“Yes, it is of consequence! I do not give a rush for what others think of me, but I do care for your good opinion.” He was still frowning. “When I can, I shall explain all to you, including those aspects of my behaviour which have appeared most questionable!” A smile lit his eyes briefly. “For now, I can only ask you to trust me…”
The music finished with a final flourish but Polly scarcely noticed as Henry led her back to the Dowager Countess, who had returned to gossip with the Duchess of Broxbourne. He excused himself immediately.
“My sister and her chaperon have already left and I must make haste to my next engagement. Good evening, Lady Polly.” He bowed to the Dowager Countess, “Good evening, ma’am…”
Polly watched him go. She was even more confused than she had been before she challenged him over his odd behaviour. It seemed that there were more mysteries to Henry Marchnight than met the eye, and none would be explained to her in the near future.
Polly’s mouth drooped. She felt tired and bad-tempered with the onset of a headache. Nor did the Dowager Countess seem much inclined to linger. She was suffering from an unusual reticence resulting from her part in the unfortunate scene with Lady Laura.
“For it was very bad ton of Tristan Ditton to speak as he did,” she commented, once she and Polly were in the seclusion of their carriage, “and though Lady Laura is a little mouse and I had quite forgotten her presence, I feel badly that I did not give him the setdown he deserved…”
Polly murmured something in agreement, leaning her head against the seat and closing her eyes. Although the day had been fresh, the wind had now died and the night was almost unbearably humid. Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance and Polly could see the flicker of lightning away across the river. She shivered within her cloak, wishing they were already home. There seemed to be something malevolent in the air.
They had gone perhaps two-thirds of the way back to Brook Street when there were sudden violent shouts outside the carriage, making Polly open her eyes and the Dowager Countess, who had been lulled into a doze by the rumble of the wheels, jump out of her skin.
Torches flared outside the window, and by their flickering light, Polly could see a huge mass of figures, jostling and shouting, their faces twisted and malignant. There was a sound of breaking glass and the snap of firecrackers, sudden and shocking, and a growl of excitement rose from the crowd. The carriage lurched, slowing to a crawl.
“What on earth—” the Dowager began, leaning forward to peer out of the window, and then the carriage door was flung open without warning and the nightmare came in.
Filthy hands caught Polly and the Dowager Countess, and dragged them forcibly into the street. The smell of unwashed bodies and the sweet stench of spirits was in Polly’s nostrils. The howl of the mob was all around them. Hands plucked at their clothes, ripping them, and snatching at their jewellery. Lady Seagrave was screaming; Polly felt a sharp pain as her pearl necklace was wrenched from about her throat. She was blinded by the glare of the torches and by the tangle of her hair as her jewelled headband was pulled off. All about her was the swell of menacing power as the mob tested its strength—Polly could feel it and it terrified her.
The coachman was shouting and swearing horribly, his arm raised to defend himself against the blows raining down. In all the noise and confusion, he had not even noticed that Polly and the Dowager Countess needed his aid, and he would have been unable to defend them anyway. The footman had been pulled from the box and was hanging on to the door of the carriage for dear life as the rabble tried to drag him into the gutter. And then, for a moment, the crowd thinned and the coachman, seizing his chance, whipped the horses into a gallop. The carriage lumbered off down the street with the mob jeering and stoning it.
“All alone, now,” a voice breathed in Polly’s ear, but she scarcely noticed, for before her was a scene from hell that was beyond her worst fantasy.
There had been another carriage behind theirs in the road, and this one had been set on fire. Flames roared from the roof and the open door. A man was kneeling in the gutter, his evening dress smouldering, his hands horribly burned and disfigured. Beside him, a woman was scrabbling about amongst the cobbles, sobbing hysterically. Polly caught her breath as the firelight caught the glitter of something amongst the cobblestones. The woman leant forward, but a hundred hands were quicker than hers, snatching up the coins and precious stones and laughing in scorn. The woman sobbed all the louder.
“She’s crying for her money,” Polly whispered, horrified.
