Dancing on the Wind (The Regency Intrigue Series Book 8) Read online

  There was a fumbling and scraping at the lock, the door swung open, and both Barney and Jake stood there. “Come along o’ us,” said Barney, brandishing his pistol.

  Polly walked before them, her head held high. Somehow she would escape this terrible place, out into that magic world peopled by wonderful creatures such as the couple she had seen in the Strand.

  They urged her in front of them down a narrow staircase and into a room on the first floor. It was small and dark and lit only by one candle. Mrs. Blanchard sat on a stool next to a curtain which covered one wall.

  “Now, my dear,” she said on seeing Polly, “you are to be trained to please a fine gentleman and you must learn our arts.”

  “What did you do to me when I was drugged?” asked Polly harshly.

  “Nothing,” said Mrs. Blanchard calmly. “I had to make sure you were a virgin, and you are, still. That is your worth. Come here, girl, and kneel on the floor by me.”

  “Virgins ought to ’ave virginal minds,” said Barney suddenly from behind Polly. “Don’t see no reason for this.”

  “Stow your whids,” grated Mrs. Blanchard, her voice coarse and sharp. “Keep her covered. Polly, kneel by me or you get your brains blown out.”

  With a defiant shrug, Polly did as she was bid.

  Mrs. Blanchard drew aside the curtain over the wall, revealing a small peephole. “Put your eye to that, Polly girl, and keep it there.”

  Kneeling, Polly put her eye to the hole. She found herself looking directly into another room, at a sofa on which a man was lying while a female, naked to the waist, lay across him. He was drinking from a bottle of wine, occasionally setting it on the floor to fondle the girl’s breasts. The girl was about Polly’s age, and her eyes had a dead-fish look about them. Then the man stood up and said something and the girl got up as well. She hitched up her skirts and then lay down inelegantly on the sofa, one thin stick-like leg over the back. The man fumbled in his breeches and then mounted her.

  Polly watched them indifferently. Had she been a town girl, the scene might have horrified and disgusted her. But she had seen animals mating too many times to find anything unusual and interesting about the spectacle before her. She had stumbled over too many coupling bodies on the hayfields to be alarmed. And yet a part of her mind, as innocent and untouched as only a virgin’s can be, wondered what all this had to do with love and honor. Her knees hurt from kneeling on the floor. She wanted peace and quiet to think. Obviously these people would expect some sort of reaction. So Polly cried out, “I cannot bear it!” and pretended to fall over in a faint.

  “Oh, the pore thing!” she heard Jake exclaim.

  “Don’t seem right,” grumbled Barney.

  “Figs. What has come over you gallows-birds,” snarled Mother Blanchard. “You’ve been with me only two days and already you are turning soft. Do you know how much I’m going to get for handing this lovely into the marquess of Canonby’s bedchamber? A fortune!”

  Polly lay very still. So she was to be sold. She thought hard. If she could not escape from this brothel—for she knew beyond all doubt where she was—then all she had to do was bide her time until she was delivered to this marquess. Neither Barney nor Jake nor Mother Blanchard would be expected to follow her into the nobleman’s bedchamber. There would be only Polly, and one aristocrat who would not expect any resistance.

  Jake spoke from somewhere behind her. “This marquess wants a bit o’ novelty, mother. Stands to reason he wants a proper virgin, not one versed in the tricks o’ the whoring lay.”

  “’S right,” drawled Barney.

  “But if she knows how to please him,” said Mrs. Blanchard, “she may be in the way of putting some more money our way. If she don’t know how to please him, he may be shot of her quick.”

  “Naw,” said Jake. “Them lords can get all the whoring they want. Like to do the eddicating themselves, if you ask me.”

  “When did you turn philosopher,” grumbled Mrs. Blanchard. “Oh, very well. Lock her up in her room. My buyers are coming soon to see her. Her skin’s still tanned. I could cover her up with blanc, but she’d look better natural. Throw a jug of water over her.”

  Polly quickly pretended to recover consciousness.

  Barney escorted her up the stairs to her room. “A poor life for a man,” said Polly, confronting him, her hands on her hips.

  “If you’d faced transportation as I ’ave, you’d not sneer,” said Barney grimly. “The law don’t bother Ma Blanchard and so they don’t bother me.”

  “What was you arrested for?” asked Polly.

  “Thieving wipes.”

  “Stealing handkerchiefs. Pooh!” said Polly airily. “I did better’n that.”

  “Go on, a child like yourself!”

  “’S true. I took two silver candlesticks, a china piece and a gold snuffbox and sold ’em, ’cept your mistress took the money away with my basket.”

  “You kin hang for that.”

  “Why wasn’t you hanged?”

  “Ma Blanchard was looking for workers so she hired witnesses outside the court to say I hadn’t done it. Did the same for Jake. Jake and me’s bin together since we was in the orphanage. So we come to work for her just this week. Don’t you go thieving, Poll, ‘cause that road leads to Tyburn.”

  “You mean I ought to lead a clean and decent life by becoming some nobleman’s whore?”

