The Girl at Rosewood Hall (A Lady Jane Mystery)

by Annis Bell

  Carefully, Mary pulled out her bundle of clothes from beneath her bed. She took her boots and opened the door. The hall was dark and quiet. Mary padded down the corridor, flinching at every sound. Finally, she reached the stairs. Getting down the stairs unobserved seemed to Mary to be the most dangerous part of her flight, for the master and his guests needed their domestic staff even at night, and someone could be called for at any moment. But Mary was lucky. She kept her bundle of clothes pressed close and made it to the ground floor, where she very cautiously opened the door to the kitchen and laundry wing. The quarters and offices of the butler and Mrs. Avery were down there. Although the butler was ostensibly in charge of the domestic staff, it was Mrs. Avery who seemed to rule over the servants—no doubt her role was rooted in the special position of trust she enjoyed with the master.

  A light was burning in the kitchen, and Mary swallowed. If she failed here, she would have to go back upstairs, and she doubted her luck would hold out twice. Slowly, she crept closer, silent on her bare feet. The light was shining through the kitchen window from the outside. It was the lantern in the yard, which they kept alight through the night. No doubt there was also a guard patrolling outside, but he couldn’t be everywhere at once. She had no fear of the dogs. They knew her and would not bother her.

  She banged her toes against a wooden crate standing in the dark corridor, and swallowed a cry. She’d probably picked up a splinter from it. In her ears, the buzzing began. No, thought Mary. Not now! She could not afford a dizzy spell now. Her ear still hurt from time to time, and she would become giddy. She stopped, leaned against the wall, pressed her hands to her ears, and breathed in and out several times.

  She had no idea what she was supposed to do once she got outside, or to whom she could turn, but she knew she had to get away from there or she would die inside these walls. Polly had known it. And she had fled. Maybe Mary would be able to find her brother. She just had to make sure she didn’t get caught by the police. That’s what she was most afraid of. She didn’t want to go back to a workhouse.

  There was only one door between her and the yard. She pressed down on the door handle and groaned. Locked! And the key had to be with the butler or Mrs. Avery.

  Thinking feverishly, Mary ran into the large servants’ kitchen, which was dimly lit by the lantern outside. The windows were not barred. She quickly climbed onto a table and, on the stone windowsill, found enough room to kneel and turn the lever that held the window closed. She threw down her bundle of clothes and jumped after it. For a long moment, she crouched in the shadow of the wall and listened for noises in the night. Far off, she heard a church clock strike the hour, and the clop of horse hooves on the cobbled street. The grass growing between the stones was wet and the air cool. Mary was still wearing her nightdress and wanted desperately to change into something warmer.

  The single lantern lit the rear courtyard of the house only sparsely, and the cloths and towels still hanging on the washing lines fluttered in the darkness as if a ghostly hand were shaking them. One side of the yard opened onto the garden that then led into the grounds behind the next wing of the house. The massive branches of the plane trees swayed and rustled in the wind. It sounded as if the leaves were whispering to one another. Mary ran toward the tree but pulled up short, for now she heard real voices, human voices. Or rather, she heard someone whispering in a language she did not know, while the other person made gurgling sounds and uttered a curse that quickly faded.

  That can’t be good, thought Mary. Her heart was pounding in her throat. As quickly as she could, she squeezed into the bushes along the wall behind the washing lines. Her heart was so loud in her ears that she thought anyone could hear it beating. She peered out through the bushes, and what she saw made her blood run cold. At the base of the plane tree kneeled Jedidiah. Behind him stood Ramu, the master’s Indian servant, strangling Jedidiah with his yellow scarf. She had no sympathy for the terrible Jedidiah, but compared to Ramu, the powerfully built man seemed practically harmless.

  Ramu’s eyes glinted in the darkness, just like his teeth, for he grinned evilly as he completed his deft and seemingly effortless handiwork. Finally, Jedidiah’s limbs fell slack, and with a dexterous flick, Ramu whipped the scarf from the man’s neck and slung it around his own. Then he turned and, as quick as a tiger, leaped toward Mary’s hiding place and hauled her out of the bushes.

