by Mary Nichols
He was right. She took a deep breath and faced him squarely, thankful that there were few people in the street. ‘Lady Lavinia went to the Willoughby’s ball last night.’
‘She did what?’ he asked, incredulously ‘You took her…’
‘No, I did not. She persuaded Felicity to invite her and arrived alone. She was dressed in costume and a mask. I do not think anyone recognised her, except…’
‘Go on.’ His voice was steely. ‘You knew it was her, so who else did?’
‘James recognised her. And Benedict Willoughby. I am afraid Benedict behaved rather badly…’
‘That young scapegrace! Frances, get back in the carriage. We are both going to confront that young man and, on the way, you will tell me all.’
She could do nothing but obey and by the time they arrived at the Willoughby mansion he was in full possession of the facts. And very, very angry. Frances began to fear for young Benedict and was beginning to hope that no one would be at home.
But Marcus knew how to control his temper when in polite society and he gave no hint of the turmoil within him as he gave his hat to the footman and waited to be announced. Unfortunately a great many other people had also decided to pay their respects and offer congratulations for a very successful ball, and their silly nonsensical conversation drove him to demand an interview with Lord Willoughby in private.
This was done so loudly and forcibly that it stopped the conversation instantly and everyone turned to stare. Marcus, becoming aware of this, turned to the company. ‘I beg your pardon, do carry on. I will not keep your host above a minute.’
The two men retired to the library, but they were there a great deal longer than a minute. First there were raised voices, then a servant was sent to fetch Frances and Lady Willoughby to join them. Frances was required to repeat what she had witnessed and did so with some reluctance.
‘I do not know how you can accuse my poor boy of such a thing,’ Lady Willoughby said at the end of it. ‘After all I have done to help you, too. Why, if it hadn’t been for me, you would never have got the Duke’s commission at all.’
‘That is nothing to the point,’ Marcus said. ‘I wish you to bring the boy before me and we shall see what he has to say for himself.’
‘I am not sure he is at home,’ Lady Willoughby said.
‘He had better be. My daughter is missing and…’
‘Missing?’ repeated Lord Willoughby. ‘And you suspect my son? Well, I can tell you straight, he had nothing to do with it. The girl is a hoyden, let run wild and that’s the truth of it. There’s no telling what mischief she has been up to. Run away, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘She attacked my poor Benedict,’ Lady Willoughby put in. ‘All because he would not lie. She wanted him to say it was his fault your son went to that gaming hell and when he would not, she laid into him. If she had been a boy he would have been able to defend himself, but as it is he was obliged to keep his hands in his pockets and has sustained a nasty cut on his face and a bruised shin.’
Marcus allowed a faint smile to cross his face. ‘Good for her,’ he said. ‘I hope it has taught him a lesson. Come, Countess, I think we are wasting time here.’ He picked up his hat from the table where he had placed it and strode from the room, followed by Frances.
‘I’ll take you home and then I’m going to find Donald Greenaway,’ he said. ‘And alert the Runners. If some lowlife scum has got her…’
‘Oh, no. Oh, Marcus, I am so very, very sorry. I feel…’
He turned to grin lopsidedly at her. ‘Responsible?’
‘In a way, yes. She is such a bright intelligent girl, one tends to forget how young she is and how sheltered she has been all her life.’
‘I think we will defer any discussion on the way she has been raised until she is safely home again, don’t you?’
‘Very well.’
Neither spoke again until he stopped the carriage at her door, helped her to alight and bade her let him know if she thought of anything else that might help. And the next minute the barouche was bowling away, leaving her to make her way wearily indoors. That there was going to be a serious discussion, she did not doubt, and that it might develop into one of their acrimonious brangles, was not unlikely. Last night’s joy seemed a million miles away, almost as if it had never happened.
He had offered her marriage and because he was an honourable man and bound by the conventions of society, he could not withdraw it. It would be left to her to refuse him. And she must. She could not hold him to it, could not expect to live in harmony with him, when he so obviously felt he could not trust her with his daughter. She stood in the hall of her home and stared up the grand staircase, as if she could not bring herself to mount the stairs. Surely she should be doing something?
