“Equally natural that she should invite Sprog, seeing that he and I are old friends who rarely get the chance to be in company together nowadays.”
“Oh, yes, I dare say, but all the same I think she means to be matchmaking,” insisted Anthea. “A female can sense such things. But I can tell you she’ll catch cold at that,” she finished emphatically.
Justin’s dark eyes held a twinkle. “But why, dear niece? One supposes you must wed sometime, and Sprog’s a splendid fellow, I assure you.”
“I don’t doubt it, but I will not have him — or anyone else for that matter — thrust upon me! I shall choose my own husband, if and when I decide to take one!”
“An admirable scheme. And, of course, one must consider the fact that my friend may take a similar stand.” Justin’s smile was provocative. “Irresistible as you undoubtedly are to most men, my dear Anthea, there’s no saying that you appear so to Sprog. Always a fellow with a mind of his own, don’t you know?”
“Oh, you —!”
Her indignation turned to laughter, in which Justin joined.
“Well, I can readily undertake to keep him out of your way for most of the time,” he said at last. “He’s as keen as mustard to accompany me to some of the historic sites hereabouts. Yorkshire’s a capital county for mediaeval buildings: castles, monastic houses, churches — in fact, worthy of a book on its own. Although, as you know, I’d intended to make a wider survey of English antiquities in general.”
Anthea nodded. She was well aware of her uncle’s reputation in the academic world, based on a book he had had published some years earlier dealing with the antiquities of Greece. But he was no dry-as-dust scholar. A keen sportsman, a notable whip, and — when the spirit moved him — a lively participant in social occasions, he could fit into most company.
“Do you mean to go to the Lord Mayor’s masquerade in costume?” she asked, changing the subject.
“I don’t mean to go at all,” he said, with a grimace.
“Oh, that’s too bad of you! I was counting on your escort.”
“You’ll have your aunt and uncle besides Louisa and Harry — what more do you want? Of course, I dare say Sprog could be prevailed upon to escort you.”
As the gentleman in question entered the room at that moment, she was prevented from replying.
Sidney Paul Rogers was in his early thirties, with rich auburn hair, intelligent grey eyes and an open, friendly expression. His buff pantaloons, a blue coat closely fitting his broad shoulders, and an intricately tied neckcloth, all indicated the man of fashion; but he had an easy, casual way of wearing these garments which dispelled any suggestion of the dandy.
He greeted Anthea with a slight bow and a warm smile which she answered with a roguish look.
“Did I hear you speaking of the masquerade, Miss Anthea?” he asked.
“You’ve been eavesdropping!” she accused, blushing a little in spite of herself because of Justin’s last remark. “How monstrous of you!”
“No such thing, ma’am. The door was open, so I paused a moment on the threshold, admiring — if I may say so — the delightful picture you present in that gown,” he answered promptly.
Her eyes sparkled with merriment, but she tried to look severe.
“Bah! You’re quite shameless, and I don’t believe a word of it!”
“I assure you,” he insisted, his grey eyes serious for a moment.
Justin, observing this scene with amusement, saw fit to interrupt it. He coughed delicately.
“Now that you two have exchanged the civilities,” he said, with a grin, “you may as well admit the soft impeachment, Anthea. She was quizzing me to escort her to the masquerade at the Assembly Rooms tomorrow.”
“Could you possibly think of refusing?” asked Mr Rogers incredulously. “How shabby! But I think one must admit that it’s typical.” He turned to Anthea again. “I know it’s a poor substitute, but may I offer myself in Justin’s place?”
She looked confused for a moment.
“No need to,” put in Justin deftly. “I’ll be going, too. My sister has tickets for us all, so unfortunately she’ll require it. I was only teasing you, Anthea.”
