Fascinated by this flow of eloquence, Montclair asked, “Has this Major Paisley been successful in recovering the stolen goods?”
“Not so much as a speck of oil paint, nor a chip of porcelain china, sir. Once something of great value gets stole, we—Bow Street as you might say—usually gets word of it popping up somewhere in this here globe, sir. But—not with this lot! Two years they been at it. Musta stole a king’s ransom, they must. But if they been and gone and sold it, no one knows where. It’s like it had disappeared off the face of the earth with not a trace, sir! Not a whiff. Not, as you might say, a whisper!”
“Or a suspicion,” put in Devenish solemnly.
Mr. W. drew himself up. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, sir. We—meaning Bow Street—have plenty of suspicions. Proof—well, that’s another mug of mice.”
“Or tray of trout,” said Vaughan agreeably.
Devenish snorted, and Montclair put a hand over his lips.
Mr. W. directed a hard stare at the culprits and took out his notebook. “Now as to this here assault, gentlemen…”
He left half an hour later, having told the three friends, at great length, nothing they did not already know. The apothecary, entering shortly afterwards, came upon such hilarity that he thought at first he had come to the wrong house and was only reassured by the assorted cuts and bruises offered for his inspection. He was as meek and unassuming as the Runner had been self-important, and having told Devenish that his eye was undamaged, and expressed the opinion that Vaughan’s wrist harboured no broken bones, proceeded to examine Montclair’s damaged head and pronounce it a “nasty cut but likely no more than a mild concussion.” He eyed the young man thoughtfully, and added, “Are you feeling quite up to par otherwise, sir?”
“Perfectly, thank you.” Montclair stood, turning to his friends with a bright smile. “I’m afraid I must be on my way. I’ve some business waiting at home that has already waited much too long.”
They paid off the apothecary and said their farewells, promising to meet soon at Devencourt near Stroud, or Greenwings in Sussex, or at Longhills Manor near Tewkesbury, and Montclair took his leave.
Glancing out of the front windows, Vaughan said idly, “That apothecary fellow waited for Val.”
Devenish wandered to join him, and they watched Montclair converse briefly with the little man, then walk briskly towards Piccadilly. The apothecary looked after him, shook his head, and went off in the opposite direction.
It was a warm morning. It was, in fact, now midday. The remaining occupants of the parlour discussed sustenance, decided on the merits of ale, and having filled two tankards, carried them to the sofa and sat down in a companionable but vaguely troubled silence.
“Devencourt ain’t too far from Longhills,” observed Vaughan at last.
They looked at each other.
Devenish raised his glass in a mute acknowledgement.
* * *
“If I might have your card, sir,” said Deemer, clinging to his dignity even as he was pushed back across the sunny entrance hall of Highperch Cottage.
The large man in the very tight green coat gave the frail elderly man another shove and turned a broad, red, and amused face to his companion. “Is it a butler, Junius? Don’t dress like a butler. Don’t look like a butler. Looks more like a greengrocer!” His friend emitting a howl of mirth, he went on aggrievedly, “Wants my card, old boy. D’you have a card we can give the poor clod?”
“Damme if I ain’t left m’cardcase at home!” The younger of the two intruders, tall and well built, with a pair of powerful shoulders, administered a third shove that sent the grey-haired man staggering. “Getting absentminded, Pollinger,” he said laughingly. “You should watch me more carefully. As for you, fellow, do not be annoying your betters. We want to see your mistress. The naughty widow. She is here, so don’t give us no argumentation.”
Looking at once shaken and outraged, Deemer, who was butler/groom/major domo at Highperch Cottage, said, “Since you have no cards, gentlemen—”
“Didn’t say we don’t have cards,” said the man called Pollinger.
“Said we wasn’t giving you one,” grinned his friend. “You may tell the, er—lady, that Lord Montclair’s representatives have come to see her.” His unusually large blue eyes flickered around the shabby hall. “Think we’d best not sit down whilst we wait, Poll. Looks damned dirty. Furthermore”—he aimed a glossy topboot at a dusty but graceful Hepplewhite chair, sending it crashing across the hall—“dashed rickety. Look at that! Damned leg fell off!”