She ought to try and project herself into the mind of the girl. What would she be thinking and doing? Last night, she had been terribly upset by the gossip Benedict had repeated and inclined to believe it. James had taken her home, but who was to say she had gone to bed? Even if she had, would she have slept or would that nasty piece of tattle gone round and round in her head until she could stand it no more?
Supposing she had gone downstairs to look at that picture in the drawing room and that would have made her think of her own sketch. Then what? Would it have led to a burning desire to get at the truth?
Frances turned to Creeley who stood watching his mistress in puzzlement, waiting for instructions. ‘Go and tell John Harker to bring the tilbury round right away,’ she said. Then she went up to her room and changed into the plain clothes she wore for visiting the orphanage. By the time she returned downstairs the carriage was at the door.
Half an hour later, she alighted outside the new orphanage in Maiden Lane, hoping fervently that Lavinia was there.
‘I was just going to send you a message by one of the boys,’ Mrs Thomas said, as soon as she saw her.
‘Oh, she is here?’
‘She? It is a little boy, not a girl.’
They were obviously talking at cross-purposes and Frances began again. ‘I meant the young lady who was here with me the other day. You know, the one who did that sketch of the little boy. I thought she might be here.’
‘No, but the little boy is. He arrived last night, poor little mite. The Runners found him lying beside his poor dead mother in a hovel off Seven Dials. She had been bludgeoned to death.’
‘Oh, the poor thing! Was he hurt?’
‘No, but he is very thin and very hungry. I bathed him and fed him but he hasn’t said a word about what happened, though he did say his name was Jack.’
There was no doubt in Frances’s mind that Joseph Poole had carried out his threat and that was followed by the dreadful thought that there might be some connection between the murder of Mrs Poole and the disappearance of Lavinia. She had, until now, been inclined to discount Marcus’s fears, but now she was filled with a dreadful sense of foreboding.
‘Are you sure Lavinia was not here either last night or early this morning?’
‘Not to my knowledge, but shall we ask the children? One of them might have seen her.’
The children were being given a reading lesson, but were ready enough to stop that and listen to her. ‘You remember the young lady who came here the other day to help us?’ she said. ‘The one who was drawing. Have any of you see her since?’
One of the boys, a lad of about ten, said he had seen her at Covent Garden when he had been sent to buy some carrots for the orphanage. She had been talking to a man.
‘Are you sure it was the same young lady?’
‘Oh, yes, it were her all right.’
‘Do you know who the man was?’
‘No, never seen him afore.’
Frances was appalled. She ran out to her carriage and bade John Harker drive as fast as he could to fetch the Duke. Then she went back indoors and asked to talk to the little boy. As soon as he was brought into the room, she knew why everyone assumed he was Marcus’s son. Although his face wa
s paper white, the bone structure, the large eyes and the wing-shaped brows left no doubt in her mind that he was a Stanmore. If Marcus had not told her the truth, she would, on this evidence, have believed he was the father.
Although she was very gentle in speaking to the child, taking him on to her lap and cuddling him, he was too young to be able to tell her anything, except that his name was Jack. Unwilling to upset him by further questions, she relinquished him into the care of one of the older girls. ‘Take good care of him, Mrs Thomas,’ she said. ‘He is very precious to someone I know and there are those who might wish to harm him as they have done his mother.’
‘He is safe here.’
‘Can you tell me precisely where he was found?’
‘Not precisely, no. I was told it was a dreadful hovel off Monmouth Street, which I suppose is how he came to be outside the old orphanage when the young lady saw him.’
‘Thank you. When the Du—Mr Stanmore arrives will you tell him that I have gone to Covent Garden.’
‘Oh, ma’am, do you think you should? If there is danger…’
‘The danger is not to me, Mrs Thomas, but to that young lady, and I must find her.’