Sir George Marton, like his grandfather and father before him, was a Justice of the Peace. He did not find the duties too onerous. Most local crime was confined to minor misdemeanours he could deal with himself, without reference to his fellow magistrates in the county. Slightly more serious offences were dealt with when the local magistrates met at Petty sessions, while felonies, the most serious of all, were referred to a high court before a jury. Occasionally preliminary investigation into cases of felony would require him to have witnesses brought before him for questioning, but such instances were rare. When they did arise, he performed his task diligently, issuing warrants for a search and for arrest as necessary. In cases of riot, he would have been in charge both of individual citizens and the officers of any troops sent to deal with the disturbance. Fortunately, nothing of that kind ever came his way. The humble residents of Firsdale and its surrounding villages were not given to riotous assembly.
This was a system which had persisted since the Middle Ages, and it was still satisfactory in rural areas. Sir George and Lady Marton were well liked and looked up to in their neighbourhood. His tenants were not afraid to bring their grievances to his land agent Hutton, knowing that most often Squire himself would deal with them. He was judged a fair man, but a shrewd one whom it was no use trying to humbug.
So it was with a feeling of outrage that he read the letter which had arrived on his desk in the library with the rest of his morning post.
It was both offensive and threatening. Moreover, with increasing disgust, he saw that it was also anonymous.
His first instinct was to tear it into shreds, but his magisterial habits restrained him. Someone was responsible for this, and, by God, he meant to know who it was. It was written in capitals, so offered no clue.
He pulled the bell rope, and his butler entered the room promptly. There had been something peremptory about the summons.
“Yes, Sir George?”
“This letter, Oldroyd,” said his master abruptly, holding out the missive cover side up. “Did someone collect it with the others from the receiving office this morning?”
Oldroyd looked from the letter to Sir George’s face. He knew that expression, and it bode ill for somebody.
“Yes, Sir George. One of the footmen went — Will, I think it was. Should I enquire, sir?”
“Do, and send Will to me, if indeed it was Will.”
“Very good, sir.”
Oldroyd withdrew, and presently a young and slightly scared footman appeared. In answer to his master’s question, he said that he had collected all the post for the Hall as usual from Ned Appleton at the village post office. He waited in some trepidation for Sir George’s reaction to this news, then sighed with relief when he was dismissed.
Sir George pondered for a moment, frowning. The letter bore no postmark, therefore could not have gone through the usual official channels. It would not do to make too much of a stir about it, villages being hotbeds of gossip; but he meant to have a quiet word with Ned Appleton to try and discover how the fellow had come by it. Meanwhile, he tossed it contemptuously into a drawer of his desk.
As things turned out, he was unable to stroll down to the village that morning to pursue his inquiries, and he very soon forgot the matter in the household bustle going on over the Lord Mayor’s masquerade to be held at the Assembly Rooms that evening. All the younger members of the family were to attend, attired in historical or fancy costumes which had just been delivered by carrier from York. As is frequent with hired costumes, none of these fitted their prospective wearers satisfactorily. There was much trying on, altering and trying on again, with demands from each to the others to say if the latest alteration seemed to be better or not. Partly exasperated, partly amused, he tried to steer clear of involvement with what he firmly announced was fema
le business, only to be thwarted by his wife and daughter Fanny, who both insisted on seeking his opinion.
Being only sixteen and therefore not yet out, Fanny could not be present at the masquerade. Instead, she was to have her friend Anne de Ryde to keep her company for the evening in the chaperonage of Anne’s governess. This did not prevent Fanny from taking the liveliest interest in the costumes to be worn by her cousins Anthea and Louisa, and in seconding her mama in offering opinions and advice to these two young ladies.
Louisa Harvey had chosen the costume of a Puritan maid — a style suited to her somewhat demure looks. This would not do for Anthea, who, after having been sternly forbidden by her aunt to wear a scanty garb intended to represent Diana the Huntress, had finally settled upon that of Cleopatra.
Justin had helpfully informed her that she could use her imagination to the full, as there was no portrait extant of Egypt’s renowned Queen, so Shakespeare’s description must be her only guide.
“And just as well if she don’t model her attire too closely on authentic sources,” he confided privately to Rogers and young Harry Harvey, “judging from the ancient Egyptian tomb paintings I’ve seen of females in transparent robes!”
