“I don’t know — how should I —”
She broke off as he seized her, shaking her like a dog with a rat.
“None o’ that! You must know — you hear talk of him between Mr and Mrs de Ryde — he writes letters to your mistress, and I don’t doubt she ain’t the only one who reads ’em, what? Come on — out with it!”
“No, please! Honest to Gawd, I don’t know — I swear it on my Bible oath — please believe me!”
“What do you know of the Bible, I wonder?” he sneered, but he released her. “Very well, I believe you, woman. So you can find him out for me, understand? And you haven’t got long — say two, three days from now —”
“But how?” She wrung her hands, on the verge of tears.
“You’ve a tongue in your head, I don’t doubt, madam? Use it. If that don’t answer, why, pry into her writing desk — won’t be the first time. You’ll find a way. You’d better, or else —”
“Yes, yes, I’ll try, but how shall I let you know? That’s if I do manage to find out — yes, I will, I will! For Gawd’s sake, don’t split on me — though how you know about that —”
She broke off with a gasp, as the underlying familiarity of his voice broke through to her.
“Oh, dear Gawd, you’re not —!”
He nodded. She could not see his grim smile, but she sensed it.
“The same. So now you will know that I’m not to be trifled with. You’ll find out this information for me, and you’ll be useful to me in many other ways, too, I promise you. You will meet me here in three days’ time — mark that well, Healey — at this same hour. If I am not here by half after nine, you will write the man Knowle’s direction on a piece of paper, and hide it here.”
He produced a dark lantern, sliding back one shutter a fraction so that a gleam of light fell across the floor. “Over here!”
He seized her arm, thrusting her towards the marble bench which encircled the walls. Stooping, he directed the light underneath the bench to a tile in the floor. It was loose and yielded easily to the leverage of his fingers.
“Place the paper under here and press the tile well down again on top of it,” he directed. “Not that anyone’s likely to go groping about under this seat, I reckon.”
He rose, closing the shutter so that the lantern’s thin gleam was extinguished. The resultant gloom seemed deeper, more full of menace than before. Healey’s teeth were chattering.
“Understand me?”
She nodded vigorously, unable to speak. He must have seen the movement, for he appeared satisfied.
“Good. And I needn’t tell you to keep your mummer —” he relapsed into the vernacular — “shut. One word to anyone else — only a hint — and I’ll make you wish you’d cut your tongue out first! Oh, yes, I promise you it don’t pay to tip me the double, woman! Very well, begone!”
She believed him, and fled.
York’s impressive Assembly Rooms had been designed by Lord Burlington in 1730 in the style of an Egyptian hall, colonnaded by Corinthian pillars with reddish brown marbling and capitals picked out in green, purple and gold. Normally, they were a blaze of light from several magnificent crystal chandeliers; but this evening only one had been lit, so that the great hall was dim enough to sustain the atmosphere of mystery essential to a masquerade.
“Upon my word,” said Anthea, entering upon Justin’s arm, “I doubt I need have taken so much trouble with my costume, for no one will be able to see it in this poor light.”
“Sufficiently to suppose you the very reincarnation of Egypt’s beauteous Queen, Miss Anthea,” returned Rogers quickly, at her elbow. “Especially in this setting.”
She turned to dimple at him, an effect unfortunately partly concealed by her mask.
“Hm,” commented Justin cynically, “well, the lights will go up when the time comes for unmasking with the Lord Mayor’s advent, just before supper. Until then, we may perhaps amuse ourselves in trying to guess the real identities of our fellow guests — those that are in costume, that is. It may prove an unprofitable exercise,” he added, “since we’re not acquainted with many people in York.”
“No, it is not as easy as attending balls in London, where one is sure to know almost everyone,” agreed Anthea. “But Aunt Julia can help — where is Aunt Julia, Louisa?”
“Uncle George has taken her to find one of the seats around the ballroom, before they become too crowded,” replied Louisa. “She bade me tell you that we must join her presently.”
Anthea made no reply to this, as she was busy peering around her.
