Lady Vengeance Read online

  ‘You appear to know the house well, ma’am,’ remarked Mr Poyntz as he followed her along another corridor.

  ‘I have often stayed here with my husband.’

  ‘I trust that gentleman will not disturb us tonight.’ He gave an uneasy laugh.

  ‘He need not concern you, sir. He is dead.’

  She stopped at a door. Poyntz followed her into a large guest-bedchamber, handsomely appointed with gold hangings at the windows and around the large bed. A cheerful fire blazed merrily in the hearth and the lady stepped forward to light a taper from the flames, then she proceeded to light candles until the whole room was illuminated. Poyntz looked about him curiously.

  ‘Your room, perhaps, madam?’

  ‘I do not stay here tonight,’ she said, untying her cloak. ‘Doubtless it has been given over to some guest, but it will do for our purposes.’

  He laughed, moving towards her.

  ‘By Gad, lady, you are a cool one!’ He reached out to pull her into his arms, his lips eagerly covering her mouth with hot kisses while one hand tried to remove the concealing head dress.

  ‘Not yet, m’sieur!’ she struggled to hold him off, ‘someone may discover us. Let me lock the door.’

  She went to the door and turned the key, afterwards slipping it into her pocket. Turning back she saw that the gentleman had removed his domino and mask.

  ‘Will you now let me see your face, fair charmer?’ he asked her.

  She put up her hands to take off the head-dress, revealing her face and an abundance of thick auburn curls, gleaming in the candlelight. It was a few moments before Poyntz recognized her and his look of surprise when he did so was almost comical.

  ‘Madame de Sange! This is indeed a pleasure I did not expect. At our last meeting you gave me no reason to think-’

  ‘That night, Mr Poyntz, I was still in mourning.’

  The gentleman laughed, and began hurriedly to unbutton his coat.

  ‘Then, tonight, Madame, it is time to celebrate!’

  She stepped close to him, assisting his fumbling efforts to remove his tight-fitting coat; then, as he struggled with the buttons of his florid waistcoat, she unbuckled the ornate dress-sword with her long, steady fingers. He glanced at her, his round face glowing with eager anticipation.

  ‘In grey you were enchanting,’ he told her rapturously, ‘but now, with that glorious hair and such exquisite eyes, I vow I have never before seen such a combination!’

  ‘Oh I think you have, Mr Poyntz.’

  She stepped back and he found himself staring at the blade of his own dress sword, its point pressed lightly against the fleshy folds of skin beneath his chin. He tried to retreat, but found the way blocked by a heavy wooden writing table behind him.

  ‘I – this is dangerous funning, ma’am!’ He tried to laugh.

  ‘But I am deadly serious, Mr Poyntz. Please do not attempt to move or I shall be forced to pierce your throat. Put your hands behind you.’

  The very calmness of her speech unnerved him and he did as she ordered.

  ‘What – what is this?’

  ‘Do you not remember me?’

  He began to shake his head, then remembered the steel at his throat.

  ‘No, I cannot recall having seen you before, save at the Briàre’s soirée. Pray put down the sword and let us talk sensibly.’

  The blade pressed deeper into his flesh and he feared that at any moment the point would puncture the skin. The lady’s eyes were hard as stone as she watched him.

  ‘Think back, Mr Poyntz. Think back to a winter’s day in December, eight years ago.’

  ‘Eight years!’ he repeated in astonishment, ‘how the devil can I recall –’

  The look on the lady’s face made him break off and he said in a quieter tone, ‘Well, let me think – that would be ‘forty-five. I seem to remember I spent most of that winter chasing over England – Good God!’

  She watched as astonishment and recognition crossed the gentleman’s features and she smiled grimly.

  ‘The - the girl at the inn?’ he asked her incredulously, ‘but you cannot be – Thurleigh said you were dead! He told me that when he had recovered the ruby he dispatched you –’

  ‘I know nothing of that!’ she cut him short impatiently.

  A wary look came into Poyntz’s eyes. He tried to move, but the steel at his throat never wavered from its target and he changed his mind.

