At noon Guy strolled across the sunny cathedral close toward a handsome double-fronted house near King Edward’s Gate. It had a stone-flagged path and colourful flowerbeds, and was, he’d been informed at the inn, the residence of Mr Francis Prettyman, the former magistrate who’d been Esmond Tremoille’s closest friend. He’d also been informed that the old gentleman had suffered a seizure a month ago, so maybe there was nothing to gain by visiting him, but there might, just might, be something to be learned here. Tilting his top hat back on his head, he walked up the path to the dark-blue door and reached for the gleaming brass knocker. The rapping sounded inordinately loud in the passage beyond, as did the hurrying female footsteps that came in response. A flustered housekeeper in a large mobcap opened the door. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Is Mr Prettyman at home?’ Guy removed his hat.
For a moment she seemed at a loss for words. ‘Well, Mr…?’
‘Valmer, Sir Guy Valmer, Mrs…?’
‘Ferguson. Sir Guy, my poor gentleman is in no state to make acquaintance with anyone. He is not himself, nor will be again.’
Guy was at his most sympathetic and charming. ‘It is a great tragedy, Mrs Ferguson, both for Mr Prettyman and for you, so let me be honest. My desire is to look around the house.’
‘The house is not for sale, sir.’
‘Of course not, nor do I seek to purchase it. I merely wish to look for something, a document that is of great importance to me. I have no wrongdoing in mind, I assure you.’ He dangled a five-pound banknote in front of her.
She stared at it. ‘Look around?’ Without further ado she snatched the note and stood aside for him to enter. ‘Mr Prettyman is in his bed, sir, the third door on the left up the stairs, otherwise you may look where you wish. I’ll ask you no questions, and you’ll give me no reasons.’ Inclining her head, she hurried away across the stone-tiled hallway, past the rather splendid staircase and then down a narrow passage toward the rear of the house.
Guy glanced around. Closed doors lined the hall, and daylight penetrated a fanlight above the front entrance. The smell of beeswax and honeysuckle drifted from the only piece of furniture, a small console table upon which stood an empty dish for cards, and a vase of flowers. He went to the nearest door, and looked in at the dining-room. A cursory inspection told him there was nothing to be found there, for it contained an oval table, six chairs, and a sideboard with a display of reasonable plate. There were landscapes on the wall, and candlesticks and a garniture of oriental jars on the mantelshelf. He looked in the sideboard, but there were no papers at all.
The door directly opposite opened to a blue and oyster-silk drawing-room, small but elegantly furnished. He searched thoroughly, and was about to leave when he looked again at a small portrait, a watercolour of Esmond Tremoille not long before his death. Something about it aroused Guy’s curiosity, and he returned to take it from the wall. It was sealed at the back with the usual glue and brown paper, but a touch revealed the paper to be oddly cushioned. Removing the jewelled pin from his neck cloth, he drew the point carefully along two sides of the brown paper, and then looked inside to see a folded vellum document. As he drew it out carefully, he was confronted by the seals of Esmond Tremoille and the lawyer, Beswick. Hardly able to credit his amazing good fortune, he stared at it for a moment, before the awful thought struck that it might simply be another copy of the will that left everything to Jane Tremoille. So he unfolded it to examine more closely. The brevity of the contents made him want to laugh out loud. I, Esmond Zachary Pentewan Tremoille, being of sound mind, hereby revoke all previous wills and leave my entire estate to my daughter Elizabeth Mary Dorothea Tremoille. The date was a week before Tremoille’s death.
Guy pushed it inside his coat, and then replaced the painting. Suddenly the reacquisition of his family’s stolen lands seemed much closer, and if Fate’s benevolence continued, his bride would soon be within his grasp as well.
The team of six oxen moved slowly south of Gloucester, en route for Frampney, and the heavy, cumbersome wagon trundled awkwardly behind them. Gloucester’s bustle was no more, and the oxen ambled placidly along the causeway that crossed the sunlit meadows and marshland of the Severn floodplain. Rosalind had made herself as comfortable as possible among sacks, casks, tea chests and other necessities. She was deep in thought, clutching her bundle of belongings, and staring back at the city she was leaving for the first time in her life. There’d be no more of the Barker tavern, no more avoiding Ned’s wandering hands, and no more hunger, because her father would be his own master. Prodding a sack of grain, she wriggled a little, and then sat back, her eyes on the road, where puddles filled the ruts and the smell of dung was released in the midday heat.