“That is Mr and Mrs de Ryde over there,” she declared, after a moment. “But I claim no particular quickness in identifying them, since they aren’t in costume! But the troubadour standing beside them — is he not, Louisa, that gentlemen who was paying you such particular attentions at the wedding — Mr — Mr —”
“Mr Giles Crispin,” supplied Louisa, with a blush.
Anthea gave her a teasing look. “He has evidently solved the mystery of your identity, my dear. Look, he is coming this way.”
By now it was well after the hour stated for the commencement of the ball, and the Master of Ceremonies decided that it was high time to begin the dancing. He directed his assistants to form the guests into sets for a cotillion, sweeping them on to the floor willy-nilly. As he pointed out, the true purpose of a masked ball was for all to mingle; and those who had no desire for this might sit out on the sofas and chairs provided behind the colonnade.
Those of the older guests who had not already done so availed themselves of this facility; the rest went merrily into the dance, determined to enjoy themselves.
“I do trust,” remarked his wife, as Sir George left her in a comfortable chair and prepared to take part in the revels, “that this won’t develop into that kind of unseemly romp which one often used to see at Vauxhall. To dance with people whom one does not know —”
“Pooh, my dear, they’re all here at the Lord Mayor’s invitation and therefore quite unexceptionable,” replied Sir George, as he made his way to the floor to join a set with a very attractive milkmaid as one of its members.
The cotillion concluded, another progressive country dance was begun. By now, there was a pleasant buzz of conversation and low laughter competing with the efforts of the musicians.
Suddenly, there was a faint scream from one of the ladies seated at the side of the room and signs of a disturbance in that quarter. Several couples ceased dancing to look that way; but in the dim light, only those nearest could see what was happening. Among these were Anthea and Justin, whom the movements of the dance had for the moment brought together.
“B’Gad, it’s an arrest!” exclaimed Justin, staring. “And none other than Joe Watts handing the culprit over to a constable — so he was the Bow Street Runner in attendance mentioned on our invitation card! Now, I wonder what’s toward?”
By now, everyone had stopped dancing and the Master of Ceremonies took the centre of the floor. He gave orders for the remaining chandeliers to be lit.
“No cause for alarm, ladies and gentlemen,” he soothed. “The Bow Street Runner has everything under control — an attempt was made to pick a gentleman’s pocket, but luckily Mr Watts was too sharp for the miscreant, and he’s now on his way to the gaol. Pray resume the dance, ladies and gentlemen! You may rest quite secure under the watchful eye of our man from Bow Street. It was an isolated instance which certainly will not occur again, I assure you most positively! Pray do continue!”
Most obeyed his plea, but one or two dropped out of the set. Justin was one. He made straight for Joseph Watts, who was in conversation with several of the town councillors.
Watts raised an eyebrow, but Justin signalled to him to finish his conversation, standing back a little while he did so.
“You here, guv’nor?” said Watts, when they were alone. “What brings you — some o’ those ancient ruins o’ yours?”
“This time the ancient ruin was my niece Marianne
,” grinned Justin. “But I’ll allow that I’m staying on after her wedding in order to browse among the local antiquities. And you? I collect you were sent by Bow Street to guarantee the safety of the gee-gaws worn by guests tonight, since honourable mention is made of such a precaution on our invitation cards. What happened just now?”
“A prig at his game, sir. Luckily, I chanced to be moving his way in my rounds, and spotted him. Powerful quick, they are, too, the real pros — prodigious sleight of hand! Though how he got in is another thing, seeing as there’s a pair of constables on the door who should have known his phiz, being local men. Togged out like a footman, he was, and with so many of ’em serving ’ere, who’s to notice one brushing against you? Especially in that poor light. Did me a good turn, though, sir, for the aldermen here just asked me to stay on in York a while, keep my eyes open at the Races.”
Justin nodded. “Plenty to do there, I dare say, though not much in our line, what? Still, I’m putting up at my brother-in-law’s place at Firsdale — Sir George Marton, y’know — should you wish to call on my assistance,” he added, with an ironical look.
