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

  “My lord,” said Mr. Barks, sweating with excitement. “I have a present for you.”

  And what do I do with this animal? wondered the marquess crossly. Send it to the menagerie at the Tower, I suppose.

  But aloud, he said politely, “You do us great honor, Mr. Barks. May we expect the unveiling?”

  “Certainly, my lord,” gasped Mr. Barks. “Stand back, ladies and gentlemen.”

  The cage was placed in the center of the saloon. Couples, anxious to resume dancing, stood about, half curious, half irritated.

  Inside the cage, Polly tensed.

  The satin cover was twitched aside. Polly Jones looked out at the beau monde, and the beau monde stared back.

  “I do not know this lady,” said the marquess harshly.

  “But you will, my lord,” crowed Mr. Barks. “She is yours. A virgin!”

  So this was the marquess of Canonby. Polly surveyed him calmly, trying to assess how easy he would be to outwit. He was tall and very handsome. Under his powdered wig, his face was lightly tanned. His eyes were green, flecked with gold and heavy-lidded. He had a high proud nose and a firm, uncompromising mouth. He was dressed in a blue silk coat embroidered with gold. His shoulders were unfashionably broad and square for this age when men considered sloping shoulders a sign of genteel birth. His legs encased in blue silk breeches and white-clocked stockings were well shaped and muscular. A foam of white Mechlin lace was at his throat and fine Mechlin lace fell at his wrists under the wide embroidered cuffs of his coat. His long white silk waistcoat was elaborately embroidered with crimson and gold flowers and fastened with a long row of gold buttons. Diamonds blazed in his cravat and on his fingers, on the jewelled hilt of his dress sword and on the gold buckles of his shoes.

  The marquess looked curiously at Polly, at the alabaster skin, the pink virginal mouth and the strong swell of two excellent breasts. His one thought was that this virgin must have cost Barks a fortune.

  Then he realized the caged girl was staring beyond him. He swung about.

  Lady Lydia Meresly stood there, her hand to her brow. As he watched, she clutched at Bertram Pargeter’s sleeve and said faintly, “Get my husband. Get Meresly. Take me home.”

  Bertram caught her about the waist, his eyes darting first to her white face and then to Polly’s. Lady Lydia’s hair was powdered, as was Polly’s. The resemblance between them was marked. And then Bertram realized he had seen Polly’s violet eyes before. He was sure this was the girl from the churchyard. His grasp on Lady Lydia tightened with excitement and she moaned faintly.

  “Do as the lady says,” snapped the marquess. “Ah, Meresly. Your wife feels faint and would go home.”

  The earl of Meresly, a tall handsome ruin of a man, came quickly forward. He thrust Bertram rudely away and picked up his wife in his arms.

  The marquess turned his attention back to Polly. He signalled to two footmen. “Take her to my bedchamber,” he said, “and lock her in. I’ll deal with her later.”

  Mr. Barks winked and nudged Mr. Caldicott gleefully. Both men unlocked Polly’s cage and stood back. “Thank you, Barks,” said the marquess in chilly accents. “Most original. Now, if we can but remove that cage, the dancing may commence.”

  Polly sat in a chair by the fire in the marquess of Canonby’s bedchamber and looked about her with wide eyes. The room had been decorated in the latest Chinese fashion. It was dominated by a great black and gold lacquered bed with a pagoda-like canopy. The flock wallpaper depicted little Chinese figures crossing and recrossing bridges. The furniture was upholstered in yellow silk. Polly, feeling bolder, stood up to explore. On the mantel were a couple of beautiful gold and enamel snuffboxes. On a table by the bed was a shoe horn of ivory with a silver handle. On a chest of drawers stood a jewel box, the lid up and the contents blazing in the candlelight.

  Polly’s magpie senses quickened. All about her lay the means to freedom and independence. Only a few of these trinkets would set her up for life. The marquess had so much, he would not miss a few pieces. Fear left her. She remembered all the elation she had felt when she had stolen from Meresly Manor. Her gown boasted slits at either side which led down to pockets in the petticoat. Moving quickly, she slipped into her pockets one of the snuffboxes, the shoe horn, one ruby ring, a small bird made of jade with emerald eyes, and a silver patchbox.