Her aunt could find nothing to scandalise her in the result of Anthea’s efforts, although she cast a wary eye over them. The girl certainly looked lovely in a clinging white linen gown with broad satin sash of lapis lazuli colour fastened round her waist by a gold clasp of Egyptian design. Her dark curls were crowned by a gold band ornamented with a hooded cobra, the royal emblem of the Pharaohs.
Sidney Rogers, attired as a dashing cavalier in rich red satin with lace-edged collar and cuffs, and a hat trimmed with an enormous plume, obviously found difficulty in taking his eyes off her.
Justin had decided on a Roman costume, while his young cousin Harry was, as he laughingly said, a knight in cardboard armour.
“But dashed if I’m going to clank around in chain mail!” he declared in response to the gibes of his companions. “This fishnet stuff does the trick, don’t it? Reckon I look the dandy, and you’re all jealous!”
“I take it you’re not dressing up, George?” demanded Justin, with a grin at his brother-in-law.
“Good God, no! Leave that sort of nonsense to you younger men,” retorted Sir George. “A mask and a domino is my sole concession to the evening’s frivolity.”
It was his lady’s, too, though she had been sorely tempted, at first, to go in historic costume, and several had actually been sent for her along with the others. But after having plagued her husband for several hours on the subject, she had decided against it, especially as nothing would induce him to go in fancy dress. The others were very well aware of this, and exchanged quizzical glances at Justin’s sly remark.
CHAPTER 3
Mrs de Ryde watched critically in the mirror as the maid completed a skilful arrangement of her coiffure which hid the grey hairs. She nodded approvingly.
“Yes, well done, Healey. And now the gown.”
She rose from the dressing table and prepared to step into an elegant gown of maroon silk, ruched and padded at the hem. The fastenings finished, she inspected herself before the long pier glass.
She was satisfied by the reflected image. Truly, her maid Healey was such a comfort. Over the years, she had dressed her mistress to the best advantage, concealing the tell-tale tricks of time. And it was quite a long time, thought Mrs de Ryde vaguely, her mind preoccupied with her appearance, since her marriage twenty-five years ago, when Healey had been very little older than herself, and she had been a bride of twenty summers.
“I think I’ll wear the necklace, Healey,” she announced.
The maid gasped.
“Madam, you’ll never! After all we’ve heard lately of robberies, and — and —” her voice trailed off — “after what happened all those years agone, I think it’s bad luck, that I do!”
“Nonsense,” replied Mrs de Ryde, briskly. “We’ve been told that a Bow Street Runner will be in attendance. As for that bygone affair, why, I’ve worn the necklace several times since then, and so you know. It would be foolish if I did not. The thief was apprehended and punished, so we need think no more of that. Come, I am waiting.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Healey knew that she could presume so far and no farther. She produced a key from a tiny concealed drawer in the centre of the dressing table, and crossed to a mahogany inlaid cabinet against the window wall. She unlocked the cabinet, opened a small, velvet lined drawer, and produced a brilliant necklace of diamonds and rubies in an ugly old-fashioned setting.
She fastened this almost reverently around her mistress’s neck.
Mrs de Ryde pursed her lips.
“It is not really to my taste — too heavy and clumsy. It doesn’t show my neck to advantage.”
This was true enough, for time had deprived her of that once smooth, girlish skin, and instead provided a set of creases and wrinkles and an incipient double chin. She sighed, raising her head to minimise the effect.
“Ah, well, one cannot expect an heirloom to look as well as a modish piece of jewellery. And it is prodigiously valuable, so that every female there will be envying me for possessing it.”
She turned away from the mirror, demanding her domino mask, gloves, fan and reticule. Healey promptly supplied these, deftly adjusted the silk domino and buttoned the gloves. Then she ushered her mistress out of the room to descend the wide staircase and join her husband, Philip de Ryde, who was awaiting her with controlled impatience in the hall, a dark blue domino over his arm.