Watts winked. “Never know, do ye, sir?”
The incident was soon forgotten and the dancing resumed. Anthea’s costume was much admired, and she found herself besieged by gentlemen eager to lead her into the set. It was almost time for the Lord Mayor’s arrival before Sidney Rogers, after several unsuccessful applications, succeeded in partnering her.
“The Queen of Egypt at last deigns to honour a humble English cavalier,” he said, as he took her hand. “I had quite abandoned hope, and was prepared to rush away and jump into the Fosse.”
“What utter nonsense you do talk, sir!” All the same, her hazel eyes twinkled at him. “Humble, indeed! You are wearing a vastly rich costume!”
“Ah, but the fellow inside it feels humble enough,” he assured her solemnly. “Indeed, my pretensions are seriously depressed — I had hoped that my long acquaintance with Justin might predispose you to grant me a dance before this. But I see that I presumed too much.” He sighed heavily.
She laughed; but as their hands touched in the movements of the dance, she felt a sudden and totally unexpected frisson of excitement. It caused her to sound severe when she answered him.
“Why do gentlemen always imagine that a girl wishes to be talked to in that extravagant style?” she scolded. “I declare, I’ve heard enough fulsome compliments for one evening. Surely you can address me in a more rational manner?”
He bowed with mock humility. “Your command is my law, ma’am. My only aim is to please you.”
“Then pray don’t flatter me,” she recommended, suddenly serious. “It pleases me better for you to be yourself.”
He grimaced. “You can have no notion how boring that would be.”
“Truly? But why not try me?”
With a provocative glance, she moved away from him into the set.
They were separated for a little while, and she found herself wondering what she really thought of him. She was used to attracting admirers wherever she went, and in general, enjoyed flirting harmlessly with them. She did not enjoy flirting nearly so much with Mr Rogers. Why? Not because she found him in any way repulsive or offensive to her sensibilities; on the contrary, she acknowledged that he was an undeniably attractive gentleman with practised address and a winning smile.
That was the trouble, she decided suddenly. Any of her other admirers could have been led on to pay serious addresses to her, had she wished this. Laughing, she held them off, and they accepted their fate resignedly, content to flirt with her until such time as she decided upon one or another.
But she was by no means certain that Mr Rogers meant anything at all by his flippant attentions.
How dare he trifle with her? It would be all the same, she thought indignantly and quite irrationally, if he had succeeded in making her fall in love with him. What a pretty pickle that would be! Fortunately, it was no such thing. She thought of what Justin had said about his friend having a mind of his own, and wondered if he, too, had noticed Aunt Julia’s efforts to throw them together, and had decided to be on his guard. It was not a flattering reflection.
But Anthea could not long be serious, so she dismissed the matter from her mind; and when they were reunited in the set, she met him with a dazzling smile and a saucy glance.
The dance over, she returned to her aunt’s side to find that lady deep in conversation with Mrs Cholmondeley, a neighbour who had been present at the wedding. Mrs Cholmondeley was complaining about her husband’s habit of filling the house with people for Races Week.
“I declare I don’t even know the half of them,” she said. “And as the majority are men, there was never anything so boring! Oh, hush, here he comes with some of them — I do trust he’ll present them to you himself, for I cannot be at all sure what their names are.”
Anthea looked hastily about her for a way of escape, but failed to find one in time. She was obliged to remain while Mr Cholmondeley, a plump gentleman with a genial countenance and manner, began to present his three companions to Aunt Julia and herself.
“But I protest, sir,” put in Anthea, “it’s not yet time for presentations! The company surely should remain anonymous until the Lord Mayor arrives and we all unmask?”
“Pooh, my dear Miss Rutherford, he’ll be here at any moment! Besides, these gentlemen have been urging me for the past hour to present them to the prettiest young lady in the room!”
“In spite of my mask?” she retorted saucily. “Thank you, gentlemen, for such a compliment!”