  She heard someone at the door and quickly resumed her seat, a guilty flash staining her cheeks. A footman came in carrying a tray. Polly looked hopefully past him but there was another footman in the doorway, standing guard. The footman placed the tray, which held a selection of cakes and a small decanter of wine, beside Polly and turned to leave the room. “Feeding the prisoner, are we?” jeered Polly, but the shutting and relocking of the door was the only reply.

  Polly eyed the wine doubtfully. What if it were drugged? She decided to take a little sip and wait for results. The wine was sweet and heady. She took another sip and another. There was no reaction other than a pleasant warm glow spreading through her stomach. The cakes were delicious. Polly finished them all down to the last crumb. The chair in which she was seated was comfortable and the fire was warm. The noise and music of the party filtered only faintly up to her.

  She tried in vain to keep her eyes open, but after a few minutes, she was sound asleep.

  The marquess of Canonby entered the room half an hour later and stood looking down at her. Her long black lashes were fanned out over her cheeks. She slept as quietly and innocently as a young child.

  He hated to disturb her sleep, but he wanted rid of her. Barks had made him feel like some sort of slave trafficker. It was fashionable, for example, to have black servants, but he swore he would take to employing them only when they were as free as Englishmen, and there were a growing number in society who held the same opinion. The very idea of this girl having been bought for his pleasure sickened him, although surely she could not be as innocent as she looked.

  He shook her gently by the shoulder. “Wake!” he commanded. Polly’s eyes flew open. What a strange color they were, he mused. Violet. Like Lady Lydia’s. Some malicious guests had been quick to point out the resemblance between the girl in the cage and the earl of Meresly’s wife, but the marquess and most of the others put this down to spite. Lady Lydia had few friends and so she was often the victim of malicious comment. And it was not unusual for ladies to faint in an age when fashion demanded tighter and tighter lacing and smaller and smaller waists.

  Polly sat up, looking at him warily.

  He pulled up a chair and sat next to her. “Where do you come from, child?” he asked.

  His voice was deep and well modulated. His eyes were hooded and remote.

  “I come from the country,” said Polly. “I was took by a Mrs. Blanchard when I arrived and she tricked me by saying she could find me work in a nobleman’s household. She runs a brothel in Covent Garden.”

  “I know,” said the marquess curtly.

  “I suppose you do,” said Polly with such contempt in her voice that he added, “I am not, however, one of Mother Blanchard’s customers. Go on.”

  “Well, I was kept prisoner for ever so long,” said Polly, stifling a cavernous yawn. The marquess found himself disappointed at the rough country accents of her voice. Provided she never opened her mouth, she could pass for a lady anywhere. “Then,” Polly went on, “I was tricked out in this finery and put in a cage and brung here. I knew I was to be a present for you.” She studied his brooding expression. “Look, my lord,” said Polly urgently, “you don’t need me. There’s plenty o’ women would bed with a lord.”

  “Thank you. I am glad to know my title makes me irresistible.”

  “Oh, it’s not just that, my lord,” said Polly.

  “Were you thinking of my devastatingly handsome looks?” he asked sarcastically.

  “No,” said Polly candidly. “I was thinking about all your money.”

  “Did Mother Blanchard not think it necessary to instruct you in the arts o
f pleasing men? You are blunt to the point of rudeness.”

  “Well, she tried,” said Polly, beginning to feel comfortable. She kicked off her shoes and luxuriously wriggled her toes. “There was a peephole in this room and she made me look through it. There was a man and a woman fiddling about.” Polly’s brow wrinkled. “Ever so sad, it was.”

  “I meant, pleasing in manners. But I am beginning to believe you are a virgin. Why was it sad?”

  “I don’t know, somehow. See, this wagonner took me up on the London road and he talked about his wife and children in such a way—loving, like. I know in here,” said Polly, pointing to the region of her heart, “that’s how it should be.”

  “You seem remarkably unafraid of me. Why?”

  “Life has begun to seem … dangerous. I’ve learned to live a little bit at a time. Here I am, warm and rested, in a pretty room with pretty things.” She cast a covetous eye around the remaining objets d’art and wondered whether she should have taken more. He followed her glance and his eyes sharpened a little before returning to her face.

  “Why did you leave the country?”