  Mary was frozen with fear. In front of her stood Death personified. Her heart was racing and she gasped for air. Breathing suddenly grew difficult, and the buzzing in her head became so intense that she crushed her hands to her ears and felt her senses slipping away. Thank you, God, she thought. Thank you for sparing me from seeing this devil murder me. But the thought was not followed by any pain, just darkness. She dreamed of Polly, of how she must have run from the murderous man, must have torn the scarf from around her neck and wandered lost through the streets of London. Then she saw Fiona at the railing of a ship. Her red hair was blowing in the wind, and Mary waved to her, but Fiona’s face was strangely pale as she opened her mouth into a silent scream.

  Then came the pain. “Will you stop shrieking!”

  Someone slapped her face. She had not been throttled, only slapped by Mrs. Avery, and she was no longer outside in the yard. She was in a dark room. A candle stood on a footstool, and in the candlelight Mary could see that she was lying on a narrow cot.

  “Wake up!” Mrs. Avery hissed, shaking her anew.

  Mary’s head hurt. Her ear, too. She whimpered and pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms around them.

  “You’ve only yourself to blame. I did warn you, after all. Hold your tongue for the next few days and nothing will happen to you. If you scream or try to open that door, I’ll send in Ramu.”

  Mary’s eyes widened in horror. “No, ma’am, not that dreadful man! He’s a demon from hell!”

  Mrs. Avery twisted her mouth. “You’re not far off there, girl. Ramu is the devil’s right hand.”

  “No! I’ll do anything you want,” Mary sobbed.

  “Good girl. Why didn’t we do it like this straightaway? We could have saved ourselves a lot of grief. Can you read? I’ll bring you a book to fill the time until the party.”

  “A party?” Mary asked.

  “A special party that the master is hosting. As his blond angel, you will be its climax. That’s why you’re here.”

  That did not sound like anything good at all. She had to get away!

  32.

  “Be prudent, Jane. With whomever you speak. We still don’t know who is pulling the strings in this trade in children,” Wescott whispered into her ear.

  Her hand lay on his arm as he led her through the elaborately decorated hall of Hargrave’s townhouse. Only a few days had passed since the attack in Lambeth, but functions had followed one after another in the brief time between. They had gone to a Lords & Commons cricket match together and attended a Private View Day at the Royal Academy. Jane was especially fond of art exhibitions when there were young artists who did unusual and surprising work.

  On both occasions, she had spoken with Mrs. Lock, and discovered that the young Prussian’s reserve was a facade. Behind it lay a passionate woman who took an active part in political events. Just the kind of woman to throw herself into a revolutionary cause, Wescott believed. He was grateful to Jane for the information.

  Hargrave’s townhouse was in Park Lane, directly opposite Hyde Park. Although not one of the largest houses, it was impressive in its luxurious appointments. The servants were selected for their good looks as much as anything else, but as much as Jane looked, she saw no sign of an Indian among the staff.

  “No Indians . . . ,” she murmured and smiled at the other guests.

  Unfortunately, Alison was not there. Her children were in bed with some minor malady or other, and because with small children one could never be sure whether the fever had really gone down, Aliso
n—who had no faith in doctors—had stayed home.

  All of the guests still held their masks in front of their faces, which gave the whole affair a frivolous and secretive air. The women’s dresses were very fancy and designed to show off their bodies, and the men wore formal dress. At midnight, the masks would come down, but Jane did not want to stay that long.

  “And no yellow scarves? Jane, not a word about that. Ah, there’s our host. And I see Violet up ahead. She looks particularly nervous. Perhaps you should go to her.”

  “Lady Jane and Captain Wescott! What a pleasure to see you again!” Lord Hargrave greeted them. He was holding the stick of his mask in one hand and seemed in high spirits. He seemed to know nothing about Violet’s hasty departure from Lambeth. Violet, ashamed of her cowardly behavior, had implored Jane to be discreet about the incident.

