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

by M C Beaton

  “Come back to the dower house,” fussed Drusilla. “Have you been drinking?”

  “No, I have not been drinking,” said Polly, crossly. “I want Canonby.”

  “But you can never have him. The difference in rank is too great. He would never marry you.”

  “I want him on any terms,” said Polly striding ahead, forgetting to walk like a lady. “And I shall have him!”

  Drusilla ran after her, still clutching the pattens. “Miss Peterson,” she called to Polly’s retreating back, for Drusilla always called Polly by her alias when she thought there might be servants about. “Please wait until we get home and then try to listen to reason.”

  But when they were seated in the parlor with the door firmly shut against the servants, Polly looked stubborn and mulish.

  “For the love I bear you,” said Drusilla urgently, “listen to me. He can only take you as his mistress. What happens when he tires of you? You will be passed from man to man until you end up selling your favors at the playhouse for a glass of gin. I have seen it happen.”

  “I am prepared to take that risk.”

  “And what of your quest? What of Meg Jones?” For Polly had told Drusilla of her search.

  “Meg is dead,” said Polly harshly. “Twice I have faced death on the gallows, Drusilla. I want to live. I want to take what I want now. I do not want to be a lady. I want to be his mistress.”

  Drusilla began to cry. “I do not understand you, Polly.”

  “You do not understand me, because I am not a lady and you are,” said Polly sadly. She stroked Drusilla’s hair. “Do not cry. He has promised you a pension. Come now, the horrible Lady Comfrey’s amours were tolerated by you.”

  “I had no choice,” wailed Drusilla. “And I did not love Lady Comfrey.”

  “I burn for him, with a burning that is like a sickness, Drusilla. Cannot you understand that? The Ponsonbys are leaving. She has given him a disgust of her and they are leaving. I shall watch and wait for my opportunity to see him alone and then I shall ask him to take me. Please do not cry, Drusilla. You will be looked after.”

  But Drusilla continued to sob. Polly looked at her sadly and then said, “I am not a virgin, Drusilla. I have lain with a man. You must realize that to be true with the life I have led.”

  Shock dried Drusilla’s tears, and she stared at Polly open-mouthed. “Do not take me in dislike, Drusilla, but do not weep for me. I am no ewe lamb going to the slaughter.”

  “I h-had n-not r-realized,” stammered Drusilla, turning brick red. “It certainly alters the situation.”

  “Of course it does,” said Polly cheerfully. “Now just look on me as another harridan like Lady Comfrey.”

  “That I cannot do,” said Drusilla. “Oh, it is a wicked world and men are cruel. But you must do as you see fit. I shall not stand in your way. Pray excuse me. I must go and lie down.”

  Polly fought with her conscience as Drusilla trailed from the room. Then she shrugged. There had been a hardening inside her since that escape from Newgate. The world was a shifting sea full of treacherous shoals. If she lived politely and carefully, she might languish in this dower house and maybe, as a great favor, be allowed to dance at his wedding.

  A vision of Silas’s face rose before her eyes and once more she saw the sunlight shining on the cover of that Bible on the prison floor. “Morals are for ladies,” said Polly Jones defiantly to the uncaring walls. “I can’t afford ’em.”

  * * *

  Two long weeks passed before Polly was to talk to the marquess again. Although she haunted the grounds, he kept out of her way, and once, when he was riding down the drive, he saw her, but did not stop.

  Polly had forgotten about her past life, about Meg. She was consumed with a single-minded desire to get the marquess to herself.

  But her past life had not forgotten about Polly Jones. Jake and Barney, still en route for India, prayed that Polly Jones would be dead and forgotten by the time they returned. But others wanted her alive.

  Mr. Barks’s wife had arrived unexpectedly in London. She was a square, mannish woman with a booming voice, and that voice of hers poured scorn on his fashionable efforts. Her harsh laugh when she had seen his stubble-covered chest had hurt his very soul. But she said that if she were presented at court, then she would have realized her life’s ambition and she would return to the country.

  Mr. Barks was a desperate man.

  He was sitting in Mr. Caldicott’s home gloomily wondering what to do when the butler announced the arrival of “a person calling himself Mr. James.”

  Mr. Caldicott told his butler he was not at home to persons of any description. The butler retired to convey that message. The following sounds of a noisy altercation in the hall made Mr. Caldicott seize his sword and go to help evict the importunate Mr. James.

  He found himself looking into the white and wasted features of Bertram Pargeter.

  “It is all right,” he said quickly. “I know this fellow.”

  He led Bertram inside and shut the door on his startled butler’s face.

  “Why are you come?” hissed Mr. Caldicott as Mr. Barks leapt from his chair in surprise. “The Runners are still looking for you.”