  ‘You – you appear to have done very well for yourself, Madame de Sange. What is it you want from me? Money for some by-slip of that night? Damme but I don’t see how you can tell which of us fathered your love-child –’

  A look of loathing came over her face.

  ‘How dare you talk of love!’ she cried in disgust. ‘There was nothing but hate and violence on that night and I thank God He spared me a bastard from such a time!’

  He looked perplexed.

  ‘But if it is not a child – what is it you want from me?’

  ‘Did you think, sir, that if we should meet again I would let any of you go unpunished for what you did?’

  ‘‘Twas nothing more than a little dalliance –ahh!’ He screamed and fell to his knees as the sword bit into his skin and he felt a trickle of warm blood running down his neck.

  ‘Next time it will go deeper!’ she promised, her voice low and quivering with anger. ‘You must now realize how much I should like to drive this point through your throat right now – it is only the fact that I need information from you that prevents me from killing you.’

  He did not doubt her sincerity, and beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead, the colour ebbing and flowing from his cheeks.

  ‘P-please, Madame, consider what you are about! You cannot wish to damn your soul by committing murder!’ he cried shrilly, but she regarded him with cold, contemptuous eyes.

  ‘But you could save me from sin, and save yourself, Mr Poyntz. If you will but tell me who killed my father.’

  ‘I don’t know – please!’ He screamed again as the sword once more pierced his neck, ‘I swear I know nothing of this!’

  ‘My father was an old man, a peaceful man, but he went to the inn in search of justice. They brought him back to us on a litter - one of you had killed him!’

  He read the accusation in her eyes and trembled.

  ‘Not I, believe me! Pray, Madame, consider – it was I who showed you some little mercy and gave you the ruby as some recompense for your suffering. True, I did not then realize –’ he broke off, sweat glistening upon his brow. ‘I – I remember nothing after you had gone, I swear it. Most likely I passed out. I recall nothing more of that evening,’ He held his breath as she stared down at him, then she drew back slightly and he closed his eyes in relief as the sharp point came away from his neck. His heart was still pounding heavily, making it hard for him to breathe, but he struggled back to his feet, nervously eyeing the blade that still hovered menacingly before him.

  ‘But, Madame, did not Lord Thurleigh come to you to reclaim his ruby?’

  ‘I know nothing of such a jewel,’ she told him dismissively. ‘I have not seen the marquis or any of you since that night.’

  ‘Then he did not get it back. He has no hold upon any of us.’ Poyntz muttered to himself, before the lady’s sharp voice brought him back to his present predicament.

  ‘You will find paper, pens and ink upon the table behind you.’ She told him, ‘I want you to write the names of the men who were with you that night. Move slowly, sir, for I would still very much like to kill you.’

  Poyntz sat down at the table and drew the small writing case towards him, thinking quickly. If he could only get the sword away from her, he could overpower her, but the deadly steel remained between them and he read murder in the lady’s eyes.

  ‘Write the name of the inn and the date you were there at the head of the paper,’ she commanded him.

  ‘But I cannot recall the inn –’

  ‘The Black Goose. Write it!’

&n
bsp; He gave a shrug and picked up the pen. What did it matter now, if he did give her the names? He had, after all, decided to turn king’s evidence, and bring an end to Thurleigh’s continual plotting. God knows he was tired of it. He wrote steadily, and without a break, hesitating only over the marquis’s name. Thurleigh could be a deadly enemy, as many had found to their cost, but a moment’s reflection convinced Poyntz that he was in no danger. The letter to Charles Stuart that they had all signed was burned and if the ruby was lost, then there was nothing to connect Julian Poyntz with any serious Jacobite plot. He finished the list, put down his pen and sat back, rubbing his left arm, which had begun to ache.

  ‘Sign it!’ ordered the lady.

  When he had finished she motioned him to move away, then she glanced quickly at the paper.

  ‘There are some very dangerous men on that list,’ he warned her, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. He was feeling very uncomfortable, and was beginning to wish he had not eaten quite so freely at the supper table. ‘You would be well advised to stay away from them.’

