladies. “I bet you’re a regular Turk, my lord.” Then she blushed and averted her eyes under the marquess’s hot, impatient glare.

  In vain did Colonel Anderson try to find out what had happened to his friend at Vauxhall. The marquess was tactiturn to the point of rudeness. The evening was a disaster. The following days proved no better. “Like an old bear with fleas,” thought the colonel angrily.

  Then at the end of another week, the marquess seemed to regain his spirits. He and Colonel Anderson were to go to another ridotto at the earl of Burfield’s town house. The marquess was in high spirits when they set out.

  But that evening proved to be a disaster too. For the marquess, at first happy and carefree, danced with one masked lady after another. Then his spirits appeared to plunge and he began to wander from room to room, searching and searching.

  Immediately after the unmasking at midnight, he turned on his heel and strode out of the house.

  The colonel scratched his powdered wig. “I wonder who he was searching for,” he thought.

  At the end of yet another week, the marquess rode toward Bloomsbury. He felt he wanted to remind himself of what a conscienceless slut Polly Jones really was.

  But when he enquired for the family Smith, he was told they had moved and not left any address.

  He rode back to the West End, telling himself he was glad that the chapter in his life called Polly Jones was firmly closed, and yet his eyes kept searching the shifting, restless crowd as if looking for a girl with violet eyes.

  “Here’s that demned Pargeter again,” sniffed Mr. Caldicott. “I’m convinced that Polly female got well and truly topped and he is only baiting us.”

  Mr. Barks squinted awfully through his quizzing glass at the approaching Bertram. “He’s got a rose in his hat,” he commented. “Rococo fop!”

  “Good day, gentlemen,” said Bertram. “I have news for you.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Mr. Caldicott testily. “Polly Jones is alive and well.”

  “You know!” exclaimed Bertram, missing the sarcasm in the other’s voice.

  “No, I don’t know,” said Mr. Caldicott crossly. “We are weary of your tales.”

  “No tale this,” said Bertram. “Miss Jones was at Vauxhall. Hark! She walked away with Canonby. Canonby returns alone after a while looking like death. Polly Jones was masquerading as a Miss Smith. One of Meresly’s girls had a diamond necklace stolen and this Polly claimed to have recovered it although she probably took it herself and hoped for a reward. An old trick.”

  “And you saw her, plain as day?” demanded Mr. Barks.

  “No, she was masked.”

  “You fool! Could have been anyone.”

  Bertram held up one long white finger. “Listen! After I saw Canonby return alone, I ran to the entrance gate and there I saw her with two men, one man short and squat and t’other tall and with only one eye—the brothers Smith who have a fondness for the girl and claim to have once worked for Mother Blanchard. I had met them before and made an arrangement to meet them again—an arrangement they failed to keep. I followed them close and marked their address in Bloomsbury.”

  “Good man!” said Mr. Caldicott. “Take us there and we will claim our baggage.”

  “I have taken the precaution of bringing a brace of pistols in my carriage,” said Bertram. “Those two henchmen live with her and may put up a fight.”

  Highly excited, the three set out for Bloomsbury. Their excitement was short-lived. Like the marquess, they discovered the Smith family had left.

  “Tish, I am weary of this,” said Mr. Barks in disgust. “Living with those two jailbirds means she is no longer a virgin so her price on the market is now low.”

  Bertram stood frowning. “I think Canonby wants her,” he said. “There is something there. If we keep close to Canonby, then he will lead us to her.”

  Mr. Barks snorted. “And then what do we do with her?”

  “Why, give her to Canonby.”

  Mr. Caldicott’s eyes narrowed. “And just what do you get out of it, Pargeter?”

  “Good will toward men,” laughed Bertram. “I am anxious to please you, my good friends, and return Polly Jones to her rightful place.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The “Smith Family” had not gone very far from their old address. They took up residence in more spacious quarters in Bedford Gardens in Bloomsbury. Jake had gained employ at the tea merchant’s. A converted criminal is perhaps just like a converted anything else and Jake became, almost overnight, stuffy and pompous. Polly was at first amused to find herself becoming more and more the subject of Jake’s contempt. Then she began to become very angry indeed.

  Barney was courting the daughter of one of the clerks and he, too, had become anxious to appear respectable at all times. The atmosphere in their home became stilted and strained.

  Polly had decided to give up any idea of thieving and concentrate instead on finding out what had happened to Meg. The sale of the earl of Meresly’s diamond pin ensured her enough money to live on comfortably for quite some time to come.