Both the young men laughed uproariously. Halfway up the winding staircase, Deemer paused and glanced back, the lines in his thin face deepening. Mrs. Susan should not have to deal with those two boorish Bucks. They meant trouble, if ever men did. “If only Mr. Andrew was here,” he whispered to himself, hurrying along the dusty upstairs hall. But taking advantage of the lovely June weather, Mr. Andrew Lyddford and the Bo’sun were off on the barge; Señor Angelo had left just after luncheon to drive Mrs. Starr, the housekeeper, and little Miss Priscilla into Tewkesbury, so Mrs. Susan Henley was just at the moment protected only by himself and Martha, their solitary abigail-cum-parlour-maid, who was simple, poor girl, and would likely fall into hysterics did those two downstairs raise their voices again.
He proceeded worriedly along a musty-smelling corridor, treading on faded threadbare carpet, the daylight coming dimly through the dirty windows at each end. The door he approached swung open even as he reached it. Mrs. Susan Henley stepped out and the dingy hall seemed brightened.
A tall willowy young woman, she wore a dark mulberry riding habit, the train caught up over one arm. A jaunty little matching hat with a pink feather was perched on very thick near-black hair that was worn long and perfectly straight, being tied back from her face with a mulberry ribbon. Gloves and riding crop in hand she smiled at Deemer, but the smile faded at once from the generous, ruddy-lipped mouth, the dark low-arched brows drew together, and a frown came into the clear grey eyes. “What is it?” she asked, in a quiet, musical voice.
“Two—men, Mrs. Sue,” said the butler, trying to keep his voice from trembling.
“And they have upset you, I see.” The firm chin set, and the dark head swung up a little. “No cards, Deemer?”
“No, ma’am. I—I think it were best if you did not come down. They’re ugly customers, if ever I—”
“No names, either?” she interpolated coolly.
“They said they were from his lordship, ma’am. One is named Pollinger, I think.”
“Is he indeed?” Mrs. Henley drew on one black kid glove, her lip curling. “If it is Sir Dennis Pollinger, his reputation precedes him. And—the other?”
“Mr. Pollinger—or Sir Dennis perhaps—called him ‘Junius.’ Mrs. Sue, please do not go down there. I’ll run down to the river and see if The Dainty Dancer’s in sight yet. Perhaps I can signal Mr. Andrew and—”
“And we’ll have a small war on our hands, I fancy. If his lordship has sent these men to intimidate us it will be as well they learn at the outset where we stand.” She flashed a sudden smile that banished the worry from her oval face, and walked past him.
“A moment, ma’am, I beg.” The butler hurried into another room and emerged carrying a long-barrelled duelling pistol. “I’m coming with you,” he declared bravely.
Mrs. Henley chuckled. “Not carrying my brother’s horrid great cannon! Give it me.”
He protested, but she appropriated the pistol and slipped it into the deep pocket of her skirt. “Never worry so,” she murmured. “Gentlemen are always alarmed to see firearms in the hands of a woman, and besides, Lieutenant Henley taught me how to repel boarders!” She thought, ‘If nothing else!’ and went to the stairs.
Deemer looked after her worriedly, wishing he was younger, and stronger than his last illness had left him. Then he ran quickly to the rear staircase.
Mrs. Henley heard the loud voices from the landing and as she followed t
he curve of the stairs, her eyes took in the two young men who strolled about inspecting the hall with arrogant criticism. ‘A fine pair of blackguards,’ she thought. ‘Likely typical of Montclair’s cronies!’