  Elinor cast him a contemptuous glance.

  ‘I do not fear them,’ she said coldly. ‘I fear nothing now, not even death.’

  A sudden, strangled cry from Poyntz made her raise the sword again, suspicious of his actions: he was leaning heavily upon the table, one hand pressed to his chest.

  ‘My heart!’ he gasped, ‘help me!’

  She frowned, suspecting a trick, but the gentleman’s pallor was real enough. He was on his knees now, gasping for breath.

  ‘Pray, Madame – quickly, summon help for me!’

  She did not move.

  ‘What help did you give me, sir, eight years ago?’ she asked slowly.

  His faded blue eyes grew wide with terror as she spoke, then all expression left them and he keeled over, hitting the floor with a dull thud.

  * * * *

  Elinor stared down at Poyntz’s lifeless body: blood from the small wounds upon his neck had made crimson stains upon the snowy white lace under his chin and his eyes stared out unseeingly from the livid face. Shuddering, she turned away and it was some moments before she could collect her scattered thoughts. Then, placing the dress-sword carefully upon the table, Elinor worked quickly, dusting the list of names before folding the paper and slipping it into her pocket. She fumbled for the key and with trembling fingers fitted it into the lock and opened the door. With a final glance back at the inert form upon the floor, she snatched up her cloak and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

  Elinor hurried along the deserted passageway, tying her cloak as she went. She reached the stairs before she remembered that her head-dress was still in the bedchamber. It was too late to go back, already a clock somewhere in the house was chiming the hour and she had given instructions for her carriage to be waiting. In any event, she told herself, the unmasking would have taken place by now and she would look conspicuous if she continued to hide her face. She drew her cloak around her, the hood pulled up over her hair and hurried down the stairs, hoping to slip out of the house unnoticed. Her heart thudded painfully as she descended and the noise from the ballroom grew steadily louder. Elinor turned a corner and gave a frightened gasp as she collided with a large figure coming up the stairs. Panic threatened to overwhelm her as the black figure seemed to tower above her, blocking her way. Without looking up she muttered an apology and hurried away, scarcely pausing until she was out of the house and being carried homeward in her carriage.

  * * * *

  Elinor did not allow herself to relax until she had reached the safety of her own bedchamber. Dismissing her maid, she drew the paper from her pocket and unfolded it with fingers that were not quite steady, then she sat at her dressing table to study the list. With the exception of Lord Thurleigh, the names meant nothing to her, but she did not doubt that she would be able to trace them and perhaps, just perhaps she could exact revenge. The following morning found her still considering her plan of action as she sipped her hot chocolate. There was a light scratching upon the door.

  ‘Miss Nell?’ Hannah entered the room, ‘Bella told me you were not quite yourself last night, and I have come to see how you go on this morning. Would you like me to summon a doctor?’

  ‘Of course not, Hannah. As you can see, I am very well.’ She put aside her cup. ‘Hannah, when my mother died, I gave you her jewel box, do you recall?’

  ‘Why yes, madam,’ replied Hannah, surprised, ‘the box and all its jewels. You would have none of them, and said I might do with them as I wished.’

  ‘Yes I know, and I meant it, Hannah, but I should like to know what became of them.’

  The older woman regarded her fondly.

  ‘Why, they are still in their box, safe and sound in my room. Bless you, Miss Nell, what would I want with fancy jewels? And since you have been kind enough to house me and to give me a pension, I want for nothing, and have had no need to sell any of the gems.’

  ‘Could I perhaps look at them, Hannah?’ asked Elinor, getting out of bed and reaching for her wrap.

  ‘But of course, Miss Nell! And you may keep them all, with my blessing. I have no need of them.’

  Hannah hurried away, returning a few minutes later carrying a small wooden box, its dark surface highly polished and inlaid with an intricate pattern of ivory. She placed it down upon the dressing table in front of Elinor, who turned the key and slowly opened the lid. Inside, her mother’s jewels lay just as she had left them, the strings of pearls and gold chains tangling together, with the occasional glint of a precious stone shining through from beneath. Elinor’s long fingers sifted through the ornaments until she found what she was looking for, buried deep at the back of the box. Her fingers closed around a large brooch and she brought it out into the light.

