Blood For Blood: A Regency Mystery (Regency Mysteries)

by S K Rizzolo

  Turning his thoughts to the dinner he had missed again, and to his bad knee that always ached in the damp, Chase pondered the evening ahead, sighing, though he enjoyed the company of a fire and a good book as well as any man. Then, from behind, rapid footsteps approached, and Chase glanced back, glimpsing two familiar figures, one tall, one shorter, carrying a cane.

  When they saw him looking, the taller man cried out, “Mr. Chase! Hold a moment, sir.”

  He stopped, waited for them to draw level. “Here you are again, gentlemen. This time let us hope you will linger long enough to make your business clear. How do you know my name?”

  “The porter of the house you just visited told us,” gasped the taller man, whose ears, like the last time, were pink with the cold. “A friend of ours wants a word with you, so if you’ll come with us—” He stepped closer.

  Chase felt a prickle of unease. “I don’t think so,” he responded politely. “You see, I am late for a dinner engagement. Perhaps another time. If you will provide your card, sir?”

  For an answer, the man reached out to grab Chase’s arm. Chase wrenched away and shoved him to one side. He came back, fists swinging, catching Chase a blow to the side of his face. For a moment, his vision blurred, just long enough for the man to twist Chase’s arm behind his back, cruelly twisting his wrist.

  In response, Chase lifted his heavy boot and smashed backwards, catching his attacker’s shin. Off balance, the man loosened his grip, and with his other hand, Chase was able to fumble for the pistol in his pocket.

  But as his fingers started to pull it free, the other man stepped forward and raised his cane. His first blow caught Chase square in the kneecap; the second struck him across the temple.

  ***

  As Chase’s assailants dragged him down the street and thrust him into a waiting carriage, he was dimly aware of everything that happened to him, the pain in his knee like some ferocious fire licking at the doors of his mind. On the other hand, he was not there at all, but instead stood on the deck of a ship on his way across the Atlantic to see Jonathan and Abigail, watching the rise and fall of the black waves which somehow got all mixed up with the swaying and painful jolting of the coach.

  After a time, he realized that the blackness in front of his eyes was not the sea at all, only a bit of cloth tied around his eyes. Then he heard someone say, “My God, look at him. I didn’t think I hit him that hard.”

  “Not bad for a little rat like you, eh Dobbin?” said another voice.

  “Shut up, the both of you,” said a third man in amused, far more cultured tones in which Chase thought he detected a faint Irish lilt. “No names, as I told you. He will wake soon.” Chase strove to keep his face blank, though he must have made some sign, for the gentleman said after a moment, “Ah, I do believe he has returned to us. Help him up, and offer him this.”

  Rough hands pulled him to a sitting position against the luxuriously soft cushions. A flask was thrust under his nose, and a fiery liquid trickled into his mouth. Coughing, he reached up to try to push aside the blindfold, catching in the process one fragmented glimpse of a high-colored, handsome countenance. He felt stale breath on his face as he was shoved back roughly, his blindfold tightened, his hands bound with a rope, tightly, so that the sensitive skin on the inside of his wrists burned in protest.

  “I do apologize, Mr. Chase,” the voice said softly. “I’m afraid these two oafs misunderstood my instructions. No bones appear to be broken, though you will likely find yourself a bit bruised. Are you better now?”

  “The blow has aggravated an old navy injury,” he croaked in reply and gingerly straightened his leg, relieved to note that the pain had receded to a more manageable level.

  “I am the more sorry then. Give him some room, fools.” To Chase’s relief the hot breath withdrew.

  Chase said, “I think you had best explain yourself, whoever you are, and remove these bonds. No coercion is necessary, you know. I would have been most happy to speak with you.”

  “Let’s just say it was necessary that we make assurance double sure. These men are officially employed, Mr. Chase. On special assignment, actually, though I’m not really at liberty to provide all the details. I am privy to only a few of them myself.”

  Chase was suddenly very wide awake indeed. “Who are you, sir? What do they, and you, want with me?”