She was terrified of dropping the money she’d purloined, because her father would know in an instant what she’d done. Conscience didn’t figure in her outlook. Nearly 500 guineas was hers now, so she’d bide her time, wait for the love of her life to come along, and then run off with him to live happily ever after. Dad would never know; well, not until she upped and left, and anyway he only needed twenty guineas for the forge. He’d be happy with that. She smiled a little smile, and closed her eyes. It was so easy to forget that none of this would have been possible were it not for Beth Tremoille. Rosalind didn’t want to think of Beth. Ever again. Jake and the carrier walked beside the wagon, the latter a plump fellow sucking a blade of grass in a manner as bovine as the oxen. He was sixty years old, and wore a smock and a frayed straw hat. His fat cheeks were ruddy, his eyes so deep-set their colour was indeterminate, and his uneven teeth were discoloured from chewing tobacco. He wasn’t much of a man for talking, but Jake made him curious. ‘So, Frampney forge interests you, eh?’
‘If it’s still available.’
‘It was this morning. Old Matty Brown’s past it now, and falls asleep with that darned pipe of his. He’ll have the lot up in flames around him one day.’
‘I met Matty and his wife yesterday and I think they liked me.’
‘Well, as you’ll be the first man to come up with the cash, you’ll be made very welcome. I’m Johnno Walters, by the way, and I do all the fetching and carrying for Frampney.’ He extended a large paw.
Jake accepted it. ‘Pleased to meet you, Johnno. I’m Jake Mannacott, and the wench in the back is my daughter, Rozzie.’
‘Why did you decide to leave town for the sticks?’
Rosalind had heeded Beth’s advice and warned Jake not to mention his sudden good fortune. ‘Oh, what with last night’s riots, and the promise of more trouble to come, Gloucester’s no place for a young girl.’
‘Too right. Darn me, but it’s come to something when honest men feel driven to go around smashing stuff up and robbing. It’s what the likes of the bloody Frogs do, not us.’ Johnno shook his head gloomily, and silence returned for a while.
‘Is there much trade in Frampney?’ Jake asked then.
‘Squire Lloyd’s got some grand high-steppers, and his son, Master Robert races a lot. There’s a good few farmers; the doctor’s got two cobs, and there’s Lord Welland at Whitend, of course.’ Johnno pointed west, where the five-gabled roof and chimneys of a large old house were visible above the trees. ‘He’s got a racing stud, and often uses Matty when his own smith can’t cope.’
‘I’ve heard tell that Welland’s hard on his nags.’
‘Well, he’s no angel, that’s for sure. There was a fright in Frampney a few years back, when it seemed Squire Lloyd was going to sell up to Welland. My God, you should have heard the mass sigh of relief when it didn’t happen.’ Johnno grinned. ‘There’s some who say Welland’s not quite right in the head these days. The Severn’s in front of Whitend, and the new canal passes behind it, and someone I know well said Welland’s suddenly got the frights about being drowned. He seems to have got into a rare old state, convinced the river will bust its banks and the canal too, and no one at Whitend will survive. It’s a wonder he hasn’t started building an ark!’ The carrier wheezed with laughter. ‘Anyway, yes, there’s plenty of work at Frampney forge.’ He cleared his throat and lowered his voice so Rosalind wouldn’t hear.
‘Listen close now, Jake, you’re the father of a ripe young wench, so I have to tell you something important. Master Robert Lloyd’s a handsome hosebird and philandering alley cat who’s left many a bastard in his wake without acknowledgment. You keep a strict eye on your little wench, Jake, because you mark my words, he’ll take one look and get a dick-itch.’
‘If he lays one finger on my Rozzie, I’ll tear his throat out with my bare hands,’ Jake breathed, but nodded his gratitude. ‘Thanks for the warning.’
Johnno flicked his whip and whistled at the oxen, then looked at Jake again. ‘Master Robert excepted, you’ll find Frampney mortal quiet after Gloucester. Squire Lloyd’s a good landlord, fair when need be, and he’s got prosperous farms. There aren’t any manufactories or new-fangled machines to take our livelihoods away, so there’s no unrest.’