  “Your wife only gets more beautiful, if you will allow me the observation,” said Hargrave flatteringly, and let his gaze linger on Jane’s décolletage for a long moment.

  Jane was wearing a black-and-red dress, and instead of a necklace she wore a black velvet band with a tear-shaped ruby pendant. Were Hargrave’s compliments just a pretense? Did he really prefer the delicate bodies of young girls, children? He had a reputation as a ladies’ man, and even Madame La Roche had doubted that Hargrave would pursue inclinations of that sort.

  She waved to Violet. “A most enchanting party, Lord Hargrave. Please excuse me. Your sister . . .”

  “Of course. But you must save a dance for me, my lady,” Hargrave said.

  Wescott remained silent, but she felt his eyes on her back.

  “Violet!” Jane called, and the two women kissed each other on the cheek.

  It wasn’t that Jane was especially overjoyed to see Hargrave’s sister, but she felt sorry for the woman. Violet’s hands were shaking as she touched Jane’s and whispered, “I am so grateful to you for not saying anything to my brother. He would punish me by taking away my syringe.” Violet was wearing a green dress with black lace that did her no favors. It made her look wan and ill.

  She pulled Jane with her into one of three salons that were decorated with valuable furniture and paintings. All the rooms on the ground floor had been opened up for guests to visit. Blue-liveried servants stood ready to cater to the visitors’ every need. In the large ballroom, a ten-piece orchestra struck up a dance number, and there was a relaxed buzz of voices from the guests, who were clearly enjoying themselves.

  Jane decided to exploit her position. Violet, to some extent at least, was now in her debt. “Violet, I don’t have much experience in these things, but I’ve heard a lot of rumors of, let’s say, indulgent parties where the usual conventions are not necessarily observed . . .”

  Jane fluttered her fan coquettishly, and Violet looked at her doubtfully. “Are you sure that’s something you want?”

  “My life is so terribly dull. One can’t just go visiting orphanages, although that’s a wonderful thing, naturally, but . . .” She took Violet’s hand. “Do you know what I mean? A little adventure where one could remain anonymous might be rather charming.”

  “Anonymous?”

  Jane held her mask playfully in front of her face. “When we all have masks on, one never knows whom one will bump into.”

  “Florence Rutland is the true master in such affairs.” Violet paused and thought for a moment. “I have seen and experienced everything, and I must dissuade you, my lady. My brother is a philanderer, and he has his eye on you. You should know that he has asked me to take you up to the first floor after midnight. A different kind of party will take place up there. Unfettered, my lady. Decadent.”

  Jane let out an affected giggle.

  But Violet took her by the arm. “Don’t do it. You are not the kind of woman to come through those kinds of games unscathed. You will feel dirty and shabby and hate yourself for it.”

  “Who will be there?”

  Violet looked around, but no one was close enough to overhear her. “My brother, Rutland, Devereaux, and Kayman. Of the women, Mrs. Lock is one of the favorites.”

  “Mrs. Lock?” Jane could not contain her surprise.

  Violet laughed dryly. “Not what you’d expect of our shy Prussian, is it? My brother took one look at her and knew immediately that it was all a masquerade. With you, he wasn’t so sure. It would certainly please him, but I warn you, Lady Jane. Don’t do it. Robert is a devil. He enjoys toying with people, manipulating them.” Unconsciously, Violet stroked the pincushioned crook of her elbow.

  “Thank you for your candor, Violet,” Jane said. No word of children, which didn’t necessarily mean anything, but Jane was certain that Hargrave’s sister would have mentioned it. Violet loved children and could certainly not have borne the knowledge that they were being abused.

  When she looked up, she saw Wescott standing in the doorway. “Excuse me, Violet. I believe my husband would like to dance.”

  Violet Sutton smiled sadly and reached for her pearl-studded handbag.

  With one hand outstretched, Jane went to Wescott. “You wanted to dance with me?”

  He hesitated for a split second. “Yes, I did.”

  The orchestra played a waltz, and Wescott led her effortlessly among the dancing couples. For a few moments, Jane let the music carry her away and enjoyed the motion and the closeness to her husband, who seemed to her like an island of safety in a sea of depravity and lies.

