Lady Vengeance

by Melinda Hammond

  Lord Davenham turned to accompany his friend.

  ‘How is your mama?’ enquired Derry as they made their way downstairs. ‘In good health, is she? Haven’t seen her since we had that supper party.’ He shook his head, ‘Bad business that! Poor Rowsell, and in front of the ladies, too. Very bad form. I tell you my mother was particularly cut up about it, vowed she’d not have another rout. All humbug, of course, when everyone’s back in Town in the spring you wait and see, she’ll be sending out the invitations once again. I only hope this business with Rowsell doesn’t keep people away.’

  ‘Oh I doubt that. In fact, ‘tis most likely to lend a morbid attraction to her parties in the future.’

  My lord Derry was much struck by this thought and he said, brightening, ‘Yes, by Jove. It might just do that! I pray you, Davenham, don’t think I am condoning people going around killing each other at fashionable parties!’ he added hastily, ‘but since it has happened, we’ve to make the best of it, ain’t that so? Besides, I didn’t know Rowsell very well – not my crowd. Too hot tempered for my liking. I don’t suppose there will be many to mourn his passing. Except perhaps the lady he was escorting that night. I heard that they were about to be married. Strange, I didn’t think Rowsell was in the market for a wife.’

  ‘But then the lady is very beautiful.’ put in the viscount, at his most casual.

  ‘Aye, of course, so maybe there was some truth there,’ agreed Lord Derry. ‘Locked herself away after Rowsell’s death, you know, only came to Town a few times after that. Rumour has it that she was distraught with grief’

  The viscount nodded. ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Well, if she was, she’s over it now,’ remarked Derry as they entered the supper-room. ‘I heard she’s gone off to spend Christmas with James Boreland and his family.’

  The news did nothing to improve Lord Davenham’s temper and he ate in silence, allowing his companion to rattle on uninterrupted throughout the meal. If my Lord Derry noticed his friend’s unusually taciturn manner he did not show it, but happily returned to the gaming tables alone after supper, when the viscount announced his intention of going home. Davenham made his way to the door, where he encountered the Marquis of Thurleigh preparing to depart.

  ‘Ah, my dear Viscount.’ The marquis bestowed a brilliant smile upon him. ‘How fortunate that we should meet like this. Do you have your carriage waiting? No? Then you must allow me to take you up in my own.’

  With an inward shrug Lord Davenham climbed into the luxurious equipage that was awaiting the marquis, and once settled inside, he observed his host, who was quietly humming a tune as the coach set off in the direction of Warwick Street.

  ‘You seem in very good spirits tonight, Lord Thurleigh.’

  The other smiled, his white teeth flashing in the darkness.

  ‘Oh I am, my dear sir, I am! I would like to share my thoughts with you, but I am not at all sure you would find them a cause for celebration.’

  ‘I am quite certain I should not!’

  Again the gleam of white teeth.

  ‘Then I regret to say that my happiness must be your sorrow, Davenham.’

  ‘I wish I knew what mischief you are planning!’ snapped the viscount.

  ‘Come, sir, do you doubt my loyalty?’ demanded the marquis in a pained tone.

  ‘The only loyalty you have is to yourself.’

  Lord Thurleigh laughed softly.

  ‘You are very like your father, Jonathan Davenham.’

  ‘And, like my father, I distrust you,’ came the blunt reply. ‘We will catch you out, sir, you may be sure of it.’

  The marquis leaned forward in the darkness.

  ‘Then you must be quick sir,’ he hissed, ‘for I am growing ever more powerful. Soon no one will be able to stop me.’ The coach slowed and he glanced out of the window. ‘Ah, Warwick Street–your lodgings, I believe, Lord Davenham?’

  The viscount jumped down and turned, his eyes searching the older man’s face.

  ‘Tell me, Thurleigh – whose cause do you espouse – the House of Hanover, or that of Stuart?’

  ‘Really, my dear young sir, do you expect me to answer you? Nay – I will give you an answer, although you know it already. I espouse my own cause. By the bye, I am taking my wife out of Town tomorrow, so you may relax your vigilant watch upon my activities. I shall be hatching no new plots while I am away!’