Presently they left the house to enter their carriage, on their way to the Assembly Rooms in York for the Lord Mayor’s masquerade.
When they had gone, Healey busied herself with tidying up the dressing room after her mistress. She had almost completed her task when a knock came on the door. Knowing it would be one of the other servants, she opened it without any hesitation, a pair of her mistress’s shoes still in her other hand.
One of the kitchen-maids stood outside, clutching a letter and looking sheepish.
“What are you doing here?” demanded Healey sharply, setting the shoes down behind the door.
The girl’s confusion mounted. She held out the note.
“Please, m’, t’lad who brought this to t’kitchen door said for me to give it thee mysen, not to pass it on to t’ousemaids or owt like that, please, m’. So I come upstairs knowin’ as tha’d be ’ere, m’, though to tell t’truth, I’m frit to death I’ll be in ’ot water for it.”
She looked uneasily about her.
“Well, give me the note, then clodpole!” snapped Healey. “And then you can take yourself off downstairs again. Wait — is the lad you mentioned still there? I’ve a mind to see him — I’ll come with you.”
The girl shook her head.
“Nay, m’, he scarpered once I’d sworn to tak’ t’note to thee mysen. Made me swear on me Bible oath, ’e did — but ’e gi’ed me tuppence for me trouble.”
Healey snorted, turning the piece of paper over in her fingers. It was directed to her in capital letters in a passable hand. Avid with curiosity as she was, she had no intention of opening it in front of the maid. She dismissed her sharply, then closed the door and opened the brief note.
She gasped and turned pale as she read its contents. She scanned it a second time, then a third, collapsing on to a chair as she did so.
“Oh, my Gawd!”
London born, she reverted to her Cockney accent only in times of great stress, otherwise her voice was schooled to the gentility of an upper servant.
She repeated the imprecation several times before rising unsteadily to her feet to glance at the ormolu clock on the mantelshelf.
It was close on nine o’clock. At this hour, most of the staff would be gathered in the servants’ hall, with the master and mistress out of the way. If she slipped down the back staircase and used the side door, she ought to be safe enough from meeting anyone.
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br /> Ten minutes later, she was out in the grounds and heading for the ornamental temple beside the lake. The shadows were lengthening, and the August night was chilly. She shivered, pulling her cloak around her.
She mounted the steps to the pillared entrance of the temple with halting feet. It was dark inside the small, circular room, which was surrounded by a marble seat. She stood still, peering into the gloom.
A figure moved out of the shadows. She gave a loud gasp, starting back.
“Quiet!”
The voice was strange to her, yet it had a bygone familiar ring which at first she could not place.
“No harm will come to you — yet,” the voice went on in sinister tones. “That’s if you’re sensible, and do what I ask.”
“Who are you — what d’ye want with me?” she panted. “How d’ye know about that business years agone — for Gawd’s sake, leave me be!”
The unknown moved a pace nearer and took her arm in a firm but gentle grasp.
“No need for hysterics. Keep calm and listen.”
In the gloom, she could just make out the glitter of eyes beneath a mask, and a cloaked male figure of medium height.
She gulped, trying to wrench her arm free. It was no use; his grip tightened until she winced with the pain.
“You’ll come to no harm if you’ll keep quiet and attend to me. Stand still.”
Her struggles subsided, and he released her arm.
“Answer me this question,” he ordered brusquely. “Your mistress’s brother — he still lives?”
“Sir Eustace Knowle?” Her tone was surprised. “Ay — yes, that’s to say — what of it?”
“By rights, he shouldn’t,” the man replied grimly. “No matter. Where is he? Is he staying here?”
She shook her head. “No. Hasn’t been here for more’n a twelvemonth.”
The man gave a mirthless laugh. “He must have come into a mort of blunt, then. He always came to that stupid bitch of a sister when it was low water with him, and she never failed to haul him out of the river Tick.” He stopped abruptly. “Where is he now? Tell me at once!”
Masquerade of Vengeance (The Rutherford Trilogy Book 3) Page 2
