Lady Vengeance Read online

  Poyntz resolutely turned his eyes towards the almost lifeless form upon the bed.

  ‘Damn you, Boreland, you’ve no call to talk like that!’ he declared, and began to unbutton his small-clothes with grim determination.

  After Poyntz came Boreland, a big bull of a man with thick black hair that covered most of his body. Elinor had shown no emotion towards the previous two men, remaining inert and submissive beneath them, but Boreland’s huge frame rekindled her terror and she tried unavailingly to hold him off. He laughed at her feeble attempts to fight him, his massive strength easily overpowering her. Elinor thought she would be crushed by his weight upon her own small frame while the thick hair of his body and the brandy fumes from his hot breath threatened to suffocate her. She felt her strength failing and cried out at the pain as he abused her already aching body. Then, mercifully, she felt herself slipping away into blackness.

  * * * *

  How long Elinor lay in the darkness upon the bed she could not tell, although she was aware of the chinking of glasses and the murmur of conversation in the room. The big bearded man forced himself upon her once more, but her body so ached with dull pains that she was beyond caring. At last, Lord Thurleigh came over and tossed her clothes upon the bed. She stared at him blankly.

  ‘Get dressed, Mistress Burchard. We are finished with you.’

  ‘She doesn’t understand,’ mumbled Rowsell, who had come up and was now leaning heavily against the bedpost. ‘Come along, m’dear. I’ll help you to dress.’

  ‘So too will I!’ declared Poyntz, struggling out of his chair and staggering across the room.

  Amid much laughter and joking, the two men hustled the girl into her stockings and petticoats, and Poyntz claimed the privilege of tying the pair of embroidered pockets around her dainty waist. He carefully turned his head to look for them – sudden moves made him feel sick. When he observed that the pockets had slipped down from the bed and were now lying upon the floor, he did not even attempt to bend down and retrieve them, for to lower his head to such an extent would, he knew from experience, result in his making a most undignified descent to the floor and being quite incapable of standing up for a considerable period. Instead he lowered himself gently on to his knees. As he did so, his attention was caught by a dull gleam from just under the edge of the bed. Carefully turning his attention in that direction, he picked up the object and squinted at it with drink-misted eyes. It was a heavy gold brooch, intricately wrought and set with a single large ruby. In the recesses of his wine-sodden brain Poyntz remembered seeing the ornament in the lace cravat of one of the gentlemen present, although he could not recall just who was its owner. At that moment, a small sob from Elinor penetrated his thoughts and the first, faint pangs of guilt stirred within him. He picked up the pockets from the floor and into one of them he slipped the ruby brooch before rising carefully to his feet and assisting his companion to complete their task of dressing the girl. Finally, the green cloak was tied about her shoulders and Elinor was set upon her feet, her basket pressed into her hands. Blankly she looked about her. The bishop still sat nervously in his corner, never daring to speak, while the marquis dozed in his chair with his feet resting upon a stool before the fire. James Boreland stood by the door, holding up the key.

  ‘Here, chuck, open the door and you can go home.’

  Some faint look of comprehension came to her at his words and she stepped up stiffly to take the key from him. As she did so, he jerked it out of reach, and grabbing Elinor about the waist, he gave her one final kiss before letting her go and giving up his prize.

  ‘In another year or so you’ll be a fine looking woman,’ he told her. ‘Mayhap I’ll come back for you then!’

  But Elinor was too busy fumbling with the lock to pay attention to his taunts. At last she unfastened the door and staggered out into the passage. To get out of the inn she was obliged to go down the stairs and through the tap-room, which was crowded with local workmen, but she noticed neither the men nor the silence that fell as she stumbled between the chairs, stiff and bruised from her ordeal, with her hair dishevelled and her eyes red and swollen from her tears. When she reached the door she did not stop to collect her muddied pattens that she had left at the porch, but staggered out into the night, her one desire, to remove herself from the place with all speed.

  * * * *

  It was nearly an hour later that my lord Thurleigh roused himself sufficiently to take his leave. The fire had burned low, although none of them had noticed. James Boreland was stretched out upon the bed, snoring noisily, while Poyntz was slumped over the table, his head upon his arms, sleeping off the effects of a surfeit of wine. My lord rose from his chair, buttoned his waistcoat and buckled on his sword.