The younger of the two was somewhere in the neighbourhood of thirty, and quite handsome, but she was not drawn to the big, beefy type, and she thought his eyes too large, his lips too thick and voluptuous, and his fair hair was arranged in a dandified style that she could not like. She had seen him somewhere … In Town, unless she was mistaken. She wrinkled her brow. Deemer had said his name was ‘Junius.’ Junius … Trent! Mr. Junius Trent! In that case, her opinion of the gentleman was not shared by the majority, for he was widely admired by London’s ladies, his sarcasm put down as cleverness, and his impudence as wit. He was a reckless gambler whose luck at the tables was legendary. He commanded a large circle of friends and hangers-on, by whom he was described as a bruising rider to hounds, a fine man with the fives, an excellent shot, a general all-round sportsman. His friends chose to overlook the fact that he had been denied admission to White’s Club, and that his popularity in certain quarters appeared to have dimmed of late. This might perhaps have been ascribed to odd little rumours that were beginning to be whispered, and also to the fact that his way with a team and carriage left a great deal to be desired, his quick-tempered impatience having cost a groom his life when he was thrown from a curricle Trent had contrived to overturn.
Mrs. Henley slowed her steps and appraised the second man narrowly. Despite his fine build and the fact that he looked to be no older than five and thirty, he already showed marked signs of dissipation. The flush on his broad face proclaimed the heavy drinker and the beginnings of a paunch curved his green and white striped waistcoat. His lank hair was straight and of an indeterminate brown. His features were regular but undistinguished and the loose mouth and rather neighing voice caused her to marvel that any woman could be swept off her feet by such a one.
Her eyes fell on the overturned chair then, and she frowned.
“… no business here,” Trent was saying loudly. “Besides, who cares what he says? The fact remains it ain’t legal, and by God, I mean to—”
“You wished to see me?” said Mrs. Henley, her cold voice cutting through his words.
Both men jerked around and stared up at her.
She stood on the stair, one hand lightly resting on the handrail, her head high, her thick brows a little arched, her mouth haughtily drooping, and the sunlight which slanted through the grubby window of the half-landing awakening a sheen on her luxuriant raven locks.
“Now … by heaven … Juno is come among us!” breathed Trent, staring.
His friend pursed his lips, eyeing Mrs. Henley’s tall aloofness without marked approval. “No, d’you think so?” he said dubiously.
“A veritable Venus!” Trent paced forward, lifting a jewelled quizzing glass and scanning her from head to toe with bold admiration.
A glint came into Mrs. Henley’s candid grey eyes. “I expect,” she said in her calm way, “when you have finished with your impertinence, you will tell me why you are here—gentlemen.”
Trent chuckled. “A spirited Venus, you’ll note, Poll,” he remarked. “Just how I like ’em.”
“Perhaps,” Mrs. Henley turned her gaze to Pollinger, “you can be more lucid, Mr. Poll.”
Pollinger’s shifty brown eyes fell away before her cool stare. “Do but mark the hauteur of it, dear boy,” he sneered, with a giggle that did not equate with a man of his size and years.
“And—the shape,” murmured Trent, the quizzing glass busy again.
“Good day—gentlemen,” said Mrs. Henley, contempt in her voice.
“No, no! You cannot throw us out, m’dear,” drawled Trent, sauntering nearer. “Ain’t polite. ’Sides, we ain’t been so much as introduced as yet. Allow me, ma’am, to present my friend, Sir Dennis Pollinger.”
Sir Dennis offered a great flourishing bow.
“Silly fellow,” murmured Trent, amused.
“I expect you know best,” said Mrs. Henley tranquilly.
“Be dashed!” protested Sir Dennis.
Trent laughed. “And I am Junius Trent,” he said, bowing also. “May I assume we address Mrs. Burke Henley? I was—acquainted with your late husband, ma’am.”
She met his mocking gaze levelly. “Yes. I had heard you shared his weakness for gaming.”
“Hah!” roared Pollinger, vastly diverted. “That gave you back your own, Junius!”
Trent pointed out, “It is only a weakness does one lose, dear ma’am. And your husband, regrettably, did so often—lose. Save, ’twould appear, in one respect.”
The famous blue eyes were slithering over her again. Mrs. Henley began to feel soiled. “You will forgive me if I cut short this fascinating conversation. Friends are waiting for me, and—”
“They must be waiting a long way off,” said Trent, drifting ever closer, “for we saw no sign of ’em as we rode up. And why anyone should wish to be any distance from your lovely self…”
Mrs. Henley stepped back. “You oblige me to be blunt, sir. Say what it is your master sent you to say, and then be so good as to leave.”