  “You’ve been very clever in the Ransom matter thus far, Mr. Chase. More clever than expected. But I do believe we should prefer you forgot you ever found your way to that brothel. Truthfully, you have stumbled upon a matter of grave importance to us all, to every true-blooded Englishman, in fact.”

  “You’ve acted quickly, sir. How did you happen to be on hand to intercept me?”

  “We’ve been watching the house, of course. It was luck, I suppose, that there was time to fetch me so that I could deliver my little warning in person. Now, you must be content to leave this business to those who have it well in hand. I am certain you can understand the danger of a feint in the dark?”

  “I can. Which is why I must insist that you illuminate the matter for me. I seek only to do my job, sir, the job for which I am paid.”

  “A duty you have performed well.” Chase heard the rustle of the man’s clothing, a distinct click, then the chink of coins.

  Rage obliterated his discomfort and fear. “Do not think to bribe me. I take blood money from no one. No matter who Dick Ransom truly was, he deserves that his murderer should be found—and punished.”

  “You are a stubborn man and, as I said, a clever one, Mr. Chase, but you’ve got the shoe on the wrong horse. Poor Dick’s death was most unfortunate, but there is far more at stake here than you realize.”

  “Dick? You knew him?”

  “Oh, very well. We were good friends, and no one can regret his loss more than I.”

  “Sir!” cried the one called Dobbin.

  “Not to worry. Our friend of Bow Street does not understand, and I see it will take a little more to satisfy him. Mr. Chase, I feel confident that His Majesty’s government can reply upon your discretion. Let me remind you again that these are uncertain times. We believe there is a scheme brewing that may well be poisonous, fatal, to us all. There are dangerous men anxious to stir the broth. I can put it no more clearly than that.”

  “Men like Dick Ransom?” he replied, trying one of his feints in the dark.

  Chase’s ears caught the indrawn breath. “You are unwise, Mr. Chase. You must realize that the villains will stop at nothing. They’ve murdered Dick for all that he was a friend to them.”

  “What is this danger, this conspiracy of which you speak?”

  But his captor had apparently yanked the pull to alert the driver, for the carriage came to an abrupt halt. Hands plucked Chase from his seat, and he felt the cold air on his face. He was sent sprawling to the pavement.

  The soft voice floated out after him. “Remember, Mr. Chase. You have been warned.”

  ***

  Chase lay in his bed, so angry he couldn’t rest despite the fact that his bruised body desperately craved sleep. He had managed to eject Mrs. Beeks after allowing her to fuss over him for several hours. She had bathed the scratches on his face and arms and smoothed foul-smelling ointment all over him, but he’d growled and pushed her away with a harsh word once she turned her attention to his viciously swollen knee. He had also refused her laudanum, which still sat on the table within reach, calling him.

  He felt sorry for his rudeness now, sorry too that he had not let Mrs. Beeks summon a surgeon. He remembered the last time his knee had been hurt like this, when Abigail had tended him after the battle of Aboukir; she had saved his leg, he always thought. Then she had loved him, bedded him, and become pregnant with his child, refusing nonetheless to marry him when the idyll ended. Well, she wasn’t here to help him now.

  The knowledge that he would be lying here for some days was bitter, for he was certain that had been the intention of those men, to tie him by the heels unti
l his ardor should have cooled, until he returned to work no doubt to find new and more pressing business awaiting him. Why should he care then to pursue the death of a mysterious footman, especially since he’d been instructed to leave the matter in other, more capable hands?

  Ah, but they had miscalculated, did not really know him. The mysterious footman interested him more than ever, his death of far greater moment than the domestic affair or robbery he had first envisaged. Chase knew he must discover what Ransom with his reputed criminal connections had been doing in St. James’s Square, that respectable bastion of the aristocracy.

  Recalling the conversation about the hazelnuts Sir Roger had reported, Chase wondered if Ransom had meant to deliver some sort of threat. But of what? There was also the lovely Julia, Lady Ashe, of whom Ransom was said to have been enamored, wed to a much older husband. And the female intruder, fortuitously released from custody, who might or might not possess knowledge of the crime. And finally the prophetess Rebecca Barnwell—what role did she play in this drama? Surely, it would not be difficult for Chase to locate a public figure such as she.