  ‘Do you know when Mama was given this, Hannah?’

  ‘Why no, Miss Nell. I never saw your dear Mama wearing such a thing. Indeed, I did not know of its existence until now, for I confess I have never liked to sort through the sainted lady’s things.’

  Elinor stared down at the ornament: from the centre of its ornate gold setting the large ruby glared sullenly back at her.

  ‘Will you let me keep this, Hannah?’

  ‘But of course, madam! You may keep the whole box with my goodwill.’

  ‘No, thank you, you shall have the rest. Take the box back to your room, Hannah, and you may as well begin to pack your things. We are going to England.’

  ‘England!’ Hannah gasped. ‘Dear lady! When do we depart?’

  ‘As soon as may be,’ came the brisk reply, ‘so you can give orders immediately to begin packing up.’ Elinor dismissed her companion and turned her eyes back to the jewel. ‘Lord Thurleigh’s ruby,’ she murmured. ‘With blood did we pay for this, and in blood shall I return it.’

  Chapter Six

  The viscount learns of an old mystery

  The house in St James’s did not stand out from its neighbours: there were no outward signs that it was not a private residence, and if the burly individual who opened the door to Lord Davenham was in danger of bursting the seams of his tight-fitting livery coat, the viscount showed no concern. He ran lightly up the stairs to a large, well-appointed salon on the first floor where candles burned brightly in their sconces and little groups of gentlemen were gathered around the tables, indulging in various games of chance. The viscount’s entrance caused little stir, most of the gentlemen being too concerned with their fortunes to observe his entrance, but a richly clad gentleman at one of the green-baize tables called out to him in a bluff, good-natured voice.

  ‘Davenham, my dear boy! Come and join us – I’m about rolled-up, but we can include you in the next rubber.’

  ‘Thank you, Derry, but no,’ Lord Davenham smiled faintly as he approached the table. ‘I came in search of Lord Hartworth – is he not here?’

  Lord Derry inclined his head towards a door at the far end of the room.

  ‘Your father’s been in ther
e playing euchre for the past couple of hours.’ He paused, surveying the viscount’s frock coat and riding boots with some disfavour. ‘How came Jacob to let you in, dressed like that?’ he demanded.

  ‘Jacob knows a rich patron well enough,’ laughed another gentleman at the table.

  Lord Derry shook his head sadly.

  ‘There was a time when they wouldn’t let you into this club unless you was properly dressed. No – well, look at you, lad. Never saw such a plain coat in all my life! A touch of gold lace would not go amiss.’

  ‘I’ll wager Davenham picked up these bad habits from those damned Frenchies!’ added a freckle-faced gentleman. ‘When did you get back, my friend? I did not look to see you in London again this side of Christmas.’

  ‘I am but this day arrived, Sir Robin.’

  ‘Have you come from Paris?’ asked Derry, ‘heard about poor old Poyntz, I don’t doubt.’

  ‘Yes – in fact I would have come back sooner, but I took over the poor fellow’s affairs. There was no one else to do it, so I remained in Paris to act on behalf of his family.’

  ‘Bad business,’ remarked Sir Robin, shaking his head, ‘I heard of it from George Rowsell a couple of weeks back. Poor fellow was most upset.’

  ‘They were always close friends,’ put in Lord Davenham.

  ‘Aye, but from what I hear he’s found consolation in the arms of yet another beautiful woman,’ grinned Derry. ‘Damme if I know how he does it, but Rowsell is rarely seen without some fair charmer upon his arm.’

  ‘He falls in and out of love at the drop of a hat!’ declared Sir Robin, ‘although I must say, having seen the lady I can well understand the fascination. The woman is captivating!’ His attention was caught by a movement at one end of the room and he added, ‘here’s Earl Hartworth now, Davenham. ‘Tis mighty unusual for him to leave the table so early. I pray for your sake, lad, that the luck’s not been against him.’

  Davenham pulled a wry face.