  ‘‘Tis is time I returned to Thurleigh. It was not my intention to remain here so long. My dear lady will be missing me.’ He ended upon a bitter note, unable to picture his wife watching and waiting anxiously for his return. His eyes came to rest upon the bishop, sitting uneasily in a corner, biting his lip. The marquis gave a contemptuous smile. ‘My dear Furminger, I wish you would look a little less anxious. I had thought your worries were at rest now that you have no need to pin a white cockade to your bishop’s mitre.’

  ‘I have no more wish than you to see the Elector upon the throne,’ returned the bishop peevishly. ‘It is to be hoped that His Highness will come off safely from this set-back.’

  ‘There is a faint possibility that he can hold Scotland, but if he is to keep his head, he would be best advised to return to France,’ drawled the marquis, easing himself into his coat.

  Furminger cast a resentful look at him.

  ‘You seem mighty indifferent to his fate, my lord!’

  ‘Do I? Then it is because I refuse to concern myself over a matter that is out of my hands. You would do well to follow my example. Go home tomorrow and forget all about Charles Stuart for the present.’ He gathered up his gloves, then paused, walked to the bed and looked around it and underneath it, frowning. ‘Now where in heaven’s name is my ruby?’

  George Rowsell, who was busy with the poker trying to coax some life into the dying fire, glanced up.

  ‘What’s that, sir? Your cravat pin? I believe Julian picked it up earlier.’

  The marquis walked back to the table and gave Poyntz a shake, but apart from a faint groan, his efforts met with no response.

  ‘He’s probably put it in his pocket. Try if you can rouse him, Rowsell, while I step below to order my carriage. There’s moon enough yet for me to travel to Thurleigh.’

  He found the landlord in the taproom, and had just ordered his carriage to be set to when Bishop Furminger came hurrying down the stairs.

  ‘My lord he does not have it!’ declared Furminger in a frightened whisper.

  When Bradgate had gone to do his bidding, the marquis turned a weary eye upon the cleric.

  ‘What are you talking about, sir?’

  ‘The ruby,’ hissed Furminger, ‘Poyntz says he does not have it. He gave it to the girl.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Oh I said it was madness to touch her,’ muttered the bishop, wringing his hands, ‘Now everything is lost!’

  ‘Quiet, you fool! What do you expect the girl to do with it? She can’t sell such a distinctive ornament, at least not before I have had a chance to recover my property.’

  The landlord appeared at the outer door.

  ‘Your carriage is waiting, my lord.’

  Before the marquis could reply, an elderly gentleman came in behind Bradgate. His head was bare save for a grey tie-wig and his open greatcoat flapped about him. Distress was writ large upon his lined countenance. At the sight of Lord Thurleigh he stopped, breathing heavily.

  ‘My lord, I must speak with you.’

  The marquis waved a languid hand.

  ‘In the morning,’ he drawled dismissively, ‘I am going home.’

  ‘No, my lord. It must be now!’ The old gentleman barred his way. ‘I have a just and
very serious grievance to take up with you.’

  A sudden hush had fallen over the room, although no man looked up from his tankard.

  ‘Mr Burchard, ‘twould be as well to wait until morning,’ muttered Bradgate.

  Lord Thurleigh’s eyes widened fractionally.

  ‘Burchard – I have heard that name somewhere before, I believe.’

  The old gentleman’s countenance displayed his anger.

  ‘Aye, sir! This very morning your carriage nearly rode down my wife, and now my child has come home to tell me she has been dishonoured!’

  Lord Thurleigh’s thin face was haughty.

  ‘Indeed, sir? And whom do you accuse of dishonouring your daughter?’

  Mr Burchard’s steady gaze never wavered.

  ‘She tells me, sir, that it was yourself and your party who forced themselves upon her.’

  In the tense silence that surrounded them, my lord laughed softly.