  Barney shifted his squat bulk uneasily. “Ain’t too bad,” he said. “You gets food and pretty clothes. Save all them baubles he gives you, if you like, and then me and Jake’ll take them to a fence for you.”

  “A what?”

  “A chap that buys stolen goods.”

  “Fiddle-de-dee. I’ll sell ’em to a regular jeweller like I did the last.”

  “Yes, but what if his nibs ups and says you stole them? And what was you about to pop stuff at a proper jeweller for? When it’s found missing, they’ll ask the jewellers and they’ll give a description o’ you.”

  “Barney!” Mrs. Blanchard called from downstairs. Barney darted from the room, locking the door behind him.

  In the long and weary days of her imprisonment that followed, Polly tried to engage Barney and Jake in conversation but they answered her curtly and refused to stay longer than necessary.

  Christmas came and went, the event marked for Polly by a small sprig of holly placed on a slice of plum pudding. She looked sharply at Barney, knowing that Mrs. Blanchard would hardly have added this frivolous touch, but he only looked away and said gruffly, “Won’t be long now, Poll.”

  The reason for the long delay was that the marquess of Canonby had decided to go out of Town and celebrate his birthday in the country. But he was to hold a party at the end of January, and Mr. Caldicott and Mr. Barks planned to present Polly to him then.

  At the turn of the year, Polly was at last brought downstairs. Mr. Barks and Mr. Caldicott were going to call to inspect her. Her now-white skin was bathed in lemon juice to make sure it stayed that way. Her long tresses were twisted up in hot clay rollers. Then a little hairdresser who appeared terrified of Mrs. Blanchard unwound the rollers and proceeded to backcomb Polly’s hair up over a black silk cushion. When it had reached the desired height, it was dusted with a cloud of white scented powder. Then she was strapped into long stiff stays which pushed up her breasts. Over a blue quilted petticoat went a white satin stomacher laced from side to side with blue cord. The exquisitely frilled three-quarter-length sleeves of the petticoat were drawn through the sleeves of a gown of blue lutestring, looped up at the hem with garlands of silk daisies to show the petticoat. Blue shoulder knots ornamented the sleeves at the top and three strands of pearls were tied around her neck with a white satin ribbon. Small posies of daisies were placed in her hair just above her ears. She wore fine white silk stockings and black pointed shoes with high red heels. One of the prostitutes who was acting as lady’s maid for Polly’s embellishment muttered jealously in her ear, “Enjoy it while you may. You’ll soon be one
of us,” and Polly looked at the girl’s young-old face and wasted figure and shuddered.

  At last she was seated on one of the red silk sofas in the “boudoir,” and Mr. Barks and Mr. Caldicott were ushered in.

  Mr. Caldicott drew in his breath in a little hiss and Mr. Barks stood and goggled. Polly’s violet eyes looked enormous in her white face. There was a small black patch at the corner of her mouth but her face was free from paint. Another black patch ornamented the swell of her left breast, revealed by the low-cut gown.

  She looked disdainfully at the two men. “This is a lady,” said Mr. Caldicott sharply. “You’ll run us into trouble, mother.”

  “She’s nothing but a country girl,” said Mrs. Blanchard with a shrug. “I saw her arrive in a wagon and followed her. Fine clothes make her. She’s only got to open her mouth and you’ll know she’s not a lady.”

  “Odd’s fish,” said Mr. Barks in awe. “My good wife will be presented this year without a doubt. What loveliness!”

  “When are you taking her?” snapped Mrs. Blanchard. “She’s been here for ages, eating her stupid head off.”

  “Two days’ time,” said Mr. Caldicott. He slapped his knee. “We’ll put her in a box like a regular present.”

  “Fool,” said Mrs. Blanchard. “The girl would suffocate ’fore she got there.”

  But Polly’s beauty had urged Mr. Caldicott’s imagination to great heights. “We’ll put her in a cage, like they do with the wild beasts at the fair. A gilt cage on wheels. And we’ll drape it with a satin cloth. ‘Your present, my lord,’ you’ll say, Barks. You whip back the cloth. His eyes will be dazzled. You will have his favor for life!”

  Mrs. Blanchard looked amused. Barney and Jake looked stunned. To Polly, it was all some horrible dream. And yet that dream still held one little glimmer of hope. She would be outside soon, and perhaps outside there was hope of escape. These monsters were used to keeping girls prisoner. But an aristocrat would not be so vigilant. Perhaps if she behaved very badly, he would throw her out into the street and then she could find her way to Shoreditch and to Silas.

  The audience was over. Polly was taken back to her “cell” by Barney and Jake. They gazed at her with something approaching reverence. “Blessed if you ain’t the prettiest thing I ever did see, Poll,” said Barney.

  “Please do one thing for me,” pleaded Polly. “I don’t want my money back. Find where Ma Blanchard’s got my basket and see if you can find a scrap o’ paper she took off my body with a Shoreditch address on it.”

  “Bit dangerous,” said Barney uneasily. “Fact is, Polly, me and Jake ain’t suited for this here lay. Ma Blanchard’s beginning to say we’re soft about you and is threatening to have us whipped.”