  * * * *

  At Weald Hall, Isobel Boreland was well satisfied with the progress of her schemes, but her guest was feeling much less sanguine about her own position. After almost a week at the Hall, Elinor felt she was no nearer to knowing how to deal with James Boreland, and she had come downstairs that morning to hear that her host had risen early and departed, leaving his family with little notion of when he would return. Elinor’s suggestion that she should curtail her visit brought a swift response from her hostess. There could be no question of Madame leaving them so soon. Mrs Boreland was only too happy to have her company, especially now that her husband was obliged to go away. She added that Andrew too would be sorry to see her depart and would wish to hear no more about leaving unless, and here Mrs Boreland paused eloquently, Madame de Sange was not enjoying her stay at Weald Hall? Elinor hastily disclaimed, but behind her smiles her heart sank, and she returned to her room after breakfast feeling tense and frustrated.

  She had missed her chance, Elinor told herself angrily. Her host had offered to teach her to shoot: why had she not accepted his offer and taken the first opportunity to put a bullet through his black heart? She knew there was little chance of persuading such a powerful figure to confess that he had murdered her father, or to tell her who had done so, but she had held back from attempting her revenge. What had stopped her, she asked herself bitterly. Did she expect the man to drink a trifle too much at dinner one night and confess his sins of his own volition? Now he was beyond her reach, and she was left to continue in a most uncomfortable role.

  A feeling of oppression settled upon Elinor. She felt trapped and, she had to confess, it was partly a web of her own making. A casual enquiry brought the information that Weald Hall could be cut off for weeks at a time in winter, when the rain and snow made the twisting road leading to the house impassable. Riding out with Andrew one damp and chilly morning, Elinor asked him if this was true.

  ‘Lord yes!’ came the cheerful reply. ‘It becomes a quagmire when the rain starts. The stream usually floods, too, down in the valley, and covers the road.’

  ‘Perhaps I should cut short my visit,’ she murmured, ‘for I would not wish to be stranded here.’

  ‘No, no you cannot leave!’ cried Andrew, his face flushing with disappointment.

  ‘But I have a house near London that I must return to some day, Andrew.’

  ‘But you must stay for Christmas - it is but two days away, and Mama is expecting Father home any time now. We always have guests here on Christmas Day, you see, it is a tradition. The vicar and his wife and daughters, and one or two of our other neighbours come to dine - you would like that, Elinor, would you not?’

  ‘I am sure I should, Andrew, but - ‘

  ‘Don’t leave me! I don’t want you to go. Mama said you would stay here with me for ever, that you would never go away!’

  There was a note of panic in Andrew’s voice, and Elinor forced herself to speak calmly.

  ‘Then that is something I shall discuss with your mama.’ She shivered. ‘It is growing dark. We had best be turning back.’

  They cantered back through the park, but as they approached the house, shadowed now in the fading light, Elinor knew a moment of panic. She wanted to turn her horse and set it galloping away from the Hall, never stopping until she had left the Boreland estate far behind. She tried to shake off her unease, telling herself not to be foolish, but as they clattered into the stable-yard she would not help glancing over her shoulder at the sturdy, wooden-faced groom who accompanied them on every ride. Surely his mount was not the usual type of servant’s
horse, it looked too well-bred, too fast. The thought came unbidden to her mind: he could easily catch up with me if I tried to run away! Thrusting such unpleasant thoughts aside, Elinor allowed Andrew to help her dismount and lead her indoors. She must have faith in her own destiny.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Discovery

  The short December day was fast drawing to a close as James Boreland reached his destination. A caped servant ran out of the house to take his horse and a stony-faced footman ushered him inside, relieved him of his rain-sodden outer-garments and overnight bag and showed him into the library, where his host awaited him beside a blazing fire.

  ‘Ah, that’s a welcome sight!’ Boreland stepped up to warm himself before the flames.

  ‘Not the most pleasant weather for your journey,’ remarked Lord Thurleigh, rising from his chair and going over to the sideboard.

  ‘Damnable! It has not stopped raining all day.’ He glanced at his host. ‘Is something amiss, Thurleigh?’