The Dowager Countess screamed again, pummelled and jostled by the mob. A ragged cheer went up from the crowd as the fire spurted upwards. Polly shrank back, trying to evade the grasping hands, but there was nowhere to run.
“And now, my little dove…” the leary, whisky-sodden voice murmured again. “My, you’re a pretty one, ain’t ye?”
The frenzied scene began to fade as Polly felt herself slipping into a faint. Her mother was crying and sobbing, but Polly found she could not cry. Nor could she fight this inexorable tide that had swept them up and carried them on a wave of exultant power. The noise was terrifying and the darkness, with the flames illuminating those freakish, evil faces, only added to her fear.
She hardly noticed when a change came over the crowd, so far was she gone in terror and revulsion. There was a whisper running through the mob like wind through corn, and the edges of the crowd began to fray and break away.
“Don’t try…Not worth it…He has a pistol…Two pistols…Let’s go…”
An arm slid about Polly’s waist, hard and strong, and she was too tired to fight. Let them carry me off and do what they must, she thought tiredly. I cannot do any more…
“This is no time for swooning, Lady Polly,” Lord Henry Marchnight’s voice said, very calm and very resolute. “I must ask you to show some mettle.”
Polly opened her eyes to find that he was real and holding her very close. Those brilliant grey eyes were blazing into hers. The nausea receded a little. He gave her a slight shake.
“I need you to be strong now, Polly. Don’t disappoint me.”
Polly’s chin came up. Though utterly unprepared for the horrors that had happened to her, she responded instinctively to the authority in his tone. Besides, there was her mother to consider. The Dowager Countess was stumbling to her feet, her clothes in tatters, filthy and stained. The mob was falling back, hesitant and sullen, slipping away in ones and twos down the dark alleys and lanes, melting into the darkness as they had come. Lord Henry was bending to help the Dowager Countess to her feet and as he did so, his black cloak swung back and Polly saw the pistols at his belt.
“The militia are coming…” The whisper caught and ran round the remains of the rabble. The madness was dying. “Let’s go…”
“Can you walk, ma’am?” Lord Henry was solicitous, his voice betraying neither fear nor panic. “If not, I will carry you home. It is not far, but I think we should be moving.”
The Dowager, like her daughter, had a strong streak of courage in her. She straightened up and pushed her tumbled hair away from her face.
“I can walk, sir, if you give me your arm. But the other lady and gentleman…? I thought, I was sure…Lord and Lady Ballantyne?”
“They have gone,” Lord Henry was saying, already shepherding them away from the smouldering hulk of the carriage, “and we can only hope that they managed to escape the mob. We must concentrate on getting you home safely, ma’am.”
The dark streets were empty, littered with broken glass and smouldering wreckage. It seemed to Polly, summoning the last of her strength to get herself safely back to Brook Street, that the journey could have taken two minutes or two hours. The Dowager Countess limped along, huddled within the tattered remains of her cloak, leaning heavily on Lord Henry’s arm. His other arm remained, most improperly, about Polly’s waist. But she did not care for propriety or convention. Polly needed the reassurance and strength Lord Henry’s presence conveyed, and wou
ld have clung to him if all the mobs from hell had erupted about them.
Lights flared from the house in Brook Street and the front door stood open. Lord Henry helped the Dowager Countess up the steps and into the hall. The whole place was in uproar. Nicholas Seagrave, his face tense and white, was supporting a man Polly recognised with relief as John, the coachman. There was a huge, livid bruise on his temple and dried blood caked to his face. His eyes were wild as he clutched at the Earl’s arm. The butler, looking almost as shaken as Seagrave himself, was firing orders at a host of servants who appeared to be running aimlessly in all directions.
As they came in at the door, there was a moment of complete silence. Then the Dowager tottered over to the staircase, clutched at the bannisters and sat down rather heavily on the bottom step. And Lord Henry Marchnight, with the casual aplomb that would not have been out of place at the most exclusive of social gatherings, said, “Your servant, Seagrave. I am happy to be able to restore the Dowager Countess and Lady Polly to you.”
