Masquerade of Vengeance (The Rutherford Trilogy Book 3)

by Alice Chetwynd Ley

  The girls thanked him in unison, then decided to continue with their walk, although at first Fanny was reluctant to leave her father.

  “If you have any thoughts of mopping his fevered brow and administering sal volatile,” said Anthea, in a rallying but not unkind tone, “then I advise you to dismiss them, Fanny! Gentlemen dislike fuss in such cases — moreover, in general it makes them feel worse. Oldroyd will supply his needs adequately, I feel confident. And it wouldn’t surprise me if my aunt, when she hears of it, as she’s bound to do, sends for the doctor.”

  This prediction turned out to be accurate. When the girls returned to Firsdale Hall a few hours later, the Martons’ medical man had been to visit Sir George. He confirmed that the bullet wound was merely a graze which would soon heal, but professed himself puzzled as to how the marksman came to inflict it.

  “He must have seen you,” he objected, “unless he loosed off a pot shot impulsively at a bird flying over your head.”

  “There were no birds flying anywhere near me,” asserted Sir George firmly.

  “Then you must have an enemy, Sir George,” returned the doctor jocularly.

  His patient gave an involuntary start. Quickly controlled though it was, the trained medical eye did not miss it. Dr Clent raised his brows.

  “Do you?” he asked bluntly.

  “No such thing! Just some trigger-happy fool, and I chanced to be in his line of fire.”

  “Hm,” said the doctor non-committally. “Well, that ankle will need resting for a few weeks. It’s not a bad sprain, as sprains go, but it will keep you off your feet for a while. Good day to you.”

  Sir George nodded absently. His thoughts were elsewhere.

  CHAPTER 5

  It was close on dinner time when Justin and Rogers returned to Firsdale Hall, well satisfied with their day’s outing. Anthea, on her way upstairs, informed them briefly of the accident.

  “Good God!” exclaimed Justin. “I take it the chap with the gun explained himself and apologised? Who was he — anyone old George knows?”

  “No such thing,” replied Anthea. “Uncle George never so much as set eyes on whoever did it. He says he heard a horse moving off in the distance, though. He couldn’t go in pursuit, because of his sprained ankle.”

  “Well, I’m damned!”

  Both men looked at each other in disgust.

  “Fired in error, and then too chicken-hearted to own up?” suggested Rogers. “Slung his hook on the spur of the moment? Might be regretting it now, ready to come forward and apologise. Devilish shabby, even so.”

  “It could be like that, of course,” said Anthea slowly.

  “Now, don’t you go refining too much upon what is most likely an unfortunate mistake,” Justin chided her. “If you’re getting maggots in your head about an assassin wanting to kill George, forget it. Anyone intending murder wouldn’t have been satisfied with a mere graze on the cheek, which is what you say it is.”

  “He might have missed,” protested his niece.

  “Reluctant to lose your drama?” scoffed Justin. “Nothing to stop him from taking a second shot, was there? Especially as poor old George was a sitting duck at that time.”

  “No, I suppose not,” said Anthea reluctantly. “Well, I must go upstairs to change for dinner.”

  Later, when the whole party was assembled round the table, talk of his accident was quickly squashed by Sir George. Instead, he steered the conversation into general topics. Once the ladies had left the dining room, it was a simple matter to avoid any mention of the incident in the very natural interest aroused by the forthcoming race meetings. The points of the various runners were animatedly debated, and his mishap forgotten, which was precisely as he wished.

  The wedding of Sir George and Lady Marton’s eldest daughter had taken place in York’s beautiful Minster, but in general the family attended the local church of St Peter. It was an ancient building with a Norman arch over the west door and traces of mediaeval paintings remaining on the walls of the nave.

  Fanny Marton and Anne de Ryde had been especially ready to attend service this morning, for they both wished to see the new curate. It was not that they were really interested in the clergy in general, but rumour — in the person of one of their other neighbours’ young daughters — had it that the Reverend Bernard Kent was not only a bachelor in his mid-twenties, but a personable gentleman into the bargain. This turned out to be true, and they had the felicity of being presented to him by the vicar after the services. They discussed his merits in confidential tones while their elders were chatting together in the churchyard, and agreed that his coming would lend a spice of interest to local life.