  ‘You notice some stiffness in my movements? I have been in some pain lately.’ Lord Thurleigh’s thin lips stretched into a mirthless smile. ‘The wages of my sinful youth, I suspect. Too many pox-ridden whores.’ He proceeded to fill two glasses from one of several decanters standing upon a silver tray then, coming back to the fire he handed one of the glasses to his guest. ‘I shall summon my physician when I return to Town.’

  ‘Aye, you have little chance of getting him to come here,’ declared Boreland, remembering his earlier grievance. ‘The roads around here are an abomination. I have spent the past two days travelling through some of the most inhospitable country I have ever experienced. For God’s sake, sir, why could we not have met at Thurleigh, or even your Leicestershire lodge? At least the roads are passable there.’

  ‘Did you meet any acquaintance upon your journey here?’

  Boreland gave a snort of laughter.

  ‘That I did not! I have always considered Norfolk a god-forsaken place, now it seems that all men of any sense have forsaken it, too.’

  ‘Then you see why I chose to come here.’ Guy Morellon allowed himself a faint smile. ‘Here there is no need for furtive disguises or suspicious actions. The chances of meeting someone who knows you are very remote.’

  ‘I only hope we may not be stranded here!’

  ‘You are tired after your journey,’ replied the marquis soothingly, ‘let me ring for my man to show you to your room. Then, after we have dined, we will get down to business.’

  The dinner was a good one, a saddle of mutton and a couple of dressed capons meeting with Mr Boreland’s approval, although he decided against the spiced beef, and later chose only the almond pie from the array of sweet dishes that were brought to the table. At length, the covers were removed and the servants withdrew, leaving the two gentlemen to refill their own glasses from the bottle of brandy set on the table between them.

  ‘Now,’ began the marquis, sitting back in his chair, the stem of the wine glass turning gently between his long, thin fingers. ‘What news from France?’

  ‘Precious little. In fact,’ said Boreland, thinking of his two-day journey, ‘nothing that could not have been put in a letter.’

  ‘Forgive me, James. You know it is not my way to commit anything to paper. Men may be persuaded to forget one’s words, but material evidence…! Only once have I ever made that mistake… but we digress. You spoke with the King?’

  Boreland nodded: ‘Yes. I travelled to Rome, but found no joy there, so I went to Avignon and succeeded in gaining an audience with the Prince.’

  ‘And how did you find Charles Stuart? Well?’

  ‘As well as ever a fellow can be in his situation. By the bye, it came out in conversation that he was smuggled into England a few years back – were you aware of it?’

  ‘But of course. He came to be received into the Anglican Church.’

  His companion shot a suspicious glance across the table.

  ‘You arranged it?’

  ‘I had some hand in the affair.’

  ‘You told me nothing of this!’

  ‘My dear sir, no-one knows all my cards. There was no reason for you to know of the matter. Furminger handled the whole.’

  ‘That old woman!’ He gave a snort of derision. ‘The fellow’s a fool.’

  ‘Nevertheless, he is a bishop, and managed things quite satisfactorily. But that is enough of the past, my dear Boreland. Tell me of the Prince.’

  ‘He’s a father now, did you know?’

  ‘I heard rumours – a boy?’

  ‘If only it had been! A son might perhaps have given Charles Stuart the will he needs to try his luck here once more.’

  ‘He will not come?’

  ‘No. I told him of your plans, but it proved of little use. Poyntz had apparently tried such persuasion but without success. He will not make any attempt upon England unless he is assured of the crown, and for that we need the backing of the French.’

  ‘Which is not forthcoming.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And the gentlemen I told you to contact – they could not help you?’

  ‘I had meetings with them all, in Paris and Versailles, but to no avail. The most I could get them to agree upon was the troop ship movements in the Channel ports, although even these will not be as extensive as you had requested. It seems they do not consider the moment propitious for opening hostilities with England.’

  Thurleigh shrugged.

  ‘How disappointing.’ He refilled his glass. ‘But not entirely unexpected, after all.’

