Lady Vengeance Read online

  ‘Mr Rowsell!’ she smiled at him, ‘do you like roses, sir? There are some particularly fine specimens in this garden, although it has been allowed to run wild for some time, I believe. I have set the gardener to work clearing the weeds but perhaps I should take on another man, the grounds are far too much work for one. In any event, I fear we shall not see this garden at its best until next summer.’

  ‘It can only be at its best when you are in it, Madame.’

  ‘How gallant of you to say so. Who knows where I shall be this time next year? Shall I pick a rose for your coat?’ She snipped off a beautiful yellow bloom, but after a glance at the gentleman’s face she placed it gently in her basket with the others, saying. ‘No, that will not do. I suspect from those sandy brows of yours that your hair is a very fiery colour. Do you always powder it so white, sir?’

  ‘Aye. ‘Tis the fashion. But you are right about its true colour, it accounts for much of my hot temper.’

  She moved to the next bush and snipped another rose, then she put down her basket and scissors while she placed the flower carefully in his buttonhole.

  ‘Then a white rose might cool you, Mr Rowsell.’

  ‘Not when you stand before me, my dear,’ he murmured huskily, ‘for you rekindle the flame!’

  Leaning forward, he planted a gentle kiss upon the lady’s lips. Elinor froze, and taking her inactivity for compliance, Rowsell folded her in his arms, covering her face and neck with kisses. At last she came to life, fighting to hold him off.

  ‘No, sir, I beg of you. You go too fast for me!’

  ‘How can you say that, when you know you do not want me to stop?’ He tried once again to take her in his arms, but she broke away.

  ‘No, Mr Rowsell, this will not do! Besides, you will crush your poor rose – does it mean so little to you?’

  ‘Of course not, ma’am, it means the earth to me!’ He fell to his knees before her, his arms imprisoning her as he buried his face in the folds of her yellow skirts. ‘Only tell me when I may claim the greatest gift from you, dear lady – when will you give yourself to me?’

  A look of revulsion crossed Elinor’s face as she looked down upon the powdered head that pressed against her, but she forced herself to keep still.

  ‘Soon sir, soon, I promise you,’ she murmured, schooling her voice into gentle tones. Her eyes strayed to a straggling pink rose that she had so far overlooked: growing up amongst its glossy foliage was a dark-leaved intruder, whose purple bell-shaped flowers had mostly disappeared, giving way to plump, shiny black berries. An arrested look came into her eyes and she scarcely heard Rowsell’s words as he rose to his feet.

  ‘I shall hold you to your promise, ma’am, for I fear I cannot survive many more days without you.’

  The lady gave him a faint smile.

  ‘You may be assured sir,’ she told him as she stooped to pick up her basket, ‘that I shall soon release you from your misery.’

  * * * *

  Templesham House was overflowing with guests when Lord Davenham arrived. He knew then that he would not enjoy the evening, but he had not come for pleasure. Having decided that George Rowsell could be of use to him, the viscount was seeking out the gentleman. Rowsell was known to be a man of fashionable habits: he loved women, gambling and fighting. At Lady Templesham’s rout, a gentleman could almost certainly indulge in at least two of these passions. The viscount greeted his hostess, who was more than a little surprised to find the notoriously unsociable Lord Davenham at her party. He then moved on, avoiding the main salon and making a leisurely tour of the smaller rooms where Lady Templesham had ordered card-tables to be set up. He was disappointed and a little surprised to find Rowsell in none of these salons and he returned to one which held a number of gentlemen whom he knew to be friends of his quarry. A noisy game of silver loo was in progress, with both the gentlemen and ladies in high spirits. Davenham did not enquire after Rowsell, but entered into conversation with one of his acquaintance, hoping that one of the crowd would mention the gentleman. His patience was soon rewarded when a chance remark from one of the ladies brought a raucous laugh from her escort.

  ‘You may wave goodbye to your hopes in that direction, my dear, for Rowsell is almost a married man now.’

  ‘What’s this, Blythe?’ cried another gentleman, ‘Rowsell about to tie the knot? I cannot credit it! I know he’s constantly hankering for a wife, but until now she’s always been someone else’s!’

  ‘Aye, well, he’s serious this time,’ laughed Mr Blythe. ‘The fellow’s infatuated. He can scarce think of anything but his lady. I tell you he will wed her ere the year is out. Never seen such a change in a fellow.’