Mrs Thomas tried to dissuade her but she could not stand by waiting for Marcus to arrive. John Harker might not be able to find him easily, especially if he was out searching himself, and in the meantime anything could have happened to Lavinia. She might have suffered the same fate as Mrs Poole. It did not bear thinking about.
In a matter of minutes, she was at the spot where Marcus had rescued her from the mob and here she stopped, not knowing quite what to do next and though she was plainly clad she was still far better dressed than anyone else in that rundown area. She was standing looking about her, trying to decide on her next move, when someone came up to her and leered into her face. ‘Well, if it ain’t that artist woman what pays people to let her draw them. My mate said you gave him a guinea for standin’ doin’ nothin’.’
‘Yes, but I do not have my drawing materials with me today.’
‘What you doin’ ’ere then, fine lady like you?’
‘I am looking for a young lady. She came to draw too.’
‘Oh, that one wot was askin’ all the questions?’
‘You’ve seen her? Today, I mean.’
‘Yes, she was talkin’ to one o’ them tub-thumpers wot goes around stirring up trouble. We ain’t ag’in people askin’ for justice, but it ain’t our quarrel, though he says it is. I ain’t agoin’ to put my neck in a noose listenin’ to his ranting…’
‘Poole,’ she said. ‘Was his name Joseph Poole?’
‘I don’t recollect his name.’
‘And the young lady?’
‘If you ask me, ma’am, you’d be wise to keep a tighter rein on that girl o’ yours, she could get into trouble talkin’ to men like that.’
‘Yes, you are right. Did you see where they went?’
‘Now, I ain’t in the way of spyin’ on people, mind my own business, I do.’
Frances produced her purse and extracted a guinea. ‘Will this aid your memory?’
He took the coin and bit on it from force of habit, not because he expected her to given him counterfeit money, but you could never tell. ‘Don’t know where they went, but if you was to talk to him…’
‘That is my intention.’
‘Then you need to know where he’s lodgin’, don’t you?’
Another guinea extracted the name of street and the information it was a tavern called the Magpie.
She hesitated only a moment before setting off in the direction his grubby forefinger pointed, and a few minutes later she found the dingy hovel which she would never have recognised as a tavern, but for the creaking sign over its door. Taking a deep breath, she passed inside.
The low-ceilinged room in which she found herself reeked of stale beer, unwashed bodies, cabbage water and sundry other scents she could not identify but which were equally obnoxious. She put her handkerchief to her mouth and advanced towards the man who was sweeping the floor. He looked up in surprise at the apparition in front of him and then his eyes narrowed with a gleam which was both malicious and avaricious.
‘Well, well, what ’ave we ’ere?’ he said, softly, leaning on his broom handle to survey her. ‘Come to join the other chit, ’ave you?’
‘Is she here?’ she said eagerly. ‘Take me to her at once.’
‘Well, as to that, I ain’t sure as I should. I’ll ’ave to ask.’
She tapped her foot impatiently as he disappeared into the gloomy depths of the tavern. She was shaking with fear, wondering how long it would be before Marcus arrived and whether she or Lavinia would still be alive when he came. But she would not leave, could not leave without Lavinia.
‘Now, who might you be?’ a voice asked from the doorway at the back of the room.
The fear disappeared in a red surge of anger as she turned to face the speaker, a big roughly dressed man wearing a fustian jacket and breeches tucked into gaiters. ‘Never mind who I am, what have you done with Lady Lavinia?’
‘She is safe and well, though I tell you straight, if she were mine, I’d put her across my knee and dust her drawers. Such a wildcat as I never met, but what can you expect, with a father like hers.’
She was about to make some scathing comment about his own fatherhood and the murder of Mrs Poole, but wisely desisted. ‘Where is she? I demand you take me to her.’
‘Demand, my lady? Oh, I do not think demands serve. Now a polite request, that’s a different matter.’
Frances swallowed hard. ‘Then, may I see her please?’
‘Certainly you may. Follow me.’
