Lady Vengeance

by Melinda Hammond

  * * * *

  The viscount called at Hartworth House at an unseasonably early hour the following morning, and he was pleasantly surprised to find Elinor ready and waiting for him. She could not have had more than a few hours’ sleep, yet he thought she looked more beautiful than ever in a simply-cut bronze walking dress with a serviceable cloak thrown over her arm. It was a bright, sunny morning and they made good time to the village of Islington, arriving at Bishop Furminger’s hired residence just as that gentleman finished his substantial breakfast. A servant carried the news of their arrival to the little parlour, then silently gathered up the breakfast dishes onto a tray as his master studied the viscount’s card.

  ‘Davenham. I don’t think I know the gentleman….’

  ‘But you will see me, all the same.’

  The bishop looked up in surprise to see that Lord Davenham had followed the footman into the room, at his side a tall lady wrapped from head to toe in a black domino. He dismissed his servant and smiled benignly upon the visitors. Doubtless a pair of star-crossed lovers wishing to be married at once – a common story!

  ‘Well now, what can I do for you? You must excuse me, ma’am, if I do not get up.’ He waved at his bandaged foot. ‘A touch of gout, you know! Pray be seated, both of you, and tell me how I can help you.’

  ‘I think we prefer to stand.’ The viscount’s response was cool. ‘We will not stay long. Our business concerns the Marquis of Thurleigh.’

  The reverend gentleman’s smile froze. He said cautiously, ‘I know very little of my lord Thurleigh. In fact I have not seen him for quite some time.’

  ‘But you know he is a supporter of the gentleman over the water.’

  ‘I – I have no idea what you mean, sir! I think it would be best if you were to leave…’ the bishop’s hand reached out for the bell-pull, but dropped again as the lady spoke for the first time.

  ‘Can it have slipped your mind, sir, that you were one of a small group of traitors who were waiting to join Charles Stuart in ‘forty-five? If he had not turned back at Derby, you would have marched with him to London.’ She had pushed back her hood before speaking, and the bishop stared in horror at Elinor de Sange. The years had changed her from a pretty child to a beautiful woman, but there could be no mistaking the rich chestnut hair or the green eyes that now glittered as they stared at him. ‘I see you remember me, Bishop Furminger.’

  He licked his dry lips.

  ‘My child, I was haunted by your face for months after that night – I could not forget! But I was powerless to help you,’ he cried in anguished tones. ‘Thurleigh would have destroyed me!’

  ‘Now you shall help us destroy him,’ said Davenham. ‘You will denounce him as a traitor.’

  ‘Thurleigh will kill me if I do that!’

  ‘And I shall kill you if you do not!

  Furminger shrank back in his chair as Elinor drew an evil-looking knife from the folds of her cloak. He managed a shaky laugh.

  ‘You mean to frighten me, Madame, but it will not work. You would not harm me.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be too sure of that, Furminger,’ put in the viscount. ‘Consider for a moment: Poyntz is dead. So too are Rowsell and Boreland.’

  ‘And you, too, would be dead by now,’ added Elinor, ‘if Lord Davenham had not suggested you would give evidence against the marquis. I am willing to let you live, in exchange for his destruction.’

  Furminger’s naturally ruddy countenance grew pale and he looked imploringly at the viscount.

  ‘The woman’s mad! Davenham, I pray you take the knife from her, she is not safe!’

  ‘Give me a written statement concerning Thurleigh’s involvement with the Stuart cause and I will ensure Madame de Sange does not harm you.’

  The bishop twisted in his chair, thinking quickly.

  ‘I cannot accuse Lord Thurleigh without incriminating myself.’

  Lord Davenham smoothed over the ruffles that covered his wrists, replying calmly, ‘If you speak out against the King’s enemies, I have no doubt the Crown will be merciful.’

  There was silence; to Elinor’s stretched nerves it seemed to go on for ever.

  ‘Very well. I will tell you what I know.’

  ‘Good.’ Davenham crossed the room and tugged at the bell-pull. ‘Call for some paper and ink. You can write it down immediately.’

  ‘No! How can I be sure that once you have my statement you will not let this – this madwoman murder me?’