  ‘And shall we see the happy couple here tonight?’ drawled a large, bearded gentleman seated at one end of the table.

  ‘He’s dancing with her now, I believe,’ remarked another player, ‘and if George Rowsell forsakes the table for the dance-floor, it must be serious!’

  ‘Then fetch them in at the end of the dance. I have a fancy to see Rowsell’s little love-bird.’

  ‘Oh she’s a diamond of the first water, Boreland, I assure you!’ cried Blythe, ‘French, I think. The only wonder is that she sees anything at all in George Rowsell!’

  There was general laughter around the table, and an air of excitement as a lady standing by the door announced that Mr Rowsell and his partner were approaching. The couple entered the room to a confusing medley of greetings. The lady appeared a little shy in the face of such blatant curiosity, and she hung back slightly behind her escort, but with a smile of encouragement Rowsell led her forward into the room, where the candlelight gleamed upon the green and gold of her robe a la française. There was a murmur of appreciation from the gentlemen present as they gazed upon the lady. She was as tall as her escort, her glowing chestnut hair unpowdered and arranged in thick curls about her head, with one glossy ringlet falling across a white shoulder. Emeralds gleamed at her throat and wrist, matching the green sparkle of her eyes. Rowsell laughed in delight at their admiration.

  ‘No, no gentlemen! Carry on with your game. This is not the time for formal introductions, Madame would never remember you all, would you, my dear?’

  Elinor lowered her eyes and murmured a reply: she had recognized James Boreland at the table and was only too pleased to avoid closer acquaintance, at least for the moment.

  Lord Davenham stepped forward with the smallest of bows. ‘Madame de Sange and I have met before, in Paris.’

  ‘Paris?’ remarked Mr Rowsell, helping himself to a glass of wine from a convenient tray. ‘You’ve been there recently, Davenham?’

  The viscount inclined his head. ‘I have not been back in London above a sennight.’

  ‘Then ‘tis most likely you saw poor Julian there.’

  ‘Yes I did. I talked to him shortly before his death.’ Lord Davenham turned to Elinor. ‘I believe you were acquainted with Julian Poyntz, Madame de Sange?’

  ‘I? No – that is – I believe we were introduced at some time…’

  ‘Did I not hear you were there when he died, Davenham?’ enquired Boreland, overhearing their conversation.

  ‘I was one of the first upon the scene, yes.’

  ‘There was a woman involved, was there not?’

  ‘I believe there was,’ said Davenham, ‘but I cannot applaud the lady’s choice.’

  For a brief moment Elinor thought she might faint. The viscount’s eyes seemed to accuse her, although common sense told her he could not possibly know of her involvement with Poyntz. She steadied her nerves and forced herself to parry his uncomfortable gaze with a haughty stare. The conversation continued to flow around them, but she heard none of it until Mr Rowsell asked her if she would care to join in the next game of loo. Elinor shook her head.

  ‘I have little sense for card games,’ she smiled. ‘I am afraid I should disappoint you. However, I have no objection to watching, sir, while you are at play.’

  Lord Davenham stepped forward. ‘Perha
ps, Madame, you would permit me to lead you back to the ballroom.’ He observed Rowsell’s sudden frown and added smoothly, ‘There is little likelihood that Rowsell will be finished here for a least an hour. It would be very dull work for you to stay and watch for such a time.’

  Rowsell nodded. ‘It’s a good notion, Davenham. Yes, you go on and enjoy yourself, my dear. I know how you love to dance.’

  ‘Really, I would as lief stay and watch you –’ put in Elinor, but Rowsell grasped her fingers and held them to his lips.

  ‘Bless you, you are an angel. But Davenham is right, you will find me tedious company when I am at play. Off you go now, but one dance and no more – I shall expect you at my side after that!’

  The viscount offered his arm, and realizing that argument would only draw unwanted attention, Elinor placed her fingers upon the velvet sleeve and walked with him out of the small salon.

  ‘I seem to recall, ma’am, that when we last spoke you told me you never came to London.’

  ‘At that time, my lord, I had no desire to do so.’

  ‘May I enquire what has changed your mind?’

  The blunt question caught Elinor off her guard.

  ‘I cannot think that my motives concern you, sir,’ she retorted at last, and was surprised to observe the tightening of his jaw, as if he was curbing his temper.