  ‘A fairytale, sir, dished up by the girl to save her own face. She came here, flaunting her charms, hoping to make a little money, I don’t doubt – as a matter of fact,’ he continued, watching the old man carefully, ‘she stole something of mine before she left. A ruby cravat pin. Damme, would I give such a thing to the girl? Tell her to bring it back to me, there’s a good fellow, and I will say no more about it.’

  Still the old gentleman stood his ground.

  ‘Nay, my lord. I demand justice!’

  Lord Thurleigh’s eyes darkened. He waved towards the bishop.

  ‘Do you have the audacity to imply that I, or a man of the cloth, would be party to such an outrage as you describe?’

  A pair of faded grey eyes stared accusingly at the two men.

  ‘I cannot doubt my daughter’s word, sir,’ he said deliberately.

  ‘And I say she is a liar,’ replied the marquis coldly. ‘Try, if you can, to find any here who will support her story.’

  Mr Burchard looked around the crowded taproom, but as his eyes swept over them, the men shifted uncomfortably in their seats and averted their faces.

  ‘What!’ he cried desperately, ‘will no one here speak up for my little Nell?’

  Thurleigh stood behind him, a full head taller than the old man and his fierce, hawk-like glance defied any man to speak. No one moved.

  ‘Come away sir,’ murmured Bradgate. ‘You can do yourself no good here.’

  The old man shook off his arm.

  ‘No. I will not come away until my daughter’s name has been cleared!’ His hand moved to the ancient sword strapped to his side.

  The landlord was horrified.

  ‘Sir, you will not fight his lordship,’ he muttered, but was ignored.

  The marquis was slowly drawing off his gloves.

  ‘Very well, clear a space. We will decide the matter now, and make an end to it.’

  There was much scraping of boards as tables and stools were pushed back and the candles arranged to give equal lighting to the combatants, while the two gentlemen removed their coats and rolled up their sleeves, preparing themselves for the contest.

  ‘My lord!’ Bradgate made a feeble protest, but a malevolent look from the marquis silenced him and he drew back unhappily.

  ‘This is most irregular!’ declared the bishop, unable to contain himself. ‘It will be nothing short of a brawl in a common ale-house. You need seconds, and a surgeon – arrange a proper meeting my lord, in heaven’s name!’

  He received a sneering look for his pains.

  ‘If it offends your sensibilities, Furminger then I suggest you go back upstairs with the others.’

  * * * *

  Finally, the two men were ready. The marquis, tall and lean, his agile body in stark contrast to that of his opponent, a man well past his fiftieth year and so short and slight that he looked no match for his powerful opponent. The two men drew their swords, gave the briefest of salutes and with the scrape of steel upon steel they began. It soon became apparent that the older man was no expert with a sword. He parried where he could, the blades ringing together in the hushed room, but all too soon Lord Thurleigh’s lightning blade darted inside his feeble guard and buried itself deep in his chest. Without a sound the old man crumpled on to the floor and lay there, motionless. Bradgate jumped forward and turned the body, urgently looking for a sign of life. There was none. Lord Thurleigh wiped his bloodied sword upon the dead man’s shirt before returning it to its sheath. Then he looked around him.

  ‘Let that be a lesson to you all,’ he said. ‘It is not wise to cross the marquis of Thurleigh.’

  With that, he drew on his coat, and without another word he stepped over the lifeless body of his opponent and went out to his carriage.

  ‘My lord!’ Bishop Furminger ran out after him. ‘What of the ruby?’

  The marquis curled his lip contemptuously.

  ‘Do you expect me to convey Burchard’s body to his house and demand my cravat pin tonight? Calm yourself, man. My men shall call upon the widow and her daughter first thing in the morning, never fear.’

  * * * *

  The following day Lord Thurleigh’s men arrived at Rock Cottage to find the house deserted, and their enquiries in the village were met with blank stares. The hapless widow Burchard and her daughter had vanished.

  Chapter Three

  In which one acquaintance is renewed and another begun

  September 1753

  It had been a fine, sunny day and although darkness had now closed over Paris, there was no chill in the air, for the richly carved stone buildings that had basked all day in the sun’s rays now surrendered their bounty to the night. The Duc du Bellay made his way at a leisurely pace up the steps to the ballroom of Madame Briàre’s grand town house.