  Lady Marton had already told her neighbours briefly about the unfortunate accident which had prevented her husband from attending the service that morning, but Anne’s curiosity had not been so easily satisfied. She now insisted on hearing every particular from Fanny, on exclaiming over it and examining it as best she could for an explanation which satisfied her.

  “Depend upon it, someone will present himself at the house in a day or so to apologise,” she said, having exhausted the topic. “And that reminds me, Fanny, I have something very odd to tell you! When I reached home yesterday, I caught my mother’s maid, Healey, prying into mama’s bureau! Of course, she said she was looking for some bill or other on Mama’s instructions, but I believe it was no such thing, for when I asked Mama later, she seemed not to recollect it. But then, Mama was not in a humour to attend much to what I said. She was fatigued after the ball, you know — after all, ladies of her age —” They both nodded sagely, from the security of their sixteen years — “and then Papa had just received a disturbing letter, and would not tell her what was in it.”

  “But Healey has been with your mother all of her married life, has she not?” asked Fanny, ready to enter into anything which intrigued her friend. “She wouldn’t have any reason to pry — she must be familiar with all the details of Mrs de Ryde’s concerns, as every old and trusted servant is. I am sure our butler, Oldroyd, knows things about us that we ourselves have forgotten, for he’s been in Papa’s service forever!”

  “True,” replied Anne consideringly. “And that’s what made me wonder… She looked so guilty when I surprised her. Now, what can she have been after?”

  Speculation on this point was cut short, as the groups broke up and parents reclaimed their offspring to transport them home.

  In the afternoon, however, Fanny persuaded Anthea to walk the short distance with her to her friend’s home, Denby House, the adjoining property to Firsdale Hall. The walk occupied only a leisurely twenty minutes, but during this time Fanny insisted on acquainting her cousin with everything that had passed between Anne de Ryde and herself that morning. Anthea was very much amused by the artless chatter about the new curate. It reminded her of her own schooldays, which already, at only nineteen, seemed far in the past. Her easily aroused curiosity flickered for a moment over the story of Mrs de Ryde’s maid, but soon died away for lack of any supporting information. After all, she thought with a shrug, old servants did take a few liberties now and then, but obviously were to be trusted in the main or they would never survive to become old servants.

  Arriving at Denby House, they were shown into the drawing room where the family were sitting. There was a gentleman with them whom Anthea had not previously met. He came at once to his feet, and Anthea inspected him critically as Mr de Ryde presented him, somewhat austerely, as Anthea thought.

  “Miss Rutherford, pray allow me to present Sir Eustace Knowle, my wife’s brother. Eustace, Miss Rutherford is niece to Lady Marton. And you’ll no doubt recall Miss Fanny Marton from your previous visits.”

  Hm, thought Anthea, as they shook hands and exchanged bows. Not bad looking for a man of about forty, though perhaps a trifle raddled; a vast deal of charm in that smile and, yes, undoubtedly he was eyeing her with full appreciation. She flashed one of her provocative smiles at him, always ready to offer harmless encou
ragement.

  “And little Miss Fanny, of course,” said Sir Eustace in genial tones, turning to the younger girl. “But Jove, how you’ve grown! No longer little — quite the young lady, I see.”

  Fanny blushed as she stammered a greeting.

  “Uncle Eustace said just the same thing to me,” put in Anne, jumping up to make room for Anthea on the sofa next to Mrs de Ryde. “As though one didn’t change in more than a twelvemonth, which is the period since he last visited us! But I think he means it kindly, all the same.”

  “Can there be any doubt?” asked Sir Eustace, in tones of deep admiration. “Two such lovely young creatures —”

  “Come, come, Eustace, that’s doing it too brown,” said de Ryde testily.