  Bertram shrugged. “This isn’t Paris,” he said. “There are still many parts of the metropolis where I can stroll about in broad daylight.” Unlike Paris, London did not have an official police force. Each parish of the city was responsible for its own protection, and twelve had no police at all. Westminster, which was a large area encompassing the West End, usually had eight constables, mostly tradesmen, who served for a year and went on duty every fifteenth night armed with staves and lanterns, or else hired substitutes. The Bow Street thief-takers numbered about six. There was the watch, of course, but that was made up of creaky old men who often had to rely on the good nature of the rabble to pursue and catch anyone.

  And yet, thought Mr. Barks uneasily, hundreds upon hundreds were still dragged to the gallows or transported to the colonies.

  “What brings you here?” he demanded harshly.

  “I am confident I know where Polly Jones is.”

  “Not again,” sighed Mr. Caldicott.

  “Hark! I followed Colonel Anderson, who is a close friend of Canonby, to a coffee house. He was talking about the return of a certain Miss Ponsonby to London. This Miss Ponsonby had gone on chance to Shropshire to the marquess’s home in the hope of finding him there, which they did. But whatever happened, the Ponsonbys’ hopes of a marriage for their daughter came to naught.

  “Miss Ponsonby had said to Colonel Anderson t’other night that she had got a glimpse of a very beautiful lady who was residing in the dower house. When she asked the identity of this lady, she was told she was a relative of Canonby. I believe this so-called relative to be Polly Jones. Now, think. We could travel there, and if it is she, we could abduct her, give her to Mother Blanchard for some sport, and then tell the marquess if he wants her back and clear of the gallows then he must pay us a large sum and find favor at court for Mrs. Barks.”

  “It’s all a hum,” said Mr. Caldicott uneasily, but Mr. Barks thought dismally of his wife and said eagerly, “It would do no harm to travel there and look.”

  “I will return to my lodgings and pack a trunk,” said Bertram with a smile of satisfaction.

  “As you will,” said Mr. Caldicott. They discussed plans and Bertram took his leave.

  Mr. Barks crossed to the window and watched Bertram standing in the middle of the pavement for all to see, drawing on his gloves.

  And then he was witness to one of those many chances of Fate which send the hunted to the gallows. A servant in the earl of Meresly’s livery ran past, stopped in his tracks, and swung round, staring at Bertram in open-mouthed amazement. Bertram was just strolling away as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  “Oh, a pox on it,” growled Mr. Barks. “The fool!”

  Mr. Caldicott joined him at the window. In silence they watched as the servant shoute
d to someone at the other end of the street. Bertram, confident in his security, did not bother to slow his easy gait. Another servant in the Meresly livery ran up. The two servants jumped on Bertram from behind, throwing him to the ground and calling for help as they did so.

  “Idiot,” said Mr. Caldicott. “Complete and utter idiot. Bad cess to him and Polly Jones.”

  “I had better go,” sighed Mr. Barks. “She will be waiting.”

  “Let her wait,” said Mr. Caldicott suddenly. “She will forgive all if you find the means to get her to court.”

  Mr. Barks looked at him open-mouthed. “You mean …?”

  “Yes, my friend. Oh, yes. The hunt is up!”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Drusilla Gentle began to think that Polly had had some sort of brainstorm over the marquess. She was distressed to think that poor Polly had lost her virginity, but on calmer reflection had to admit to herself that it was only to be expected considering the life that Polly had hitherto led. Polly was calm and pleasant and ladylike. Drusilla began to relax and enjoy their quiet and ordered existence.

  She did not know that Polly was daily steeling herself to confront the marquess of Canonby.

  Polly’s passion for the marquess had not abated. Rather, it had grown, tormenting her during the long sleepless nights to the point of anguish.

  Love can be a madness, a sickness, and poor Polly forced herself to endure the polite afternoons with the neighbors over the teacups and the long sedate walks about the estate with Drusilla—a still-cautious Drusilla who made sure Polly did not wander anywhere near Hand Court.

  And then, despite the sunny weather, Drusilla caught a feverish cold. Polly dutifully nursed her until the fever abated. One afternoon when Drusilla was in a pleasant state of drowsy convalescent lassitude, Polly kissed her cheek and told her to sleep. “What are you going to do?” asked Drusilla.

  “I am reading a very exciting novel,” said Polly. “I think I will have a quiet afternoon indoors.”

  She sat beside the bed until Drusilla’s regular breathing told her the companion was asleep.

  Polly went to her own bedchamber and sat in front of the looking glass. With hands that trembled, she took down her hair and brushed it until it shone. She put on a pretty chintz gown and tied a lace fichu about her shoulders.

  Then she made her way downstairs and out of the house, stopping only to ask the footman casually if he knew whether the marquess of Canonby was at home.

  “I believe so, miss,” said the footman. “He rode out this morning early but I believe I heard him return a half hour ago. A horse went down the drive in the direction of the house.”

  Polly stepped out of the shadow of the trees into the sunlight of the drive. She turned a corner and walked slowly toward the great house, her skirts fluttering in the light summer wind.

  The marquess was sitting at his desk in the library when Polly was announced.

  He had been writing letters. He put down his pen carefully and looked warily at Polly. He was still ashamed of his behavior.