Two hours later the ox-wagon lumbered slowly into the wide village green at Frampney and stopped on the corner. Jake looked from the three duck ponds to the forge, and the sheds and little wisteria-hung house behind it. A wisp of smoke rose from the forge, and the sound of metallic hammering drifted on the air. He tugged his cap firmly on his head, grabbed his belongings from the wagon, and then held his hands up to help Rosalind, but she wouldn’t let go of the bundle. He was impatient. ‘Chuck it down, Rozzie, What have you got in there anyway? The Crown bloody Jewels?’
‘Just my things,’ she replied, climbing down awkwardly without assistance.
He turned to Johnno. ‘Thank you, friend.’
‘It was a pleasure, Jake.’ Johnno pointed the whip toward a tavern across the green. ‘I’ll see you tonight over at the George and Dragon, and introduce you to a few folk.’ Johnno whistled and cracked the whip, and the oxen strained forward again, making for the general stores, which lay beyond the tavern.
Jake looked at Rosalind. ‘You wait here with our stuff, and I’ll get on over to the forge. Wish me luck.’ She watched him walk away, and then sat patiently on the verge, her chin in her hands as she stared around. Were all village greens like this? So wide and long? And the houses were all so neat and tidy, with flowers in the gardens and pretty curtains at the windows. Her eyes came to rest on a mansion behind a tall wall with fine gates. It must be Squire Lloyd’s house, she thought, wondering about Robert Lloyd. She’d heard everything Johnno said about the squire’s son, and felt a thrill of excitement. How good it would be if he tried to seduce her. Not that she’d let him.
When Jake presented himself at the forge, where a groom was holding a bay hunter for which a new shoe was needed. Matty Brown continued to hammer for a moment, his skin shining in the glow of the roaring fire. He was a huge man with an immense belly, and was short of breath, He paused to wipe his brow. ‘So, you’re back again?’ he asked in a rasping voice. ‘You’ve got twenty guineas?’
‘Guess so.’
Matty nodded toward the horse. ‘All right, let’s see your work. Finish what I’ve started. Mind now, for it’s the squire’s nag, so do a good job.’
Jake removed his old coat. ‘I don’t do bad jobs, Mr Brown.’
‘We’ll see,’ rasped Matty, sitting heavily in an ancient chair and reaching for his clay pipe. Two horses he’d seen to this morning. Only two, and yet his damned heart was flapping like a great pigeon. Phoebe was right, he couldn’t manage any more, and if this young fellow could shoe a horse, then there was a place for him at Frampney forge.
Jake worked the horseshoe, getting into the rhythm of the hammering, and each blow on the anvil was like ridding himself of everything. He gritted his teeth, bringing the hammer down with such force that the sparks flew high around him. The horse stirred, turning its head to watch, and then starting as the fiery shoe was plunged into the bucket of water. Steam rose, and the water seethed. Jake ran his hand gently over the horse’s flank. ‘Right, my handsome,’ he murmured, ‘let’s be having a look at you.’
A shadow darkened the doorway as Matty’s wife came in with a brimming mug of ale and paused a moment for her eyes to get used to the light. She was small and plump, with a pleasant, good-natured face and rosy cheeks. Her white hair was coiled into a knot and hidden beneath a simple mobcap, and she wore an old-fashioned, pinch-waisted lavender gown, with a clean white neckerchief around her comfortable shoulders. ‘Well, now, Matty Brown,’ she declared on seeing Jake, ‘I thought from all that wild hammering that you’d had a new lease of life. I should have known better.’ She pressed the mug into his free hand.
‘I reckon I’ve got a new partner, Phoebe.’
Jake paused to smile at her, his muscular body aglow in the light of the forge. ‘I’m pleased to meet you again, Mrs—’
‘Just Phoebe,’ she broke in quickly, ‘there’s no formality here. I’m pleased to meet you again too, Jake. In fact, if I were a couple of years younger, I’d make that fine body of yours very welcome indeed!’
Matty guffawed. ‘Get on with you, Phoebe Brown. A couple of years? More like ten or fifteen!’