  ‘No, thank God, they do not!’ he replied harshly. He led her into the ballroom where they took their places in the set and executed the steps of the minuet without a word. If the viscount derived any pleasure from the dance, Elinor saw no sign of it, for his face remained stern and forbidding throughout. She was at first puzzled by his behaviour, but by the time the dance had ended her perplexity had turned to anger and she felt herself compelled to speak as he led her off the floor.

  ‘I wish you will tell me, sir, why you asked me to dance, when it is very clear to me that you did not enjoy one moment of it.’

  ‘Alas, Madame, I scarcely know that myself.’

  She gave a scornful laugh. ‘Pray, sir, do not be afraid of wounding my sensibilities. After a half-hour spent dancing in silence I feel sufficiently insulted that I daresay I shall scarce notice any further abuse you may care to level at me!’

  The viscount’s countenance grew darker still and his mouth tightened to a thin line.

  ‘Very well, Madame!’

  He took her elbow in a vice-like grip and guided her out of the ballroom to one of the smaller empty salons. He almost thrust her inside, closing the door after them with a snap. Elinor turned to face him: she was considered a tall woman, but even with the added height of the Pompadour heels on her green silk shoes she was forced to look up at his face, and she was aware of a tiny tremor of unease as she regarded his thunderous countenance. He turned away from her, and when at last he spoke his tone was harsh.

  ‘You accuse me of insulting you, Madame de Sange – if you want to know the truth, I am disappointed. It is perhaps my own fault. In Paris you were pointed out to me as the saintly Lady of Stone. I was intrigued, I admit it, and when we talked –’ He threw out his hands in a hopeless gesture. ‘I was attracted to you, by your manner and your readiness to laugh at the ridiculous.’ He turned to face her, and Elinor saw that the anger had died from his face. ‘Doubtless you will laugh at me, Madame, when I tell you that even after that one brief meeting I felt that in you I had met a friend, that I had found a kindred spirit. Hah! Is that not absurd?’ Elinor felt not the smallest desire to laugh, but neither could she trust herself to answer him steadily and he continued bitterly, ‘I know now that my impression upon such a short acquaintance was totally misguided. How Paris was fooled into believing you to be virtuous beyond reproach is a mystery to me, Madame, for I am forced to the conclusion that you have less honesty than a common harlot!’

  She stared at him.

  ‘How dare you say that!’ she whispered, pale and trembling with rage. She raised her hand to hit him, but immediately she found her wrist caught in a grip of steel.

  ‘I shall not give you that satisfaction, Madame de Sange.’

  His sneering tone brought the colour flooding back to her cheeks. Her eyes blazed, but she fought to control her anger.

  ‘You can have nothing more to say to me,’ she told him in an icy tone. ‘I would thank you now to let me go.’

  He released her and Elinor turned towards the door, but as she placed her fingers on the handle he stopped her with another question.

  ‘Does Rowsell know that you and Poyntz were lovers?’

  She threw him a contemptuous glance. ‘Why don’t you ask him? Knowing his quick temper, I should think he is likely to kill you for your impudence – in fact I very much hope he does!’

  She swept out of the salon and on to the card-room where she found Rowsell counting up his winnings during a break in the play.

  ‘My dear, did you enjoy your dance –’ He broke off as he caught sight of her stormy countenance. ‘What is it, Elinor, What has occurred to upset you?’

  ‘It is nothing sir, I assure you. Pray continue with your game.’ She did her best to sound calm, but even to her own ears her voice was strained. Rowsell pushed back his chair and stood up.

  ‘You are distressed!’ he challenged her, concern writ large upon his face. ‘Where is Davenham? If he has done aught to –’

  ‘No, no, ‘tis nothing serious, I promise you.’ She hastened to reassure him, ‘It –it has nothing to do with Lord Davenham. I have a slight headache this evening, and it has spoiled my enjoyment. This thundery weather, I fear,’ she ended lamely.