  “Oh, just look for that scrap o’ paper,” pleaded Polly.

  The two men shifted restlessly. “Don’t seem much,” said Jake. “We’ll look, but don’t you go trying to run away, for we’ll have to shoot you or Ma Blanchard would shoot us herself. While we’re away, you’ve got to get out of those fine clothes but leave your hair as it is. Ma ain’t going to pay for another head. And if you tear it out, she’ll whip you.”

  “No, she won’t,” said Polly cynically. “She wants the goods to stay unmarked.”

  Jake grinned. “You’re learning fast, Poll. But think on’t. Better a bit o’ discomfort than having it all done over again and Ma screeching and hollering.”

  “Anything,” said Polly wearily. “Just find me that paper.”

  When her two jailors had left, she carefully slipped off the new clothes, laid them on the bed, and put on the sack dress.

  After an hour, the door opened and Barney and Jake came in. Ever vigilant, Barney kept her covered with the pistol while Jake picked up the clothes. Then Barney threw a grimy scrap of paper on the floor. “Think that’s it,” he said gruffly.

  Polly scooped it up and put it in her bosom. With a bit of luck, she might be in Shoreditch in two days’ time.

  Even Mrs. Blanchard was impressed with the arrangements for Polly’s departure. She was placed in a gilt cage like a circus cage, and seated on a gilt chair. The cage was then draped with white satin. The combined forces of Mr. Caldicott’s servants and Mr. Barks’s servants were there to escort it with flaming torches through the streets of London. Barney and Jake leaned out of an upper window of the brothel and watched and watched until the cage and its entourage had turned a corner of the street and disappeared from view.

  Jake struggled to express unfamiliar feelings. At last he wiped his nose on his sleeve and said, “Don’t life seem a bit cold and dirty wiffout her?”

  “You’re soft,” sneered Barney, but he bit his thumb furiously and then spat with accuracy on the head of a passing beadle to relieve his feelings.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The noise and clamor of the London streets rose once more about Polly Jones as her cage was wheeled westwards. At one point she thought freedom might be at hand, for she heard some hoarse masculine voices yell, “Hey, what ha’ ye? A wild beast? Let us see!” Then there were the sounds of blows and curses as her entourage fought off what sounded like a great many attackers. Her cage tilted dangerously and she clutched at the bars for support. But soon the noise of fighting died away and once more she felt herself being trundled onwards.

  What would Aunt Meg think? wondered Polly. For all her white witchcraft, Meg had been a religious woman and attended church every Sunday, making the rebellious Polly go with her. But Polly had paid scant attention to the service, flashing her eyes at the village boys instead. She had just begun to enjoy the power of her beauty when Meg had died. But her beauty had turned out to be a disaster. Polly tried to pray but found she could not. God had let Meg die. God had sent the squire’s bailiffs to turn her out. If she prayed, then God might know where she was and send down some more divine punishment. Polly turned her thoughts to Silas Brewer. There were kind people in the world, decent people who led blameless lives. Somehow she would get to Shoreditch, and once there, she would find respectable employment. Then she could find out where Lady Lydia and the earl of Meresly lived and see if she could think up a way to get close to them, to question them about Meg’s death.

  The streets were quieter now. Suddenly, the cage jerked to a halt and she felt it being lifted up off the wheels. “Steady now,” she heard Mr. Barks cry. “Don’t want to damage it.”

  It, thought Polly miserably. I have no soul, no rights; I am become an “it.”

  Then she felt warm scented air about her and the clamor of mincing, affected voices, male and female.

  “What on earth is that idiot Barks up to?” said Lady Lydia Meresly.

  “He has brought a caged present for Canonby,” said Bertram Pargeter. “He doubts, no doubt, to gain influence at court.”

  “Tiresome man. Come and play me at vingt-et-un, Bertram.”

  “Lady of my heart, I would rather play once more in your bedchamber.”

  “You are bold and coarse. I have warned you before that our liaison is at an end.”

  “Why?” pleaded Bertram. “There was much between us.”

  “All history,” laughed Lady Lydia. “Come, Bertram, you grow tedious.”

  Bertram flushed to the roots of his powdered hair. He wanted to strike her, to kiss her, to fall to his knees and beg her to smile on him once more. He had high hopes of that little scene in Upper Batchett and had returned there to ferret out scandal. But all he heard was a tale of some old witch who died after leading a blameless life. The girl in the churchyard had been some foundling bastard, so coarse in spirit she would rather gawp at the great folk than mourn her protectress. No one could remember having seen Lady Lydia in Upper Batchett before that last visit for years and years, and she had never had anything to do with any of the local people.

  The marquess of Canonby’s mansion in St. James’s Square was a blaze of lights. He was rich and gave elaborate parties with three card rooms, a saloon for dancing and an excellent supper. But his affairs were a
lways correct and formal. His guests covertly watched his immobile face as he surveyed the satin-shrouded cage and wondered whether Barks and Caldicott had run mad. The elegant marquess would hardly relish the present of a wild beast.