Sir John Fulford, Mr Fellowes and Mr Barnet were named to her and made their bows. Mr Fellowes looked ridiculous in a Tudor doublet and hose which made the worst of an ungainly paunch and bandy legs. Mr Barnet achieved a more creditable appearance in a Robin Hood costume, as he was taller, spare and had a complexion which suggested outdoor pursuits. Sir John Fulford, who was younger than his companions, was not in costume. He ogled her shamelessly; she tilted her chin.
“I owe a deal to Barnet here, ’pon my soul!” exclaimed Cholmondeley. “Only the other day, he saved me from having my pocket picked, right in the middle of Micklegate, would you credit that?”
The two elder ladies exclaimed in horror. Anthea looked curiously at Mr Barnet. He spread out his hands in a deprecating gesture.
“Happened to be passing,” he said.
“And a good thing for me that you were so quick!” continued Cholmondeley. “A great pity that the villain got away — but you were fully occupied in assisting me to my feet after I’d tripped up, and no one else was taking a confounded bit of notice! I don’t know what we’re coming to in York, ’pon my soul — even here, at the Lord Mayor’s ball, one of those light-fingered gentry gains admittance!”
Lady Marton and Mrs Cholmondeley agreed that it was monstrous. Anthea sighed, and looked across the room to where Justin was standing. Interpreting her signal of distress, he came over to the group. He was duly presented to Cholmondeley’s guests, but soon whisked her away.
“Thank goodness!” she exclaimed gratefully. “I do think the Cholmondeleys of all people manage to assemble the most boring visitors, don’t you? But tell me, Justin, how did you get on with Runner Watts? Did you hear anything of interest from him?”
He shook his head. “No, a simple matter of a pickpocket loose in the Rooms, now on his way to the gaol.”
She looked disappointed.
“Oh, well, I can quite see that won’t be the start of one of our famous adventures!”
He laughed. “Just as well, madam. There were times during the last affair … however, no more of that! This is just a commonplace felony.”
In the event, matters turned out to be far from commonplace.
CHAPTER 4
The gaming house in King Street, Covent Garden, was far from being one of London’s most exclusive clubs, but it had resolutely closed its doors upon Sir Eustace Knowle. That gentleman was known to them of o
ld as being not only a bit of a sharpster — which might be tolerated provided no one set up a squawk — but also as never having a feather to fly with, which was more serious from the management’s point of view.
Eustace Knowle swore volubly, but there seemed nothing for it but to return to the sleazy lodging in Endell Street, which he had been obliged to make his quarters since returning from the Continent.
It had seemed such a good notion to visit Paris after the peace following Waterloo. At a time when there was bound to be confusion and disarray until everything settled down, surely an enterprising man could find pickings? It had proved to be just as difficult over there as here. The trouble was, he reflected ruefully, his tastes were damned expensive, and had always outrun his means, even when the old man had been alive and making him a reasonable allowance. But on the death of his father, Sir Ralph Knowle, there had been an abrupt end to this; thanks to his only son’s extravagance, nothing had been left but debts and a heavily mortgaged, neglected property. Eustace Knowle had promptly disposed of this, and had been unsuccessfully attempting to live on the proceeds ever since.
He let himself into the dim hallway, almost falling over the cat as he entered. The animal gave a dismal mew and shot out into the night. At the same moment, a sharp-faced individual in shirt sleeves emerged from the rear premises.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, with a marked lack of enthusiasm.
“Bring in a bottle,” commanded Knowle in slightly slurred accents, not deigning to respond to this greeting.
“Bottle, is it?” snorted the other. “Not without I sees yer blunt, guv’nor.”
“Here, damn you!” Knowle tossed a coin on the floor with a fine air of abandon. “That’s more than it’s worth, too — hogwash!”
The man picked up the coin, bit it ostentatiously, then put it into his pocket.
He shuffled off, and Knowle flung open the door of his sanctum, and lit the candle.
A dreary room was revealed, with very little furniture, and that of poor quality. A bed huddled in one corner; near a small, grimy window stood a table and chairs, and against one wall a hanging cupboard with drawers beneath.
Masquerade of Vengeance (The Rutherford Trilogy Book 3) Page 3