  “Yes, you’ll be making them vain,” agreed his wife, “and that will never do. Miss Fawcett is at vast pains to instil the principles of modesty into Anne, but I fear I cannot rate her success too highly.”

  Anthea said lightly that her governess, too, had found this uphill work, a remark which earned her a look of gratitude from the two girls, an amused grin from both the gentlemen, and a glance of cold disapproval from Mrs de Ryde.

  Anthea knew very little of the lady, but Mrs de Ryde was not a female to inspire instant liking in the bosoms of her own sex. Indeed, Anthea wondered how it was that such a mother came to have an open, friendly daughter like Anne, and she credited it to Philip de Ryde’s account. During the conversation that ensued, inevitably she and Mrs de Ryde talked together for the most part, as they were seated side by side. They chatted of the masquerade, of that morning’s sermon, and finally of the latest fashions, Mrs de Ryde wishing Anthea to know that York was in no way inferior to London in the matter of modish dress. Anthea very soon became bored, and after the ritual tea drinking, signified to Fanny that it was time to depart.

  Sir Eustace promptly offered to escort them home, and Anne seized upon this chance of prolonging her chat to Fanny by begging for permission to go with them, since Uncle Eustace would be there to accompany her back.

  The four set out together. Soon the two girls were walking ahead of their elders, deep in conversation, leaving Sir Eustace and Anthea in peace to conduct what looked like being a very promising flirtation.

  “I collect you live in London, Miss Rutherford? I’m frequently there myself — have a set of rooms, y’know. It’s a thousand pities that we’ve never chanced to meet, but all the fashionable social gatherings are such frightful crushes, what?”

  Anthea, who was nobody’s fool, reflected that had this gentleman moved in her own social circle, they would have been bound to meet at some time or other. Still, he was a gentleman, charming, entertaining, and obviously prepared to admire her. What more could a girl ask on a dull Sunday afternoon in the country?

  “Oh, well, as to that,” she answered, with a shrug. “And I dare say you avoid Almack’s like the plague — indeed, I don’t go there very often myself; it is too odiously prosy.”

  He smiled admiringly down at her.

  “Prosy, indeed. And yet I feel that wherever you go, ma’am, any man lucky enough to be in your vicinity must find the prosiest place transformed.”

  “Oh, sir!” she exclaimed, in simple milkmaid style. “You must recollect Mrs de Ryde’s strictures on making females vain. Such flattery will surely go to my head!”

  He laughed. “I doubt it, consummate actress that you evidently are. But —” in a more serious tone — “you must permit me to tell you that you are a remarkably attractive young lady, Miss Rutherford, and that I hope to be allowed to pursue our acquaintance further.”

  She pretended to consider this, head on one side, looking up at him archly from beneath the brim of a delectable straw bonnet trimmed with pink ruched satin.

  “Well, I don’t see why not,” she said, in her open, candid way. “I shall be staying with my aunt for the next few weeks, until my parents return from a visit to the Lakes, and I am quite sure she will be delighted to have you call on her.”

  “But it is not your aunt whom I wish to see, ma’am, as you must surely understand. Doubtless my sister will bring me to do the polite thing at Firsdale Hall —” he grimaced slightly, and she gave an understanding smile — “but can we not, say, go riding or driving together, you and I? Soon — tomorrow, perhaps?”

  He halted momentarily, turning towards her with an appealing outflung hand and a pleading expression on his face.

  She laughed softly. “Indeed, sir, you go to work with prodigious speed! You quite outpace me, I do declare! We have but just met, recollect — how long since? All of sixty minutes!”

  “Sixty minutes or sixty weeks — what can it signify, ma’am? What matters time in affairs of the heart?”

  He will be quoting the poets next, thought Anthea, amused; but no, I cannot quite believe that he is a literary kind of man. She looked severe, and said aloud, “Pooh, Sir Eustace, you mustn’t talk so! As for driving out with you tomorrow, I regret that I have a previous engagement. But the Races will be on for the remainder of the week, and I dare say I shall be at the Knavesmire some of the time with the rest of my family. Doubtless we shall see you there.”