Reluctant as she was to venture any further into that depressing building, she felt she had no choice and followed him through the door against which he had been leaning, along a corridor and up some twisting stairs where he flung open a door and pushed her inside.
The tiny room was furnished with a truckle bed, a washstand, a table and a single chair. Lavinia was sitting on the bed, but sprang up when she saw Frances and threw herself into her arms. ‘Oh, thank God you have come. I thought he would kill me.’ She stopped suddenly when she saw Poole behind Frances and realised she had not been delivered but that Frances was to share her prison. ‘Oh, what are we to do?’
‘Do? Why, nothing,’ the man said. ‘Now his Grace has a double reason to pay up. You will excuse me, while I send to him with the glad tidings.’ And with that he turned and left them, bolting the door from the outside.
Lavinia subsided onto the bed and burst into tears. ‘I thought you had come… I thought Papa was with you…’
‘I do not think he is very far behind,’ Frances said, sitting down beside the girl and putting her arm about her. ‘But there is no doubt that dreadful man will not give us up without a fight.’
‘His name is Joseph Poole. He used to be Papa’s head groom. I recognised him straight away when he spoke to me. He said he had something to show me and I thought he was going to take me to the little boy. Only there was no little boy and he brought me here and locked me in. I told him my father would punish him, but he just laughed and said, his luck must be in for a ripe plum had fallen into his lap and he wasn’t going to waste it.’
‘But what were you thinking of, to come out here by yourself? Surely you knew it was dangerous. Your papa is distraught with worry at your disappearance…’
‘Oh, I do not think so. He is far more concerned with searching for his…his…’ She did not know what to call him.
‘The little boy is not his love child,’ Frances explained. ‘He belongs to your Uncle John. Your papa promised his brother he would look after the child and when Mrs Poole disappeared with him, why, he had to find them, didn’t he?’
‘Oh.’ She was silent for a moment, digesting this, and then added, ‘He should have told me. I am not a child.’
‘To him, you are. And he wished to protect you, but—’ She stopped to hug the girl. ‘I thi
nk he has seen his mistake. Now, I think we must do what we can to free ourselves.’
‘But you said Papa was coming.’
‘He should be, but he cannot know exactly where we are, so we must at least get away from here or make such a commotion he cannot fail to hear us.’
‘Shout for help, you mean?’
Frances smiled. ‘Perhaps, but not yet, or Poole or his friends will gag us and tie us up. We must pretend to be helpless creatures, waiting for rescue. Then he will perhaps drop his guard.’
‘Even if he does, we cannot rush past him and escape. We have to go down the stairs and through the taproom to reach the street and there is the tavernkeeper…’
‘Yes, I know.’ She rose and went over to the window. It was not a great drop to the street, but it was a very busy one, with people coming and going, women gossiping on doorsteps and ragged children playing in the gutter.
‘Do you suppose he is one of those?’ Lavinia asked, nodding towards the children.
‘No, he is safely at the orphanage, taken there last night.’
‘Oh, if only I had gone there first, but they said they had not seen him when I showed them that drawing. Does Papa know?’
‘I think he does by now.’ She was wrestling with the catch of the window, but it would not open. ‘I shouldn’t think this has been opened in years. It’s jammed solid.’
She was wondering whether to risk trying to break the glass when Poole returned carrying paper, pen and ink.
‘I think a letter from you, my lady, would do more to persuade the Duke than any words of mine,’ he said. ‘So you will please sit down and write what I dictate.’
Frances turned from the window to face him. ‘And if I don’t choose to?’
‘Then it will take something else to convince him I have you. A lock of hair, or a finger perhaps. Yes, a finger, that will do.’
She sat down at the table and he placed the writing things in front of her. ‘Now write,’ he said, dipping the pen in the ink and handing it to her.
Chapter Eleven
Marcus ran Donald Greenaway to earth at Manton’s where he was examining a brace of new pistols. ‘Thought we might be in for a scrap,’ he explained. ‘These are the very latest thing.’