  “What can I do for you, Miss Peterson?” he asked. Polly turned and shut the library door, and to his surprise, turned the key in the lock.

  Then she turned back and faced him. Her gown was the new length and showed her ankles. She had very pretty ankles, the marquess thought, while wondering why on earth she had locked the door.

  “I am come to offer you my services,” said Polly.

  “There is no need to lock us in to do that,” he said, amused. “Besides, are you not comfortable being a lady? I have given up the idea of making you a servant.”

  “I was not offering my services as a servant.”

  “Then as what, pray?”

  “As your mistress.”

  He came forward and took her hands in his and gently kissed first one, and then the other. “I am very flattered, my child,” he said softly. “But you do not know what you are saying.”

  Polly held his eyes with a steady gaze. “I am not a virgin, sir,” she said.

  He dropped her hands and strode back to the desk. “Oh,” he said in a colorless voice.

  “Yes, you will not find me inexperienced.”

  Trollop! he thought savagely. Damned slut and trollop!

  “Get out,” he said. “You may stay as my pensioner but do not ever approach me again.”

  “Why?” Polly’s puzzlement would have been funny if he had not been so enraged.

  “Because, Polly Jones, I have had my fill of wantons. Get out!” He turned away.

  Her lips trembled. She turned and unlocked the door. When he looked up, she had gone.

  He sat for a long time in a fury. That he should have put the mantle of his noble protection over such as she! He thought of the one-eyed Jake and shuddered. She must have … but how could she?

  And yet her lips had been so sweet. He had a sudden memory of the first evening he had met her, of turning her upside down and shaking her, and of that white and rounded delectable bottom.

  He picked up the pen again to continue his writing and then looked down in dismay, for he had snapped the pen in half.

  Polly sat in the parlor in blind misery while the light faded outside and the birds fell silent. She thought she would die from very shame. Why had she lied to him? But she had thought he would not touch her if he knew her to be a virgin. She had not for a moment guessed her manufactured experience would set up such disgust in him. After all, men were known to lust after impure women. The pure might gain their respect but not their passion.

  The door handle rattled and Polly rose with a weary sigh. She had locked it, not wanting to be disturbed by the servants. “Wait!” she called.

  She rose and went to open the door. She felt as stiff and sore as if he had beaten her.

  Her footman stood outside. “His lordship’s compliments, miss, and he desires your presence. I shall fetch the carriage.”

  “No matter,” said Polly, her heart hammering against her ribs. “I shall walk.”

  Drusilla, waking at the sound of the front door closing, called for Polly. A housemaid came in and said that Miss Peterson had been summoned to Hand Court. Drusilla nodded, but after the housemaid had left, she began to pray—to pray that Polly would not pursue her mad idea of becoming Canonby’s mistress.

  There was a full moon above the black lacy tracery of the trees as Polly walked toward the great house. Her misery had fled. The thought of seeing him again, even though he might curse her, lent her feet wings.

  He opened the massive front door to her himself as though he had been watching for her coming. There were no servants about. He silently took her hand and led her up the stairs. His face in the golden light of the oil lamp on the first landing was taut and strained.

  Up again to the second floor and then he held open a door and pushed Polly inside.

  She found herself in his bedchamber. The huge four-poster bed had the curtains drawn back and the blankets turned down. A small apple wood fire crackled on the hearth and a branch of candles burned on the mantel, their steady tongues of flame reflected in the looking glass behind.

  “I have decided to take your offer, Polly Jones,” he said. “I will retire to the powder closet to undress. You may undress here beside the fire.”

  Polly watched him in dismay until he had closed the door of the powder closet behind him. There was evidently not going to be any tenderness or love. She was going to be treated like the sort of woman she had pretended to be.

  There was still time to run away, or time to stay and tell him the truth.

  But she was so sure she could make him want her as much as she wanted him.

  Shivering a little with fear, she took off her red leather shoes, then unfastened her gown and let it fall to the floor. She then unfastened the tapes of her stomacher and unbuttoned her linen undervest, and both garments joined her dress on the floor to be shortly followed by her petticoat, leaving her attired only in her thin muslin shift and flesh-colored stockings with blu
e silk garters.

  She was standing with one foot on a chair, unrolling the first of her stockings, when he walked in.

  She looked over her shoulder and then blushed. He was stark naked. Her hands shook and she looked at him blindly.

  “Allow me,” he said softly. He lifted her up and sat down with her on his lap and rolled off one stocking and then the other.

  He eased her forward on his knees and then pulled the shift over her head and threw it on top of the little pile of clothes on the floor. The firelight flickered over her naked body, outlining the curve of her hips and the swell of her generous bosom.

  If he had treated her like the trollop he believed her to be, Polly would have snatched up her clothes and cried out the truth. But he gave a little sigh and buried his mouth in hers, and all that pent-up passion of Polly’s grew to a searing flame. He lifted her tenderly in his arms, still kissing her, and laid her down on top of the bed before climbing in beside her and taking her in his arms.