Much later, the Dowager Countess had been cosseted and exhorted into bed by her daughter-in-law, and Polly was propped up against her pillows, sipping a cup of hot, sweet tea. She felt light-headed with exhaustion, but the shock had prevented her from sleeping. Nicholas and Lucille, horrified and distressed, had heard the whole story, and were now sitting at the end of the bed.
Lord Henry Marchnight had slipped away before anyone had had the chance to thank him properly.
“…and the strangest thing,” Polly was saying, stifling a yawn, “was that Lord Henry appeared to come from nowhere. And when he did, the rabble turned tail and fled. It was most extraordinary. He is a most mysterious man…”
Her eyelids were closing. Lucille gently took the cup from her grasp and set it down on the washstand. She tucked up Polly’s covers.
Polly could feel herself slipping into sleep at last. She tried to rouse herself.
“Lady Laura Marchnight told me that Henry was not as everyone imagined…” she said drowsily. “And now I see it is true. A man who takes a brace of pistols to a ball is quite unusual…”
Lucille’s eyes met those of her husband. Nick raised an eyebrow but did not speak. Polly slid further down into the bed. It was warm and safe, and suddenly she was not afraid any more. But there was something else she had to tell them. It was worrying at the edges of her mind and would not let her rest. With an enormous effort, she managed to get the words out.
“I love him so much, you see,” Polly said, quite as though it explained everything. “I always have.” And then she slept.
It was early the following morning that Nick Seagrave called in at St James’s. The discreet and deferential manservant who answered the door could not confirm that Lord Henry Marchnight was yet out of bed, a statement which elicited a look of amused disbelief from Seagrave, if nothing more. He was not surprised when Lord Henry joined him within five minutes, fully dressed and showing no signs that he had recently arisen.
“I am here to offer my thanks on behalf of all of us for your timely actions last night, Marchnight,” Seagrave said, accepting a chair and the offer of a cup of coffee. “My mother could barely be restrained from coming around here to thank you herself! Indeed, she will be singing your praises to all and sundry from now on!”
A smile twitched Lord Henry’s lips. “How very uncomfortable! I will have to think of a way of dissuading her!”
“No doubt you’ll come up with something,” Seagrave said, also smiling. He allowed his gaze to travel around the room, appreciating its elegant style and tasteful furnishing. There were a number of books on the shelves which he recognised but had not touched for years and some very fine pictures. Seagrave was not surprised.
“How fortunate for my mother and Polly that you happened to be passing at the moment the mob turned on them,” Seagrave continued blandly. “Much in the same way that you were passing on Hampstead Heath the other night!”
Lord Henry picked up the coffee pot, avoiding his guest’s penetrating gaze.
“It was fortunate, indeed.”
“No doubt,” Seagrave pursued, “you had taken a pair of pistols to Mrs Ellery’s ball just to be prepared. One cannot be too careful these days!”
Lord Henry, pouring the coffee into large china cups, checked slightly. His grey eyes met Seagrave’s inscrutable dark ones.
“Ah, the pistols. I assume…Lady Polly?”
“She’s an observant girl,” Seagrave agreed, “but I expect you have already realised that.”
“Your sister sees a little too much,” Lord Henry agreed, with grim feeling. He passed the cup across and Seagrave sat back in the chair, savouring the strong aroma of the coffee.
“I hope,” Lord Henry said, “that neither the Dowager Countess nor Lady Polly will have taken any lasting hurt. That was a hellish scene last night, Seagrave. They were both unconscionably brave.”
Seagrave’s mouth tightened into uncompromising lines. “Chapman, was it?” he said grimly. “It was a bad day when he escaped. How close are you to retaking him?”
Lord Henry was looking just as implacable. “Close enough,” he said. “Maybe it would have been last night if I hadn’t been diverted on to other matters!”
“And at Hampstead?”
Henry shrugged. “A rumour…a suggestion that he had been seen. You know how it is, Seagrave—the rumours have him everywhere from Clerkenwell to Chelsea! But yesterday I was closing in. I had found out where he had been hiding.”