  But the very stuffiness and disapproval of Barney and Jake touched a rebellious streak in Polly’s soul. Yet Polly might have come to the conclusion that stealing from the rich was morally wrong had she not lived so near the parish of St. Giles-in-the-Fields. In this parish, crammed with destitute Irish immigrants, every fourth house was a place you could buy gin. The most notorious providers were the chandlers’ shops, where the poorest went to get their bread and cheese, their coal, their soap and candles. If you were desperate or miserable, and practically all of them were, then there was the standing temptation to buy cheap gin. Life was a nightmare struggle against impossible odds, and gin offered forgetfulness. Bread and cheese and gin soon became gin and bread and then gin alone. The Rookeries, the worst area in St. Giles, attracted the most depraved and destitute among the immigrants. Often thirty or forty of them would be crowded into one small house without sanitation, vermin-infested and rat-scuttling, and often lacking chimneys or windows. They frequently kept pigs in the same rooms as they lived in themselves, as they had in their huts in Ireland: the pigs fed off the rotting garbage in the alleyways, and the filth of the animals was added to the filth of the inhabitants. Typhus was rife.

  The attitude toward these unfortunates was one of indifference. Only a few like Polly ached to see such misery. She lived in dread that her health would fail and that she would become destitute and be drawn into the teeming slums and lost forever. She could no longer rely on Barney and Jake to protect her. Her power over them had been waning for a long time. Now they no longer respected her, seeing her as a threat to their new existence, not realizing that their original care and championship of Polly had put them on the road to respectability, that Polly’s insistence on
clean linen and home comforts had been the things that had first set them on the path to a better life. Although Mr. White often asked Barney to bring “his beautiful sister” to one of the city celebrations, Barney never passed on the invitations to Polly. Although he knew that Mr. White and his colleagues were impressed by Polly’s looks and manner, he was afraid they might discover her to be no relation of his and his hopes of marriage would be blasted.

  Polly found their manner to her infuriating and hypocritical. Finally, she lost her temper and accused them of being poachers turned gamekeepers. For a while the atmosphere eased, only to return when Jake was promoted to head clerk.

  Polly now wanted to be shot of them both, to show them that she did not need them, to show the marquess of Canonby that she was indifferent to his slights, to show the world that Polly Jones was a force with which to be reckoned. Without a word to Barney and Jake, she began to plot and plan. The poor had not enough money, the rich had too much for their own good. Polly Jones would even the balance in the favor of Polly Jones. It was a dog-eat-dog world where women were driven in droves to prostitution rather than starve.

  She studied the social columns until she saw with a fast-beating heart that a ball was to be held by the earl of Meresly. She would kill two birds with one stone. She would somehow get to that ball and see what she could discover about Meg’s death. And she would see what trifles she could take.

  But it was a ball, not a ridotto. She could not go masked or in disguise. Polly decided to study the Meresly town house. A woman loitering in the West End on her own was sure to be accosted. It was when Polly was looking down from her window at two fops strolling past and thinking they looked like women in men’s clothes that she hit on the idea of disguising herself as a man. She went to one of the better second-hand clothes stalls and purchased a footman’s livery, took it home and altered it to fit her slim figure. Her bust was no problem in an age where even the servants wadded their coats with buckram. A little padding was all that was needed to complete the disguise. She powdered her hair and tied it at the nape of her neck with a black ribbon, donned her livery, and walked to Hanover Square where the Mereslys lived.

  She watched the servants come and go. There was a great amount of bustle as preparations were made for the ball. The livery of the Mereslys’ footmen was black velvet coat with scarlet and black striped facings on the lapels. Polly had left the square and was still wondering how she could gain admittance to the ball when she saw a footman in the Meresly livery going into a tavern.

  Made bold by her masculine dress, Polly strolled in after him, noted where he sat, bought herself a tankard of small beer, and sat down next to him.

  “Good day, friend,” said Polly, lowering her voice several registers.

  “Good day,” replied the footman politely. “Do you work hereabouts?”

  “No, I work in a merchant’s household in the city,” lied Polly. “This is my day off.”

  “P’raps I would ha’ been better to have found employ with one of those merchants,” grumbled the footman. “I don’t have no time off. My lord’s giving a ball and it’s work, work, work, from morning till night. I’m supposed to be delivering messages, but a man needs rest.”

  “True, true,” murmured Polly, feeling her way. “Still, it must be wondrous to see all the lords and ladies. I have never worked for a noble household. I have heard the countess of Meresly is amazing beautiful. But your tankard is empty. Allow me to refill it.”

  “Most kind. Thankee.” The footman held out a hand. “I am Josiah Summer, second footman.”

  “And I am Paul Jones,” said Polly.