  ‘You have my word on it.’ replied the viscount. ‘Once I have your written statement I will return to Town, taking Madame de Sange with me.’

  ‘And leave me here to Lord Thurleigh’s mercy, once he discovers what I have done?’ he cried, aghast.

  The viscount regarded the gentleman of the cloth with undisguised contempt.

  ‘Very well, I will take you to Town with me now, and deliver you into the hands of Henry Pelham. He is a sick man, but still the King’s first minister. You may tell him of Thurleigh’s treachery. Will you trust your safety to him?’

  The servant was at the door. After a brief hesitation, the bishop sent him away with orders to pack an overnight bag.

  ‘And pray you, Madam,’ he said testily when the servant had departed, ‘put away that fearsome blade, or I shall not travel in the same coach with you!’

  It was well after noon when the viscount’s carriage made its way back into London and the late spring sunshine had given way to grey clouds that spread across the sky from the west, promising rain before nightfall. They had reached High Holborn and the bishop was once again complaining that the jolting of the carriage caused unbearable pain to his gouty foot when they were hailed by a gentleman on horseback heading out of town. Davenham let down the window and looked out, whereupon the rider turned his horse to come alongside the carriage.

  ‘Davenham, I thought I recognized your rig!’ He glanced past the viscount into the carriage and raised his hat in a cheerful salute. ‘Madame de Sange, ain’t it? Servant, ma’am.’

  ‘What is it, Derry? Have you a message for me?’

  Lord Derry shook his head, saying with his usual insouciance: ‘No, nothing like that, Jonathan. Just thought you might like to know the mob are on the move. They’re rioting in St. Giles again. Lucky I ran into you or you’d have driven right into it. Best turn off if you want to avoid trouble.’

  ‘‘Fore Gad, my lord, let us turn back at once!’ cried the bishop, his voice rising.

  ‘No need for that sir,’ replied Lord Derry cheerfully, ‘Just make a slight detour. You’ll be safe enough.’

  Davenham nodded and gave instructions to his coachman. With a friendly wave, Lord Derry turned his horse and rode off, while the viscount put up the window, his face grim.

  ‘I say we should turn back,’ declared the bishop. ‘Unless you wish us all to be murdered.’

  ‘Don’t be such a fool, man,’ retorted Davenham. ‘We’ll turn off towards Lincoln’s Inn Fields and avoid St Giles.’ He smiled at Elinor, sitting pale and quiet in her corner. ‘Don’t worry.’

  Once off the main highway the carriage made its way slowly along the twisting streets, lurching and swaying over the uneven cobbles. Elinor gazed anxiously out of the window, expecting at any moment to see a ragged crowd appear and attack their carriage, but the roads were deserted and they saw no one until they reached St Martin’s Lane, where they found houses and shops alike closed and shuttered, and looking north a cloud of black smoke darkened the sky. Davenham ordered the coach to stop, and leaned out of the window to speak to a young lad who was running down the road. The boy paused, breathing hard.

  ‘Aye, my lord, they seem set to come this way. They’ve fired a tavern on the corner of Long Acre, and the Lord only knows what else beside! The King’s dead and the Frenchies are even now on their way! By your leave, I must get home!’

  The boy ran on, and Davenham gave the word to his coachman before resuming his seat.

  ‘Doubtless you both heard what he said.�
�

  ‘I did, sir!’ Furminger’s round face was suffused with fear and wonder. ‘It puts matters in a completely different light! With the King dead I’ll not speak against Thurleigh until I know how things stand.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous man. Do you believe everything you hear in the streets?’

  Elinor turned anxious eyes towards him. ‘You think it’s not true?’

  ‘In all honesty I don’t know, but I’m taking you both to Hartworth House until the riot subsides. You will be safer there.’

  The carriage moved on westwards, and as they rattled past one of the many narrow streets the viscount’s eyes were drawn to a heavily laden travelling carriage waiting at one corner. For half a minute after they had rumbled past he sat frowning heavily, then with a smothered exclamation he jumped up and shouted new orders to the coachman.