  “I talked to Violet,” Jane began, catching Wescott’s brooding eye.

  “I sense nothing good.” His hand was firmly placed on her waist, and he directed her safely past a collision with Florence Rutland, who was dancing with Devereaux.

  Jane briefed him on what she had learned from Violet, and watched as Wescott’s expression darkened with every word.

  “Are you serious?” he growled.

  “I did not breathe a word about Thugs or orphans.”

  “Worse!” He pulled her so close that she could feel his thigh against her leg.

  “But what I’ve discovered basically absolves Hargrave, doesn’t it? You could at least admit that I’ve acted rather cleverly.”

  “I don’t know what to say to that, but ‘clever’ is not the first word that springs to mind.” He relaxed his grip and let his hand glide down the deeply cut back of her dress.

  “Does Mr. Lock know what his wife is up to, I wonder?” Jane mused.

  “I doubt it. At the very least, he can forget his candidacy for prime minister if she compromises him.” He looked at her suddenly with an appreciative smile. “Actually, Jane, that was very clever of you. Lock can be blackmailed through his wife. I suspect that may have been engineered by Hargrave. What could be better than a prime minister one can extort with a dirty little secret?”

  “Ha!” Jane smiled triumphantly as they whirled over the parquetry of the dance floor.

  When the music fell silent, she was slightly out of breath. She fanned a little fresh air over her face to recover.

  Wescott offered her his arm. “Let’s have a drink, Jane.”

  In keeping with the rules of the party, they both held their masks over their faces.

  “I’d like to step outside for a moment, David. You could cut the air in here with a knife,” Jane said. She looked longingly toward the doors that opened onto the terrace.

  Wescott accompanied her outside. The terrace had been decorated with colorful lamps and garlands of flowers. One could not see how big the garden was, but it smelled of freshly cut grass, and the crowns of leaves on the ancient trees rustled softly in the cool night air. They were not alone out here, as evidenced by the muffled sounds of laughter and the murmur of voices not far away.

  Jane sighed and thought of the last party they had celebrated at Rosewood Hall. “I still miss my uncle. Perhaps it would be easier if Matthew weren’t so . . .”

  Her voice fail
ed her. It was too painful to think about her unpleasant cousin, whose demands were still hanging over her head.

  “He won’t get away with it, Jane. I promise you,” Wescott said firmly.

  “But how can we stop him from taking Mulberry Park away? His demands are enormous.”

  “There’s a way. Believe me.” He was standing very close to her and looking at her steadfastly in a way that she found unsettling.

  “I would love that, of course, but . . .”

  He reached one hand out to her, but a voice behind them held him back.

  “Oh, excuse me, I didn’t mean to interrupt such youthful bliss.” Charles Devereaux lowered his mask and stepped up to join them. He put on his most charming smile and bowed before Jane. “But I would very much like to ask you to dance, Lady Jane, if you will allow me.”

  “Wescott! Here you are. A word, if you please.” The Duke of Argyll approached. The duke, an influential parliamentarian who also threw one of the most important garden parties of the Season in Chiswick, was a man used to immediate attention.

  Jane folded her fan and laid her hand on Devereaux’s arm, following him back into the party. “My pleasure, although I’m desperate for something to drink.”

  “Well, we wouldn’t want to let you die of thirst, my lady.” Devereaux’s gray eyes remained fixed on hers longer than they should have, and Jane raised her mask.

  “Where is Lady Alison? When I first met you, she appeared as if on command. I do believe you wanted to get away from me,” he said with a smile.

  “Oh, no. Really.” Jane laughed and waved to a woman in a white dress without knowing who was behind the mask.

  “You know the Duchess of Cleveland?” Devereaux nodded to the woman as well, who blew him a kiss. The beautiful young woman was a rich heiress, making her one of the most sought-after women of the Season.

  “Oh, is that her? I must have confused her with someone else,” Jane replied, angry at herself, but mainly at Devereaux, who seemed not to miss a thing. “Why don’t you propose to her?”