‘I know what I mean, you old curmudgeon, and I know my way around a man’s flesh. You had a body like that once, until you took to sitting around with ale and a pipe.’
‘Yes, and you were a slender slip of willow once too,’ he countered.
Phoebe laughed and bent to kiss the top of his head, and Matty nodded as Jake finished the horse. ‘You’ll do, my friend, you’ll do.’
Jake’s face showed his relief, then he remembered Rosalind. ‘I’ve got the money, like I said, but I’ve a daughter too, name of Rosalind. I must get somewhere to live. Do you know any rooms to let?’
Phoebe brightened excitedly. ‘Oh, well now, we’ve rooms, eh, Matty? The front bedroom and the back attic. Both are good, dry and warm in winter. How old is your girl, Jake? And what happened to your wife?’
‘Rosalind’s sixteen, and my wife, God rest her soul, died four years back.’
Phoebe eyed him. ‘And there’s no woman in your life?’
‘There was, but she left. There’s just Rosalind and me now.’
Matty turned to his eager wife. ‘Reckon it would please you, eh?’
‘Oh, Matty, you know it would!’ She gave him a huge hug.
Matty held his hand out to Jake. ‘It’s a deal, Jake Mannacott. You’re welcome, and so is your daughter. And I’d be obliged if you’d call me Matty from the outset.’
Jake was almost overwhelmed. This was his dream alive and shining, but wounded and bleeding too because Beth wasn’t sharing it with him.
Guy returned to the Crown with the will, but on entering his room was startled by a lilting female voice. ‘Well, now, if it isn’t my handsome English rover.’
‘Maria?’ He turned to see her lying on the bed, a delightfully curved figure in a loose pink silk robe. With flaxen hair and amber eyes London’s favourite actress was a very unlikely Irish beauty.
‘And what other lady would you expect to take this liberty?’ she enquired, sitting up and allowing him a full view of her long, shapely thighs and the cluster of dark hair at her crotch. Her breasts were full and creamy white, with dark nipples that thrust against the robe’s dainty fabric.
Guy removed his coat and draped it carefully over a chair before regarding her. ‘I trust you did not travel in such a state of erotic undress?’
‘What, and allow the common people to ogle Puss?’ She smiled. ‘You are the only one I permit to see that, sir, although right now I’m a little miffed with you for obliging me to toddle all the way down here to satisfy my appetites.’
‘My darling, it’s what you’re superb for,’ she murmured. ‘So superb that I’ll have you know this is the fourth inn at which I made enquiries before finding you.’
‘I’m flattered.’
‘So you should be, sir.’
‘And how is Drury Lane managing without you?’ he asked.
‘My understudy is doing her paltry best.’
He smiled. ‘She may outshine you.’
‘That drab little mouse?’ The magnificent amber eyes were scornful. ‘I’ll be welcomed back with laurels and roses. Besides, she has no talent for comedy, and the only laughs she will get are when she falls flat on her fanny.’
‘How unkind.’
‘It’s not my kindness that interests you, sir.’ She edged to the bedpost and then knelt up with her thighs provocatively apart. ‘Come over here and show your appreciation,’ she whispered, pouting her lips.
He hesitated, but it was barely noticeable. He had seldom met a woman of more earthy passions. There was nothing she was not prepared to do in the pursuit of sexual pleasure, and no male fantasy she was not prepared to indulge, but she was a difficult woman, with a ferocious temper and arrogant disregard for anything that did not fall in with her exact requirements. He enjoyed her blatant sexuality but not her character, and had recently begun to debate the wisdom of continuing a liaison that – for him – was based solely on her astonishingly varied sexual repertoire.
She pouted, and a different note entered her voice. ‘Well now, Guy Valmer, I do not leave offers on the table for more than a minute. Either you take it up, or I leave.’
He felt desire stirring. ‘Will you give me time to undress?’ he asked lightly.
She smiled then. ‘You must leave that to me, sir.’ Slipping from the bed she came over as if to link her arms around his neck and lift her lips for a kiss, but, as he bent his head to oblige, she gave a playful laugh and stepped back to begin undoing his neck cloth. ‘Oh, how I love the sound of a neck cloth being drawn from around a man’s neck,’ she breathed, pulling the muslin slowly away. ‘It’s so sensuous and full of promise.’