  ‘Good heavens, sir, what now?’ cried Furminger, his voice a mixture of alarm and annoyance, but he was ignored. The coach gathered speed and they bounced and jolted over the rutted lane, before swinging around a corner and coming to a stand before the gates of Leicester House. Almost before the coach had stopped the viscount had leapt out, shouting over his shoulder for the others to wait there for him. After the briefest hesitation, the bishop hauled himself out of his seat and descended from the carriage as quickly as his bulk and bad foot would allow, muttering that nothing would persuade him to remain alone with a murderess.

  It took Elinor but a second to decide to follow him, pausing only to take from its holster the horse-pistol that the viscount kept in his carriage. By the time she reached the flag-way, Davenham was coming away from the house and she ran up to him.

  ‘What is it, sir, what do you suspect?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Perhaps an attempt to kidnap the Princess and her children. I have just ascertained that the princes are here with their mother today. I’ll wager ‘tis no mere coincidence.’

  ‘And the carriage we passed. You think - Thurleigh?’

  ‘I’m sure of it,’ he muttered grimly.

  ‘Well, you have put the staff on their guard,’ remarked Furminger, hobbling up to them, ‘Let us continue to Hartworth House.’

  The viscount shook his head, thinking rapidly.

  ‘Take Elinor back to the carriage. I’ll join you presently.’ With that he set off back along the narrow street through which they had come, and soon found what he was looking for. A small plain door set in the wall, doubtless one of the service doors of Leicester House. He tried the handle and the door opened easily, startling the two footmen who were hurrying along the inner passage.

  ‘My Lord!’ cried one. ‘After your warning we were just coming to check –’

  The viscount cut him short.

  ‘Never mind the explanations. Lock the door behind me and make sure it stays locked.’ He stepped back onto the street and heard the sound of heavy bolts being pushed into position on the inside of the door. Glancing down the street he allowed himself a grim smile as he saw the black bulk of the travelling carriage had pulled a little closer. A solitary figure in a grey frock-coat alighted and was approaching with an ungainly stride. The man checked when he saw the viscount, then his hand reached inside his coat to pull out a pistol.

  ‘So, Davenham, you are here before me!’ Lord Thurleigh’s cold eyes flickered past Davenham, and a sneering smile curled his lips. ‘And Madame de Sange. How charming to see you again!’

  The viscount glanced around, a frown in his eyes.

  Elinor shook her head at him. ‘I could not leave you.’

  ‘You had best give me that pistol, my dear,’ drawled the marquis, ‘I assure you I can fire this one before you even have time to lift your own.’

  She looked at the viscount, who nodded, and she handed the carriage pistol to the marquis. He tucked the weapon into his pocket. The sounds of the mob could be heard quite clearly now, and the smell of burning filled the air.

  ‘I would advise you to take the lady home, Davenham, and quickly. The mob are coming this way.’

  ‘Is that your work too, Thurleigh? No wonder your groom developed such a liking for low company!’

  The marquis bowed. ‘But of course. My man has been working on them for weeks. It takes very little to rouse the mob, Davenham. They are no more than savages, after all. A few guineas, a little gin…’

  ‘So that was your plan. To have the King assassinated and take the Princess and her children away from here. But what next? Is your allegiance to the Prince of Wales, or to the Stuart?’

  ‘My allegiance, naturally, is to the winning side. Cumberland’s man carried out the deed and the country will think the Duke plotted the King’s death, and the disappearance of the heir to the throne. If the people decide to remove Cumberland and offer the crown to the Stuart, I shall make sure there are no Hanoverian brats alive to make trouble. If not….well, I think I can rely upon the young Prince’s gratitude for keeping him safe during this period of unrest.’

  ‘But your plan won’t work, Thurleigh,’ the viscount interrupted him. ‘I have warned the servants. You will not see the Princess or her children today.’

  Lord Thurleigh’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. He waved Elinor and the viscount away from the small service door then, keeping his eyes and the pistol trained upon them, he reached out one hand to try the door. It did not yield. None of them noticed a second, cloaked figure descend from the travelling carriage. The marquis raised the pistol.

  ‘So, Davenham, you think you have foiled me? I warned you I will brook no interference in my plans.’

  Elinor stepped forward, placing herself between Thurleigh and the viscount. ‘It is my fault Davenham is here. I vowed your destruction.’