  The footman raised his refilled tankard to Polly. “Your health, Mr. Jones,” he said. “You was saying about how beautiful the countess was. Harkee, friend, that one has a black soul. Always complaining.”

  “She has two fine daughters, I believe,” said Polly.

  “Pore little things. It was the earl who didn’t want no daughters, but the way my lady goes on, you would think it was she who detested the female sex.”

  Polly looked suitably horrified. Then she said, “I come from a village called Upper Batchett. Do you know it?”

  The footman nodded. “Went there a while back. Meresly Manor.”

  “Tell me,” said Polly, leaning forward. “Do you recall an old woman who lived there called Meg Jones?”

  “What? At the manor?”

  “No, in the village, but she went to the manor on the day she died. Alas, your tankard is empty.” Polly waved to the serving girl and ordered more to drink.

  The footman thanked her and tried to remember something about Meg Jones in an effort to please this liberal footman. Then his face cleared. “I call to mind us all being given instructions at Meresly not to allow anyone from the village within the grounds. I asked the butler why and he says there was some old witch came a-calling. She had got into the rose garden and attacked my lady.”

  “And?” prompted Polly eagerly.

  “That’s all I know,” said the footman. “You ask a lot of questions. Is this Meg Jones kin o’ yourn?”

  “No,” said Polly quickly, and then added lightly, “I ask a lot of questions, I freely admit. It’s because I lead such a dull life. No lords and ladies come a-calling at our place. It must be exciting to see all the jewels and all the beautiful clothes.”

  “Worked too hard to notice it,” said the footman. “Pity you’ve got a job, for they’re taking on extra staff for the night of the ball.”

  Polly’s heart beat hard. “I could get away for an evening,” she said slowly.

  The footman stood up. “Thanks for the hospitality, Mr. Jones,” he said. “But I must be off. If you’re interested, call at the kitchen door and ask for the under butler, Mr. Sloane. But I think you’ve left it too late. They won’t have any spare livery and my lord likes even temporary servants to wear his colors.”

  Polly sat for a long time after he had gone, lost in thought. Then she went out into the streets of London to search for a suit of black velvet. It would look odd to turn up in the hope of work already wearing the earl’s livery. But if she wore a black velvet livery and pointed out she only needed to add the facings to the lapels, they might take her on.

  Next day, she waited eagerly in her room until she heard Barney and Jake going off to work, donned her black velvet livery and set out once more for Hanover Square.

  She was lucky. One of the hired temporary footmen had been found drunk in his room that morning and had been dismissed. Mr. Sloane asked for references and Polly produced two which she had forged during the night. To her delight, she was told she could begin her duties that day. She returned home and left a note for Barney and Jake, saying that she would be absent for a few days and that they were not to worry about her. Then she bought a few more items of masculine apparel, packed them in a bag and made her way back to the Mereslys’ town house.

  At first she felt like leaving, when she learned she had to share an attic with Josiah and four other footmen. But she steeled herself to go on with the work allotted to her and leave worries about the night to come until later. As it was, it worked out very well. Josiah was too busy to be curious about this new footman who could leave a city job so easily. All the footmen, including Polly, were exhausted when it came to bedtime. The attic was in darkness when she undressed for bed, pulling a voluminous nightshirt over her head and undressing under the cover of its generous folds. As she lay down to sleep, she wondered if she could bear the smell. Despite frequent nagging, Barney and Jake loathed washing, but Polly had seen to it that their linen was fresh. But the footmen, as she discovered when she rose at dawn, slept in their drawers, and it was doubtful whether they had changed those for weeks.

  But they were all as fussy about their outward appearance as their betters, brushing down their livery and arranging the frills of their shirts with finicky care on their dirty bodies. One footman had a bottle of musk which he passed around the others, and soon the attic stank
of musk and sweat and something else that Polly delicately refused to put a name to.

  She had already marked down some objects in the saloons and drawing room to be worth thieving. But short of an open confrontation with the Mereslys, how could she find out what had happened to Meg? Meg would not attack anyone, least of all a countess, so Josiah must have been lying.

  The servants had little time for gossip and the ones who had been at Meresly Manor knew as much about Meg as Josiah. Polly was becoming convinced she was a bastard. Her father might be the earl himself. Polly longed to find out the identity of her mother, a mother who might still be alive.

  The calves of Polly’s legs ached as she went about her work, for she had purchased a pair of shoes with very high heels in order to bring her up to a suitable height for a footman.

  Her duties were mostly outside, delivering notes and fetching items to decorate the house for the ball. It was on the afternoon of the ball that she was told to take a basket of logs to the saloon on the first floor, for the day had turned chilly.