  ‘You are sure Madame will have no objection?’ said his companion, a corpulent gentleman who wheezed slightly from the exertion of mounting the stairs.

  ‘My dear Julian, she will be enchanted to have you at her soirée.’

  ‘And shall we find Monsieur Briàre at home?’ asked the corpulent gentleman as they reached the top of the stairs.

  The duc chuckled and shook his head.

  ‘Our host dislikes such evenings as these and invariably absents himself. Madame has no shortage of attendants willing to take his place at table – or in bed, when necessary.’

  He bowed to a diminutive lady who now appeared through the crowd. She was dressed in cream figured silk, powdered curls piled high upon her head and at the corner of her mouth she wore a scarlet patch that gave her countenance a charmingly roguish look as she smiled her welcome.

  ‘Monsieur le Duc – why are you always so late!’ she chided him gently, as he bowed over her hands. ‘I had quite given up hope. It is too bad of you.’

  Monsieur le Duc spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

  ‘Alas, Madame, I have no defence and must crave your pardon. However, I have hopes of regaining your favour by bringing my good friend Julian Poyntz along with me: I believe you are old friends.’

  For the first time Madame’s dark eyes moved to the duc’s companion and they widened slightly as she took in the heavily laced coat of salmon pink satin over an embroidered waistcoat that was cut generously to cover the gentleman’s ample proportions. She gave a little trill of laughter.

  ‘Truly, m’sieur, I would not have known you.’ She smiled disarmingly, holding out her hands to him.

  ‘I, on the other hand, could never forget you, Madame.’ The Englishman gallantly kissed her fingers.

  The lady made no reply but allowed her eyes to dwell expressively upon the rounded form before her.

  ‘I have grown a little stouter since we last met, eh?’ chuckled Poyntz.

  Madame Briàre laughed up at him and tucked her tiny hand into his arm.

  ‘That is a certainty, m’sieur! Henri, you may go away and amuse yourself for a while,’ she commanded imperiously. ‘It should not be difficult, for you are acquainted with everyone present, I think, and I wish to have M’sieur
Poyntz to myself!’

  The duc shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘If that is your wish, Madame, of course I will go. But I am mortified that you should prefer such a stout English gentleman to myself!’

  ‘Careful, Henri, or I shall be forced to call you out!’ laughed Poyntz, wagging a fat finger at his friend.

  ‘Observe, you have terrified me, m’sieur – I go at once.’

  With another graceful bow, the Duc sauntered away, leaving Madame Briàre to lead her guest across the crowded room.

  ‘Come, Julian, we will sit and talk. There is a quiet corner where we can find a little privacy. Do you object if I call you Julian? It used to please you.’

  ‘It does that still, Madame.’

  She pouted. ‘Ah, but you do not call me Thérèse! Have you been away from Paris for so long that you have forgotten we were once lovers?’

  His faintly protuberant blue eyes grew misty.

  ‘How could I forget anything so delightful?’ he murmured. ‘But after so many years I hesitate to remind you of the fact, lest I offend.’

  They had reached a secluded alcove set between stone pillars and part-shielded from the main chamber by heavy drapes. Madame Briàre settled herself upon a sofa, carefully arranging the folds of her dress to make room for her escort. She patted the seat beside her.

  ‘And what brings you to Paris, Julian? Are you perhaps on your way to Rome to visit your Stuart king?’

  ‘I am on my way back from here,’ replied the gentleman, sitting beside her, ‘I have also been to Avignon to see the prince.’

  ‘Ah, such a charming man.’ Madame sighed. ‘But so much changed! I saw him shortly before he was obliged to leave Paris. So many years of disappointment. They are taking their toll of him. But tell me, is there another plan to restore the Stuarts to the English throne?’

  ‘There is always another plan,’ came the weary reply.

  ‘And it is still milord Thurleigh who makes these plans for you to obey?’ Her sharp eyes observed his sudden wary look and she smiled. ‘Oh Julian, you must not be alarmed, there is no-one to overhear us.’