  The man called Dobbin had been right that his master had spoken too freely, for if there were some foul conspiracy afoot, John Chase was not the man to turn away from it.

  ***

  March slipped by, and still Mr. Chase did not come to St. James’s Square. Penelope had wrapped up the little dagger carefully and put it in her drawer to keep it safe. She did not mention the matter to Julia, nor to Sir Roger, though she watched the baronet surreptitiously and wondered why he had never spoken of the loss of his property.

  In truth, Penelope watched everyone in that strange household, feeling herself like a bit actor set down in the midst of a play for which no one had bothered to give her the script. It was hard not to be aware of the whispers, for the society women did not scruple to gossip behind their fans even when Lady Ashe’s companion was within hearing. Julia took too much wine, they said, laughed too loudly, flirted too outrageously, angered her husband with her enormous gambling losses and, worse, her inability to produce an heir after six or seven years of marriage.

  Julia and her husband often went days without seeing one another, which was not unusual in their station. On occasion, both would dine at home, and then Ashe would make everyone uncomfortable with a series of barbed comments, masked as pleasantries, aimed at his wife’s extravagance, her “French” volatility, her forgetfulness.

  Or Julia would dress herself in her prettiest gown to seek out her husband’s company, then flounce back an hour later and spend the rest of the day alternately crying how she loved him and raving about his coldness toward her. Once, entering the sitting room, Penelope came upon them, Julia sitting on the carpet at her lord’s feet, arms clasped about his knees. As Ashe looked up to meet Penelope’s gaze, he lifted one finger to his wife’s cheek and stroked downward, his eyes empty.

  There were also times when Julia would abandon high spirits to turn abruptly mumpish and solitary, deciding at the last moment not to attend a much-anticipated party in favor of an evening spent nursing a headache in her bedchamber with orders she not be disturbed. Penelope could not comprehend her.

  So it went on until an encounter in the Park which only strengthened Penelope’s determination to leave her situation. She met her cousin Gideon Sandford, a man she’d never met but whom she recognized immediately from his resemblance to her father. Tall and rather spare with an ascetic face and heavy-lidded blue eyes, he had approached to greet Julia’s companion, a Mr. Ogden. Their conversation complete, he turned toward Penelope, apparently having caught her startled eyes on his face.

  “Ma’am?” he said, bowing.

  Mr. Ogden performed the introductions, a little vaguely for Penelope could see he didn’t quite recall her name. Afterwards, obeying an impulse she feared she might regret, she found a moment to say quietly to Mr. Sandford, “I see you do not know me, and there’s no wonder, sir, for we have never met. I am Penelope Wolfe. My father is Eustace Sandford, you see, which makes you my—”

  “Cousin,” he broke in, a smile spreading over his face. “My father has often spoken of yours and regretted the rift between our families. But I suppose the distance…may I hope your father has at long last returned to his native shores?”

  “No, indeed sir. I believe he intends to make Sicily his permanent home. I myself only came to England after my marriage. My husband is fixed in Ireland at present, so I am fortunate enough to find a place as Lady Ashe’s companion and a home for my young daughter.” Stumbling a little over the words, she felt the heat mount in her cheeks. She might have added that she had received only two letters from her father in the prior twelve-month and missed him terribly, especially in Jeremy’s absence.

  “I see,” Mr. Sandford replied after a short silence. He glanced toward Julia, who had her hand on Mr. Ogden’s sleeve and was smiling into his face and chattering away. Her voice carried that note of desperate gaiety that always made Penelope wince.

  Mr. Sandford looked grave, seeming to debate with himself. All he said, however, was, “My father and mother rarely leave the country these days, but you must come and see me and my wife in Brook Street, Mrs. Wolfe. We should be most pleased to welcome you, I hope for a visit of some duration. And, of course, you must bring your little girl if you are not afraid to trust her amongst our wild brood.” Smiling, he took her hand again, but there was no time for more, for Julia, not seeming to notice Penelope was engaged, had allowed the groom to assist her to mount into the driving seat of her stylish phaeton.