‘I trust I can live up to expectations.’
‘You will, my darling, you will,’ she replied, reaching down to hold the swelling at the front of his trousers. ‘My, my, what a delightfully big boy you are, my English rover. I vow my thighs are trembling already, and Puss begins to purr.’
‘I trust you and Puss intend to wait for me?’
She laughed and began to undo his waistcoat and shirt. When his chest was exposed, she leaned close, her palms flat against it, and breathed deeply of his scent. ‘You always smell so very good,’ she whispered, her lips moving against his skin and the unexpectedly dark hair across his chest.
‘One does one’s best,’ he said softly, sliding his arms around her.
She pulled away again. ‘No, not yet, not yet!’ He took his arms away having long since learned that the best way was her way. She undid the front of his trousers, and her breath escaped slowly as she touched the tip of his now rigid arousal. ‘Oh, my beautiful English rover, I simply have to worship at such a grand altar,’ she whispered, pushing his trousers down and sinking to her knees in a cloud of strawberry silk. Her hands shook as she guided him into her mouth and began to adore him with her tongue. He closed his eyes as a riot of carnal sensations spread from his groin through the rest of his body. She swayed gently, lost in enjoyment and, as she took him deeper into her mouth, her hands slid around to clasp his hips. Her fingers smoothed and explored, stroked and fondled, as if she would remould him to her own secret design, and she made little sounds of contentment as her pleasure intensified.
Guy’s desire began to mount. His erection was like a rod of hot iron, and he didn’t know how long he could withstand her ministering, but even now, when gratification was so close, a portion of his consciousness regretted what he was doing. This was just a sexual act; he didn’t love her and never had. How much better would it be if he did love her? How much more rewarding and precious? But love had always eluded him.
She drew away suddenly. ‘Now I’ll have you inside me, if you please, sir,’ she declared, thus making it plain that her own needs were all that mattered.
‘And if I refuse?’ he replied.
Her amber eyes flickered. ‘But you won’t, my English rover, because I have you in such a lather now that you’ll do whatever I ask.’
‘Then ask,’ he said.
Their eyes met, and for a moment he saw her uncertainty, but then she gave him a pouting smile. ‘Please make sweet love to me now, my dashing rover,’ she begged, holding her arms up to him almost in supplication.
He smiled, and pulled her to her feet and then scooped her into his arms to place her on the bed. She lay back with her legs spread. ‘Come to Puss, my fine tomcat,’ she invited, slipping a hand between her legs and massaging herself. ‘Make Puss happy.’
‘Would you have me be ill-mannered enough to mount you with my boots on?’
‘Yes, oh, yes, I’ve a mind to try that,’ she answered.
‘As you wish.’ Boots and all, he climbed on top of her, his virility slipping readily between her thighs to nestle against the entrance to her sexual soul. She gasped. ‘Holy Mother, Holy Mother of God.’ The irreverence was torn from her lips as he enslaved her with his devastating masculinity. He, and the voluptuous pleasure he gave her, was everything in her world. This was why she had followed him, why she ached for him, couldn’t stop thinking about him; could never have enough of him.
Guy knew so well how to give her the utmost delight, and without penetrating her, slid the moist tip of his erection against her most private and sensitive flesh. She squirmed and moaned as exquisite sensations melted through her. At last, slowly and commandingly, he pushed inside her, burying himself as deeply as he could before lying perfectly still. His size stretched her, and took her to new heights of rapture. She was almost beyond reason, her muscles tightening convulsively around him, her fingernails digging savagely into his back through his shirt and waistcoat as she writhed, almost mad with gratification. His own control still strong, he moved a little inside her and was immediately rewarded by her almost delirious joy. Suddenly she reached the point of no return, and displayed the ferocious sexual aggression of a tigress. Ripping and clawing, biting and kissing, she ground herself on him in an orgasmic passion that transcended what had gone before. ‘Puss is going to have your soul, your very soul,’ she gasped, working her body on his erection as if she would fuse with it forever. No mortal man could have withstood such an onslaught for long. He began to drive in and out of her, and she cried out with each thrust. When he came she screamed an oath worthy of Billingsgate, her body twitching uncontrollably as she shared the climax. Her legs and arms were wrapped around him, and she held him close until the spasms had finally died away, and then she sank back on the bed, exhausted. He bent his head to kiss her nipple, but her senses were so keen and vibrant that she couldn’t bear to be touched. ‘No, please! It’s too much. Too much.’ Her body quivered, and she closed her eyes. ‘You’re opium, and have made an addict of me.’