  “My aunt died and the squire’s men came to turn me out of the cottage.”

  “But as your late aunt’s niece you have a right to the tenancy!”

  “Maybe,” said Polly with a toss of her head. She had no intention of letting this grand lord know she was a foundling. “I heard how London servants were well clothed and fed so I decided to travel to Town.”

  “And what did you do before the death of this aunt? How were you employed?”

  “I didn’t do nothing,” said Polly. “My aunt wouldn’t let me. She sent me to the village school. But the day she died, she went to Meresly Manor and I thought she had changed her mind at last and meant to find me work.”

  “Your aunt obviously had enough for both of you. What did she do?”

  “She was the wise woman of the village. She told fortunes, and made potions. People come … came … from far and wide to see her.”

  Polly thought of Meg, patient wise old Meg, and unshed tears brightened her eyes.

  “Enough.” He stood up. “I have no need of you. You may go.”

  Polly stood up as well and looked at him in a dazed way. “You don’t want me?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  Polly felt an irrational stab of pique. Her experiences at the brothel had strengthened rather than shaken her knowledge that she was beautiful. Despite herself, she threw him a coquettish look and sank into a deep curtsy.

  A slight look of distaste crossed his eyes. Polly slipped on her shoes and minced to the door on her high heels.

  “A moment,” said the marquess. “You may leave behind the belongings you have thieved from me.”

  Polly’s face flamed. “How dare you call me a thief,” she raged. “I am as innocent as the day. I am …”

  “I am giving you just one more chance to hand over my bits and pieces, you little magpie.”

  Polly gave him a haughty stare. “Fiddle, my lord, I cannot hand over what I have not got.”

  He crossed the room quickly to stand in front of her. She threw up her hands to protect her face, thinking he meant to slap her. But he bent down, picked her up by the ankles as she screamed and screamed and shook her hard, dangling her upside down. Unmoved by her screams or by the delectable view of a shapely pair of legs in white silk stocking and scarlet garters or by the sight of a well-rounded bare white bottom, the marquess watched as snuffboxes and all rattled out over the floor. Then he dumped her unceremoniously on the floor.

  Polly scrambled to her feet and pulled down her skirts. “You are no gentleman,” she said. “Your servants drugged that wine and slipped those things in my pocket.”

  “Not only a thief but a liar who would try to ruin the reputation of my servants! Get out. Get out before I throw you out!”

  With her head held high, Polly stalked from the room. She minced along the passage and then took off her shoes and began to run. She ran silently down the great staircase to the hall. In a saloon upstairs, the lords and ladies were performing charades and the servants had been encouraged to swell the audience. No one noticed her going. She saw an anteroom door standing open containing hats, cloaks and shawls. Quickly she slipped inside and rummaged through the pockets until she found a guinea piece. Then she selected the best of the cloaks and swung it about her shoulders. Gently she opened the street door and crept outside. Two chairmen had just deposited their burden outside a neighboring house and were making their way off.

  “Chair!” called Polly. “Chair!”

  The Irish chairmen gasped at the idea of carrying anyone as far as Shoreditch until Polly produced the guinea and held it up. They hurriedly agreed. Polly wearily climbed inside and was borne off through the nighttime streets.

  “Well, my lord,” leered Mr. Barks when the marquess rejoined his guests. “How did you enjoy your present?”

  Much as he disliked the whole idea of the gift, the marquess felt it would be churlish to say so. Besides, Mr. Barks had obviously spent a great deal of money.

  “I did not have an opportunity,” he said. “Your present ran away.”

  Mr. Barks staggered and put out his hand to support himself. “Ran away?” he echoed faintly.

  “Yes, my friend.”

  Despite his distress, Mr. Barks was emboldened by that “my friend.” “Tol rol,” he said airily. “We shall find her for you. Did I tell you my good wife is coming to Town and is desirous of an entrée to the royal drawing room? I know you have great influence at court and so …”

  “I have no influence,” said the marquess icily. He turned on his heel and walked away.

  Polly sat in Silas Brewer’s little kitchen with her bare feet among the ashes and smiled sleepily about her. She felt warm and safe. Mrs. Betty Brewer stared open-mouthed at Polly’s gorgeous robe and fashionably powdered hair.