  The marquis laughed, regarding her coldly. ‘You think you can save him again, my dear? I gave you his life once, in exchange for the ruby, but this time it won’t work. I am quite happy to put an end to you both –’

  ‘No!’ Margaret Thurleigh’s voice rang out and she hurried up to her husband, her dark cloak flying out behind her, the hood slipping back from her unpowdered curls. ‘No, my lord, you must not!’

  ‘Put away your weapon, Thurleigh,’ Davenham advised him, ‘Can you not see the game is finished?’

  ‘A game is never finished until the accounts are settled!’ retorted the marquis.

  Lady Thurleigh grasped his arm, saying urgently. ‘No, sir, you cannot kill the woman!’

  Her husband roughly shook her off and cocked the pistol. ‘Can I not, my dear? I think I shall prove you wrong!’

  He took aim. Davenham pushed Elinor behind him and the marquis laughed harshly. ‘You think to save her? You fool, I shall kill you first, then –’

  ‘But she is your daughter!’

  The words checked him. He lowered his arm. All eyes turned to Lady Thurleigh as she stood nervously twisting her hands together, her green eyes staring. ‘You thought I had given birth to a still-born son, did you not, dear husband? But there were two babies in my belly – two! One was the boy-child, dead at birth, but the other was a girl, a big, lusty girl, Thurleigh! Do you remember? I was visiting my sister in Oxford and big with child. I detested the condition, so fat and ugly, but you cared little for my discomfort, is that not so, Husband? You were too busy with your gaming and wenching to take an interest in me! I was never first with you.’

  ‘I took you to wife, did I not?’ he threw at her, only to hear her scornful laugh.

  ‘Because I refused to let you bed me until you had made me so!’

  ‘But the child,’ he reminded her sharply, ‘tell me!’

  ‘They came before their time. That was another nightmare, my lord! I vowed after that I would never go through such pain again. Two babies!’ she laughed, ‘I knew then how to pay you back for my suffering. My maid was acting as midwife, you see, and the babes were born long before the doctor arrived. I told her to take the girl away and drown her. No one need ever know, but she wouldn’t do it. I would have smothered it myself, but she pleaded wi
th me, said she’d smuggle the baby out of the house and find a wet-nurse.’

  Lady Thurleigh looked across at Elinor. ‘I learned afterward that she had found someone, a learned gentleman and his wife, grieving over the death of their own babe, just a few hours old. More than that I did not want to hear. By the time the doctor arrived, we had removed all traces of the twin birth, and presented him with your still-born son, my lord.’

  Thurleigh stood like a statue, only his eyes seemed alive, blazing in the livid face.

  ‘It cannot be true,’ he said at last, ‘it is a tale you have fabricated, though God knows to what end.’

  ‘Oh ‘tis true enough.’ She pointed at Elinor. ‘Only look at her, my lord. Is not the likeness sufficient to tell you that she is my daughter? And as for her father – you know well enough that you kept me safe from all other men until you were sure I was carrying your child. This lady can confirm that she was born at the same time that I was brought to bed one November night, four-and-twenty winters past.’

  ‘But why? Why, Margaret? How could you give away your own – my only child?’

  My lady threw up her head, her face alight with hatred.

  ‘It was the one weapon I had to curse you with, Guy Morellon. I knew how badly you wanted a child!’

  For a full minute husband and wife stared at one another, then the disbelief left Thurleigh’s face to be replaced with a look of pure fury. He raised his pistol, took deliberate aim and fired. The bullet found its target. Without a sound, the marchioness staggered back and collapsed, lifeless, to the ground.

  The shot brought Thurleigh’s servants running from the carriage, but they stopped at a distance from the little group, uncertain what to do. Elinor knelt beside Lady Thurleigh, searching for signs of life. Horrified, she stared up at the marquis.

  ‘You have killed her. Your own wife!’

  ‘She was a whore. I curse myself that I could not resist her – or you! You should thank God, my dear, that I didn’t rape you with the others that night at the inn. Oh, I very much wanted to, only I knew my clap-ridden body couldn’t manage it! You must pay for this, Elinor de Sange.’ He drew the carriage pistol from his pocket. ‘You’ve damned me to hell, between you! Join your mother in Hades, witch!’