  Julia continued to insist Penelope accompany her on these excursions into society, for the Season was in full swing now with a bewildering round of balls, routs, assemblies, and visits to the theatre or opera. Wrestling with her pride, Penelope told herself it didn’t matter a snap if perfect strangers saw her dressed as a dowdy. She was the companion, after all, and therefore blessedly invisible much of the time.

  In any event, no matter where they went these days, the name on everyone’s lips, the focus of everyone’s attention, was Byron, the young, compellingly handsome nobleman who had just published the first two volumes of a poem called Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.

  Penelope stayed up into the night reading Julia’s copy and found much of exotic color and whimsicality in the poem’s exploration of the East. Nor could she deny the appeal of the hero, the world-weary outcast, the fallen angel, racing toward perdition as if all the hounds of hell were on his heels. Yes, both the poet and his creation intrigued her, though the swooning girls and predatory hostesses scheming to get the newest sensation into their drawing rooms filled her with disgust.

  Entering her chamber one evening to fetch a shawl, Penelope found a gown laid out on her bed. It was of pale green sarsenet, shot with white, and of walking length. The bodice and back were of white lace, the three quarter length sleeves also trimmed in lace, and a band of blue embroidered ribband encircled the waist. Next to the gown, wrapped in tissue paper, were white kid gloves and a pair of slippers. A card was included which read, “I beg you will accept these trifles with my sincere friendship and appreciation. Julia.”

  Penelope stood for a long time, gazing down at the dress. It had been so long since she’d possessed anything new, anything this fine. For a moment she was back in Sicily, a young lady again with an armload of dresses and no more taxing duty than serving as her father’s hostess at his famous dinners. Then as Julia entered the room, Penelope turned, blinking back the tears that had sprung to her eyes.

  “Do you like it?” Julia said, her face eager, full of hope.

  Penelope opened her mouth to tell her of course she liked it, but she really couldn’t accept anything so expensive. Instead, she found herself saying, “It’s lovely, ma’am, and I thank you.”

  “Come, you must try it on.” In no time, she had Penelope stripped to her shift and stockings. Pulling the gown over her head, Julia smoothed it down, then unceremoniously swung Penelope around to fast
en the row of tiny white buttons at the back.

  “I think perhaps a looser hair style,” she said thoughtfully, studying their two faces in the dressing table mirror. “You know, you have the most delicious brown eyes I have ever seen. Your hair is pretty too, such a rich color, but you really mustn’t scrape it back like that.”

  “I don’t like it to flutter about.”

  “No?” Her hands brushed up and down Penelope’s arms, which looked quite brown in contrast to my lady’s fairness. Feeling the gooseflesh rise on her skin, Penelope felt a strange lassitude. How pleasant it would be to live like this always, she thought dreamily, the scent of Julia’s perfume overwhelming her senses, the soft embrace surrounding her.

  Julia smiled at her in the glass, then dropped a light kiss on her forehead. Standing back, she clapped her hands. “Let me look at you. Famous! You may wear the dress tomorrow to Lady Caroline’s morning reception at Melbourne House to practice the waltz. Give me no nonsense about not knowing the steps, for that is why we go, to practice. And who knows, perhaps we will be so fortunate as to meet him there.”

  “Surely Lord Byron does not dance,” was all Penelope could find to say.

  Chapter X

  The boiled beef was tough, the mutton not much better. The port wine was passable, but always in short supply as someone invariably consumed more than his fair share of the allotment. And while once Buckler might have deemed it quaint to dine on wooden trenchers and sip his wine from green earthenware pots, he now thought the whole business a confounded nuisance.

  Add to these discomforts that the ancient refectory of the Knights Templar was draught-ridden and smoky, the louvres above the massive hearth in the center of the Hall providing only imperfect ventilation. In inclement weather, the wooden bell cupola let in the rain. Worst of all, Buckler often wondered if the high roof supported by pointed and heavy timber arches might one day tumble about their ears. He could just imagine a Bencher rising stoically from the rubble to exclaim, “Gentlemen, I represent to you that the repair and renovation of this Hall must henceforth be our chief concern.”