  ‘Then let me call your carriage – I will escort you home at once.’ He scooped up his guineas from the table and guided Elinor downstairs. As they waited in the grand hall for her carriage, a flurry of activity announced a late arrival. A young gentleman entered with a lady whom Elinor guessed to be at least twice his age. His lover-like demeanour dispelled any thoughts that he might be escorting his parent to the Templeshams’ rout, and Elinor turned her attention back to the lady. She had an uneasy feeling that she had seen her before, and her suspicion was strengthened when the woman glanced across, hesitated, then turned from the stairs to approach Elinor. Despite the powdered hair and rouged cheeks, the woman still held some remnants of beauty, with her finely-boned features and sea-green eyes that sparkled beneath heavily darkened brows. A sumptuous silk gown in the latest fashion and a jewel-encrusted aigrette set amongst the powdered curls suggested a woman of some consequence. Elinor looked a question at Rowsell, who muttered an oath under his breath before bowing to the lady as she came up to them.

  ‘Lady Thurleigh, your servant, ma’am. May I present to you Madame de Sange?’

  Elinor felt a shock of surprise, but she concealed this behind a smile and gave a small curtsy. The marchioness acknowledged Rowsell with a slight nod, but her green eyes remained fixed upon Elinor’s face.

  ‘Madame de Sange… you are a Frenchwoman, perhaps?’

  ‘My husband was French, Lady Thurleigh.’

  ‘I do not think I have seen you in London before.’

  ‘This is my first visit, ma’am.’

  Lady Thurleigh stared at her. ‘But you are English?’

  ‘My family moved to France when I was but a child.’

  Lady Thurleigh looked as if she would say more, but at that moment a servant announced that Madame de Sange’s carriage was at the door and the marchioness turned away and carried on up the stairs with her escort.

  ‘Pray, Madame, do not concern yourself over Lady Thurleigh,’ remarked Rowsell, leading her out to the carriage. ‘Her manners are a little odd, to be sure, but in the wife of so powerful a man as the marquis such things are overlooked.’

  ‘Oh. And – and is Lord Thurleigh in Town?’

  ‘I don’t think he can be, or his wife wouldn’t have that young pup as her escort. It’s common knowledge that my lady is very free with her favours, but she don’t usually flaunt her paramours under her husband’s nose.’ He handed
Elinor into the coach. ‘Will you not let me come with you, Elinor? I do not like you to be alone.’

  ‘I have Hannah – Mrs Grisson. She will attend to my needs.’

  The door closed upon her but she leaned out of the window, holding out her hand for him to kiss.

  ‘But ‘tis a man’s attentions you need, Madame,’ he told her, retaining her fingers. ‘You are no innocent young maiden, who has never known a man’s caresses – your eyes tell me you want me – how much longer will you make me wait for you?’

  She shook her head at him, casting a warning glance towards the coachman.

  ‘Not now, sir. I cannot talk of such things here I…’ She broke off, searching for words.

  ‘You have promised to join my party for Drury Lane on Friday,’ he said urgently. ‘I will be denied no longer. My own carriage shall call for you. If you decline to come with me I shall have my answer and trouble you no further.’ He kissed her fingers once more before releasing them, and gave the word to the coachman to move off.

  ‘Until Friday, Madame!’

  Chapter Eight

  In which a gentleman’s temper proves his undoing

  Alone in the dark seclusion of her carriage, Elinor’s thoughts raced through her head, but even at a decorous pace, the journey to Knight’s Bridge was not long enough for her to unravel the tangle of her emotions. When the carriage drew up at the villa, she alighted in silence, and spoke not a word until she had discarded her heavy ball gown in favour of a light wrap, and had allowed her new English maid to brush the powder from her hair, leaving it hanging in thick, shining waves down her back. Then, in a quiet voice, she dismissed her servant. When the girl had withdrawn, Elinor went to her dressing table and drew out from one of its drawers a folded sheet of paper which she spread upon the table.

  She stared at the untidy lettering: the list of names seemed to dance upon the paper in the wavering candlelight. There were but five names written there, and that of Julian Poyntz had a neat black line drawn through it. She glanced down the page, her eyes coming to rest upon the name of James Boreland. She had recognized the big bearded figure immediately: it had been difficult to conceal her loathing of the man, and she found herself longing to be able to cross his name from the list, but her plans for George Rowsell were so near completion she dare not change course now. Lord Davenham’s lean and angry face intruded into her thoughts, but she quickly pushed the image away. What did it matter if he thought ill of her? She drew herself up, squaring her shoulders as she carefully re-folded the paper and replaced it in the drawer. She had set herself a task and nothing, no one, would divert her from her goal.