“At the Royal Humane Society?” Seagrave asked, with a smile. “Polly mentioned that she and Lucille had seen you there! They were most impressed by your interest in charitable work, old chap!”
Lord Henry laughed reluctantly. “The only act of benevolence I would like to commit at present is ridding the earth of scum like Chapman! It was a masterstroke on his part to use the Society as cover. They are so tied up with their own generosity that they do not even press a fellow for his name. And what is one unkempt and ragged fugitive amongst so many dispossessed, looking for a few nights’ shelter?”
“And the tale of a rich protector?” Seagraves asked, putting down his empty coffee cup.
Lord Henry hesitated. “I have my suspicions…”
Seagrave nodded. “Well, I had better be going. But I do thank you, Harry. If you had not intervened…I hope it has not damaged your chances of taking your man.”
Lord Henry gave him a rueful smile and shook Seagrave’s proffered hand. At the door the Earl paused.
“If you ever need any help, just let me know. Oh, and Harry—” The younger man looked at him enquiringly, “Be careful,” Seagrave said. “I realise why you intervened last night and I would not wish anything to prevent you from eventually making your declaration!”
And he raised his cane in mocking salute and left a startled Lord Henry staring at the door.
Chapter Seven
London wilted in the heat of a blazing July. Polly, made lethargic with the combination of heat and the shock of the riot, kept largely to her room, whiling the time away reading or playing patience until Jessie told her sharply that she was turning into a recluse. She hardly cared. Each night her sleep was broken by snatches of nightmare in which grasping hands captured her and dragged her away to unspeakable places. She would wake in tears, gasping for breath, comforted only when she realised that she was safe in her bed. During the day she had no energy or inclination to go out and gradually the invitations decreased, although plenty of callers still came to see the Dowager Countess and sympathise with her over her ordeal. Polly had not seen Lord Henry since the night that he had rescued them and rumour had it that he had left London on some of the mysterious, unspecified business that seemed to take him away sometimes. Polly’s heart ached. She had needed to see Henry again, wanted to thank him, and now she felt dissatisfied that matters had somehow ended in an unsatisfactory way.
Whilst Polly played patience and the Dowager Countess languished artistically, Lucille had persuaded N
icholas to make good his promise of a belated wedding trip to Scotland and the Lake District. Meanwhile, Peter Seagrave announced with bravado that he would be spending the summer at a very racy houseparty in Buckinghamshire at the seat of Lord Wellerden. The Wellerden carousals were almost legendary for their deep play and libidinous entertainments. The Dowager Countess’s mouth turned down in a line of decided disapproval when she heard his plans, but she said nothing and Nicholas just commented that since Peter had evidently chosen to go to hell, he might as well do it in fine style. Remembering Nicholas’s own hellraising some years before his marriage, Polly thought that he had probably been wise in leaving Peter to follow his own course.
The Dowager Countess’s intention to spend the summer in Brighton had been quite overset by the shock of being caught up in the riot and she had decided to go instead to the Seagrave estates in Suffolk, where the country peace might help calm her shattered nerves.
“Are you sure that you wish to accompany me to Dillingham, Polly?” Lady Seagrave asked, a little dubiously, when Polly had said that she preferred to visit Suffolk rather than go to the south coast. “The country is very slow and we could easily arrange for you to go to Brighton. The Bells are taking a house on the Steyne and I am sure they would be pleased to have your company, or perhaps the Dacres, but it must be your choice…”
She looked at her daughter with concern. Polly had been pale and listless since that horrible night, and her unwillingness to go out and shyness in company worried her mother. Surely the girl needed entertainment and companionship rather than to hide herself away? She would never get over her experiences if she became a hermit!
Polly looked out at the dusty street and thought of the jostling, raffish Brighton crowds. The world and his wife would be at the seaside and there would be company and balls and soirées…And at Dillingham there would be the sun on the cornfields and the river tumbling to the cold sea and the call of the plovers…And, of course, there was the chance that Lord Henry Marchnight might be in Woodbridge if his plans had not changed since that momentous day at Richmond.
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