  He said she was cruel and bemoaned his fate. For the rest of the way, the flirtation was conducted on classic lines, he flattering her and she playfully chiding. They were both expert, so did it well, enjoying themselves tolerably in the process.

  This was evident to Justin and Rogers, who met the party on their way up the drive to the house.

  “Who is that damned fellow with Miss Anthea?” demanded Rogers, sotto voce, as they approached.

  Justin shook his head. “No notion, Sprog. Must be some relative of young Anne de Ryde’s, I’d say. Getting on famously with Anthea, ain’t he? Not a bad looking chap, either.”

  Rogers grunted an imprecation, and Justin looked amused.

  When Sir Eustace Knowle had arrived at Denby House earlier that afternoon, only his sister Mary had been genuinely pleased to see him. Philip de Ryde knew from past experience that the fellow never turned up unless he was deep in the River Tick, and that Mary would be fool enough to tow him out, as usual. His appearance in their midst always led to quarrels between husband and wife.

  As for Anne, a visit from her uncle was a matter of indifference. She cared no more for him than he did for her.

  But to one person, his appearance came as a dispensation of providence. Healey had been in a state of terror ever since her meeting two days since with the threatening figure in the temple by the lake. She had searched frantically through her mistress’ correspondence in the desperate hope of finding some clue to Sir Eustace’s whereabouts. She had found nothing; and now only one day remained before she must present herself at the rendezvous and admit failure. What the retribution would be was a living nightmare to the wretched woman. Her state had not gone unnoticed by her mistress, little though Mrs de Ryde was in the habit of observing such things among the servants. She had mentioned to her husband that perhaps it was time for her to part company with Healey.

  “Though how I shall contrive to go on with a new abigail is more than I can conceive,” she complained bitterly. “Healey knows just how to dress me to advantage, and how long will it take another to learn her skills? Besides, we are used to each other, she and I. But I tell you, Philip, there’s no bearing with her nerviness and absence of mind lately! And what right, I ask you, has a servant to suffer from nervous spasms — for that is what one would call it in a lady!”

  Over the past few days, Healey had used her best endeavours to overhear every conversation between her employers; listening in successfully to this one did nothing to calm her state of panic.

  When, therefore, Sir Eustace Knowle arrived unexpectedly at Denby House early on Sunday afternoon, she was hard put to it not to swoon outright on hearing the news from Oldroyd in the servants’ hall. Cook looked appraisingly at her, then pushed her gently into a chair, recommending a good strong cup of tea. Healey accepted this panacea, afterwards
retiring to her bedchamber to recover.

  “Poor crittur,” said Cook compassionately, as the sufferer left the room. “But it’s not to be wondered at —” lowering her voice to exclude the male section of the household staff — “when a female gets to be ’er age, there’s queer starts, think on. I knows mysen, none better.”

  Which dark remark impressed every female present except the tweeny maid, who so far forgot herself as to giggle, thus earning a sharp reprimand.

  By the time Healey came down again, she was in command of herself and knew just what she meant to do.

  She was certainly not going to present herself at the temple in the grounds tomorrow evening, as her tormentor had commanded. No, she could not bear to face him again; moreover, there was now no need. She had only to write a note and leave it in the spot which he had indicated. She could easily find an opportunity later this evening to slip outdoors unnoticed.

  She had a moment’s misgiving when she recalled that he had spoken of employing her for other purposes, but she pushed the thought away. If he wanted to seek her out, he would find his own means of access, no doubt; but she very much hoped that he would be satisfied with the information that Sir Eustace was here in Denby House. She wondered uneasily where he was concealing himself, and shivered to think that he might be uncomfortably close at hand. What use he might make of Sir Eustace’s presence here was another disturbing reflection. She shivered, doing her utmost to dismiss the terror that had possessed her for the past few days. She told herself that she no longer had anything to fear, for she was about to obey his instructions.