  ‘Hell and damnation, my lord! You had me chasing all over France –’

  ‘Calm yourself, Boreland. I set you no unnecessary task. If Julian Poyntz had not been fool enough to kill himself with his unaccustomed debauchery he would have reported back to me and saved us both a deal of trouble. As it is, I needed to know how much Poyntz had achieved before his untimely end. Very little, it would appear. However, all is not lost. While you were hard at work pleading our cause across the water, I have been equally busy here at home. I now enjoy the full confidence of the Princess of Wales, and, to some extent, that of her eldest son, although he is set about by a bunch of the most admirable men, who make sure no-one wins too much influence with the heir to the throne. However, I am certain I have gained favour.’

  ‘It is never a bad thing to have friends in the highest places,’ came the somewhat sneering reply. ‘I fear ‘tis a great pity that there will be no invasion, for you are obviously well-placed to put an end to the line of Hanover.’

  ‘But there will be news of an invasion, I can promise you that,’ smiled Thurleigh. ‘Rumours are already rife in Town and the movement of men and arms to the western shores, however small the actual numbers, can only fuel the speculation.’

  ‘And what good will that do us?’

  ‘I have told you, my friend, I never pass on more than it is necessary for you to know. But,’ he paused, thoughtfully regarding his guest, ‘in this case, I am so pleased with my little scheme that I will tell you! The Princess thinks me her only friend: she hates the King and distrusts Cumberland, fearing that he wishes to be rid of his nephews and take the throne for himself. You may smile, Boreland, for you know as well as I that the Duke has no such notions. His current unpopularity is mainly undeserved, but it suits my purpose admirably! To continue: the lady is already disturbed by the rumours that are flying about Town concerning the French and Charles Stuart, and is in no way comforted by the King’s dismissal of such reports. Thus, as speculation grows, she will become ever more concerned for the safety of her children. I shall then come to her aid, and at a suitable moment I intend to spirit the whole family away to a place of safety.’ He smiled. ‘Think of it, Boreland: the disappearance of the heir to the throne. There will be chaos. I shall make sure some suspicion falls upon Cumberland. That should cause a few riots! Then mayhap the Jacobite cause may once more raise its standard, and once it is seen abroad what turmoil the country has been cast into,
I have no doubt that France will wish to turn it to her own advantage. England will be at her mercy, Charles Stuart will reclaim his throne, with the help of his French cousins, to whom he will of course show due gratitude….’

  ‘And also to yourself, my lord?’ grinned Boreland.

  ‘There you have it, sir. If, however, no such success is forthcoming for the Stuarts, I shall of course protect my royal charges until such time as the young King may return safely to his court.’

  ‘Young King?’ Boreland frowned.

  The marquis met his eyes with a bland smile.

  ‘Oh, did I forget to mention it? At the same time that I spirit away the royal children, the King is to be assassinated.’

  * * * *

  Boreland awoke the next morning in no very good humour. He had a splitting headache, and since no-one could doubt the quality of the wines Lord Thurleigh allowed to grace his table, Boreland realized his present state must be due to the quantity consumed the previous evening. Indeed, he thought grimly, his host’s mellowness was some proof of that, for rarely was Guy Morellon so forthcoming about his plans. As he rose unsteadily from his bed, Boreland found himself wondering if his brain was playing tricks on him: had Thurleigh really said that he planned to kill the King? He walked over to the washstand, filled the bowl from the heavy jug and plunged his head into the icy water. The shock of cold revived his memory, and last night’s conversation came floating back to him.

  ‘If you are busy with the heirs to the throne,’ he had said to his host, ‘who is to dispose of the King?’

  He remembered Thurleigh’s cold grey eyes watching him over the rim of his glass.

  ‘Why, it must be you, of course, James. A man of your standing should have no difficulty in obtaining a private audience with our revered monarch.’

  ‘And how do you propose that I get away after completing my task?’

  ‘That is for you to arrange. I have no doubt you will hit upon a solution.’ Thurleigh had leaned forward, his voice suddenly urgent. ‘There is no-one else I would trust to the task. Oh, I have no doubt I could find a dozen willing to attempt it, men with grievances to avenge, or a liking for murder, but they cannot be relied upon should things go wrong. Poyntz is dead: so too is Rowsell, that leaves only you or Furminger, and the bishop really does not have the stomach for the task.’