  Opposite Polly sat Silas Brewer, worry creasing his brow.

  Polly yawned. “All I need is a good night’s sleep,” she said.

  Silas shifted uncomfortably. “Well, it’s a bit difficult, Polly,” he said. “I hate to worry you after all the fritful adventures you has had. But that there—” He jerked his head toward a curtained recess. “Is where we sleep, that’s me and missus and childer. Ain’t no room for no one else, nor would it be fitting like. Now, I did hear of a merchant, a Mr. Gander, over in Cheapside what is looking for likely girls as servants. Get what rest you can, and I’ll take you there tomorrow.”

  Polly went very still. She wanted to burst into tears, to cry out that she was safe at last, that she did not want to go back out into the wicked world so soon. She looked about her. This little kitchen must be all the room that Silas had. It was neat and shining, a small oasis of warmth and decency in a wicked city. Polly closed her eyes, and images of Mrs. Blanchard, Mr. Barks, Mr. Caldicott, Jake and Barney danced in front of her eyes. I must not whine or complain, she told herself severely. I must not be a burden to Silas.

  “I’ll need to have clothes fitting for a servant,” said Polly aloud. “See here, we can sell these I’m wearing. You can keep what money is left after I buy what’s necessary.”

  “I can get a lot of money for those,” said Silas. “But we’ll keep the change by for you. That cloak will fetch a bit. A good thing that brothel keeper was so generous.”

  Polly flushed slightly and looked away. Something told her that if she confessed to stealing the cloak, then Silas would take it back. Silas was poor, but he must go to bed each night with a free conscience. In that moment, Polly resolved to get that job with the merchant and work hard and diligently and earn every penny.

  When Polly finally fell asleep in a chair in front of the fire, and the Brewers nestled together in their communal bed, the clocks were striking midnight. In Boston, in America, a gentleman was just finishing his supper and deciding to look through the post which he had neglected to open that morning.

  Mr. John Carp
enter, former curate of the parish of Upper Batchett, now the Reverend John Carpenter of St. Charles in Boston, had admired and respected old Meg Jones. When he had left for America, he had told her to write to him from time to time to let him know the progress of her odd little foundling, Polly. He had left when Polly had been a chubby toddler of three years. As time passed, he had almost forgotten about Meg.

  Now, as he stared down at her letter, memories came rushing back, memories of Meg brewing up her aromatic herbal potions in a black iron pot over the fire in her cottage, Meg who looked like a witch and had the heart of a saint.

  He read her letter carefully, and then read it again in growing amazement. “Dear Mr. Carpenter,” it began in thin spidery writing, “I fear I am Not Long for This World, having Frequent Palpitations of the Heart of which I have said Nothing to Polly. She is the Legitimate Daughter of the Earl and Countess of Meresly, and her real name is Lady Mary Palfrey, Palfrey being the Family Name of the Mereslys. It came about that Lady Lydia Meresly was with child and her husband was at the Wars. He had his mind set on a Son, and my lady was affeart that should she give Birth to a Daughter, then he would have the marriage Annulled. She membered me for she came here when she was but a little girl with a Party of Fine Folk to have her Fortune told. She told no one but me she was Quick with Child, and went into Hiding in Meresly Manor. No servants had she, only old Meg to attend her. It was a girl, Polly, and she made me swear an oath to drown it and Paid me Well. I knew if I refused, then she would Kill the baby herself. So I kept Polly and I brought her up. I thought she would grow up to be a natural Aristocrat but I have let her run Wild and she has coarse ways and coarse speech. I learn that Lady Lydia is coming back to the manor and I am going to Plead with her, for I have Learned she gave her lord two daughters, twins, and he did nothing Bad and is said to Dote on them. Why should they have the jewels and dresses and my poor Polly none of what is rightfully hers? You said one day you would Come Back on a visit. Please find my Polly and see Right is Done by her. Do not Write to Lady Lydia for she may yet Do Harm to the Girl, for perhaps her lord will not believe her and Think that Polly is a bastard Lady Lydia is trying to Conceal. I have learned My Lady has been in the way of taking Lovers from time to time, for my lord has become a wrecked man, no longer Powerful and Strong, and lets her do Much as she Pleases.