“Your master,” hooted Pollinger, slapping his thigh delightedly. “There’s a rib tickler, by Jove!”
“I was given to understand,” said Mrs. Henley, her pulse quickening as she saw the sudden glint in Trent’s eyes, “that you are come in behalf of Lord Montclair, who seems to labour under the delusion that I live here illegally.”
“What sauce, and for such a pretty mouth,” said Trent. With a sudden pounce he was facing the widow at the foot of the stairs. He put his right hand on the baluster beside her, and said smilingly, “Lord Montclair is perfectly right, m’dear. This house is part of the Longhills estate.”
Mrs. Henley slipped one hand into her pocket and closed her fingers around the reassuring butt of the pistol. “My father-in-law purchased this property long ago, and—”
“Ah, but he cancelled the sale, and sold Highperch back to Lady Digby Montclair. Had you—ah, forgot that trifle?”
“To the contrary, sir. My man of business in London has a copy of the Deed, and it—”
“Was found to be in error, ma’am.”
“Which is why,” pointed out Pollinger, grinning, “her la’ship returned Henley’s funds and voided the sale.”
“So … much as I regret it,” said Trent softly, “you must go away, pretty one. Montclair might be willing to—”
She stepped back once more but even as he spoke, like a striking snake, his left arm shot out and trapped her against the stair railing. He smiled down at her seductively. “You are not exactly beautiful. At least, not in the accepted sense. You are too tall, but most generously formed. And although your hair should be curled it is exceeding silky, and I like the way it comes to that charming peak in the centre of your brow. Let’s have your hat off,” he reached up, “so I can better admire it.”
“Let’s have your hands off,” said Mrs. Henley, drawing and levelling the pistol under his ribs, “before I decide to fire it.”
“Hey!” cried Pollinger, starting forward, alarmed.
Trent looked down at the pistol, then looked up into the young lady’s steady grey eyes. His hands still raised and his own eyes very wide, he muttered, “By God, but I believe you would.”
“Have you ever wondered how many people would attend your obsequies?” she asked chattily. “Were I you, sir, I would lower my hands very slowly. This is cocked and my brother tells me it has a hair-trigger—whatever that may mean.”
Pollinger gave a little yelp and retreated.
Trent’s eyes narrowed. “Why, you little trollop,” he breathed. “With your reputation, you dare—”
“Have a care, Junius!” cried Pollinger nervously. “Woman. Pistol. Looks like a Boutet. Very touchy, y’know. Very.”
“Your friend is perfectly right,” said Mrs. Henley. “I am sure I do not know how long I can h
old this thing, so—”
“What the devil—”
A tall young man exploded through the rear door and came down the hall on the run. He wore work clothes and heavy hip boots, and a Belcher neckerchief was tied carelessly about his throat. Very dark, with thick curly hair and a fine physique, he was yet of much slighter build than the pair who confronted Mrs. Henley. “Get away from my sister, you filthy swine!” he roared, his grey eyes narrowed and murderous.
Mrs. Henley’s gaze flashed to him. Junius Trent’s hand flailed downward and smacked the pistol to the side. It went off with a roar that purely astounded the widow, who had really thought it to be unloaded.
Pollinger grabbed the newcomer’s arm, swung him around, and collected a tightly clenched fist in one eye. Staggering, he howled curses.
Trent wrenched the pistol from Mrs. Henley’s grasp, whirled, and brought the butt down hard on the back of the newcomer’s dark head.
Mrs. Henley whispered, “Andy!” as her brother crumpled to the floor. Starting for him, she was caught by the wrist. “Coward!” she flung at Trent.
He laughed rather breathlessly. “I do not care to be shot at when I come calling,” he said, and jerking her to him, kissed her ruthlessly.
She made not the slightest attempt to struggle, but stayed passively until he released her. Very white, she stared at him, a blaze in her eyes that brought his slow smile back. “Gad, but you’re a fiery chit, well worth the taming,” he murmured. “How the hell did you come to marry a drunken sot like Henley?”
“My husband,” she said, her voice trembling with fury, “was a disgraced and dishonoured man. But compared to you, sir, he was a paragon of virtue!”
Logic of the Heart Page 2