He rolled on to his back. ‘And you’ve almost skinned me,’ he murmured, relieved he hadn’t undressed after all.
She turned to lean over him, her flaxen hair spilling warmly over his shoulder. ‘I make no bones about having had many lovers. I may be a good Catholic girl, but still confess my appetites every week. I know what a man can or cannot do for me. You are one apart, my English rover, the only one who gives me such ravishment that afterward I cannot bear to be even breathed upon, let alone touched. It’s an exquisite sensation, for which I thank you.’ She kissed him on the lips, and her tongue explored his mouth before withdrawing. Then she turned away from him, snuggled down, and went to sleep.
Guy was used to her ways, and got up to straighten his clothes and then pour a glass of Madeira. He had various letters to write, concerning affairs on his estates, and when Maria awakened, he intended to send her on her way. He hadn’t wanted her to follow him, but now that she had, and he’d obliged her with what she wanted, he wished her back at Drury Lane as swiftly as possible.
He’d attended to three letters before she stirred, and he set his pen aside cautiously. In recent weeks her moods had swung arbitrarily between loving and loathing. The adoring Puss who went to sleep could as likely be a rabid cat on awakening, so he was seriously considering ending the liaison. He wanted many things from a woman, but not caprices so wilful as to seem unhinged, so he watched as she sat up and pushed her hair back from her face. The strawberry wrap had fallen revealingly from her shoulders. Her nipples were soft now, and her languid movements told him she was still sated, and yet she had an edginess he knew presaged another outburst. Rising from the bed, she pulled the wrap tightly around herself, as if suspecting him of ogling her as she slept. ‘Do you intend to make an honest woman of me?’ she asked suddenly.
He wasn’t about to indulge her. ‘You know that’s impossible,’ he replied bluntly.
‘So, I’m good enough to shag witless, but not to wear your ring?’
‘You’re being unreasonable, Maria, because you already have a husband. You married the theatre manager who contracted you in Dublin, then left him to make your fortune in London. You are Mrs Ambrose Malone, and that is that.’
She turned away distractedly and began to pace up and down, her robe hissing over the wooden floor. ‘But if you could marry me, you would?’ she said then. When he shook his head, her breath snatched and her lips curled back. ‘You slavering, misbegotten English hellhound!’ she breathed.
He rose slowly from the desk. ‘Maria, if your Catholic conscience is such a torment, I suggest you confess to a priest.’
‘My conscience?’ she cried.
‘What else? You come to me like a bitch in heat, get what you want to feed your hunger, and then wake up with guilt weighing so heavily that you behave like this to make yourself feel better. Well, enough. Dealing with you is like dealing with a madwoman!’
‘Yours is the conscience being salved, Guy Valmer! You’ve been callously using me, and what’s left of the gentleman in you rebels at your cruelty.’ Her stiff demeanour and air of wounded pride were so ridiculous that he was amazed she didn’t know it herself, but she appeared to believe herself to have been gravely insulted.
‘View it in that light if you wish, Maria, it’s immaterial to me. Our recent encounters have almost always ended this way, and I want no more.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’d rather I just went away. You bring me here, use me, and—’
‘You came of your own volition. Do stop this idiocy, Maria.’
‘Idiocy? So that’s what you think of my injured character?’ She stalked to the screen in the corner and disappeared behind it. He could hear her dressing furiously, and then she reappeared in a rose-and-grey striped lawn gown and grey silk pelisse, her golden hair swept up beneath a silk bonnet. ‘Good day to you. I will send for my luggage.’
‘Goodbye, Maria.’ Her steps faltered, but then she raised her chin again and swept out, leaving the door wide behind her. Guy breathed out with relief. He didn’t know what was wrong with her, and had tried to be patient and understanding, but it had got him nowhere. He’d come to believe that the kinder he was, the worse she became. Now it was no longer going to be his problem.