‘Elmer, dear,’ said Cecily, turning in surprise at her cousin’s unexpected appearance. ‘Have you come for a nightcap?’
Lord Benistone removed the folded note from his pocket. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ve brought this to show you. Found under Marguerite’s chair. Once she realises it’s missing she’ll be more blue-devilled than she was before, I expect.’
‘Why ever should she be? Have you read it?’
‘Not yet. But what’s she doing getting letters, Cecily? Did you know about it?’
‘She is almost seventeen, dear,’ said Cecily, leading him into the dimly lit drawing room where Oriel and Colonel Harrow were alerted by the sound of his voice. ‘She’s not tied to my apron strings any more than she is to yours.’
‘That’s been one of the problems. D’ye want to read it?’
‘Marguerite’s personal correspondence, Father?’ said Oriel. ‘Ought you to?’
‘If it’s making her miserable, then, yes, I ought,’ said her father, seating himself in the fireside wing-chair and shaking the note open.
‘Might you not be coming too hastily to conclusions, my lord?’ said Colonel Harrow, in a belated attempt to salvage Marguerite’s privacy. But it came too late.
There was an uncomfortable silence as Lord Benistone began to read, though he could not finish it before his hand began to shake uncontrollably, and the crumpled paper was lowered hastily to his knee. ‘It’s...it’s from him!’ he whispered. ‘That...that cowardly...wretch! Tch!’
‘Who, Father?’
On his feet in an instant, Colonel Harrow removed the offending note that shook like a leaf in the elderly man’s hand, transferring it to Cecily who was able to verify what they already suspected. ‘Mytchett!’ she said, unsteadily. ‘What on earth is he doing writing to Marguerite?’
‘And what is she up to,’ Lord Benistone snapped, ‘I wonder? Perhaps you should read it out loud, Cecily, and then we might have an answer.’
Cecily could not, however, quite bring herself to read it word for word, but gave them the sense of it from the most relevant phrases. ‘He wants her to meet him, Elmer.’
‘I’ll bet he does! Over my dead body.’
‘Yes, tomorrow night, Vauxhall Gardens, the firework display, if she wants...oh!...to see her mama...he’ll take her...’
‘Where?’
‘Doesn’t say. Eleven o’clock. But we know the man to be such a liar!’
A sharp cry from the doorway heralded a whirlwind of white muslin as Marguerite flung herself at Cecily, snatching the note out of her hand with a howl of distress. ‘No...no! You should not have done that, Cecily. You of all people. This is private! How could you? Oh....this is too bad.’
But Oriel caught her sobbing sister before she could escape, holding her in a tight embrace as Colonel Harrow closed the door. ‘Hush, dearest. Hush. You cannot keep this to yourself. We’re responsible for your safety, love, and that dreadful man cannot mean a word he says. How could you ever have thought so after what happened to Annemarie? He’s a fiend. You know he is.’
Until she was seated between Oriel and Cecily with their tender hands to soothe her, Marguerite’s loud sobs drowned out much of her explanation. At last it became clear. ‘I wanted to be the one to bring Mama back. You all think...’ Her pretty features were contorted with anguish as she struggled to express her intentions in the face of what she perceived to be a wall of disapproval.
Cecily coaxed it out of her. ‘What, love? What do we think? Come on, you can tell us. This is serious. Won’t you share it with us?’
‘That I haven’t cared...about Mama...not being here...and I have...and I keep doing the wrong things...without knowing why...or what...and I do care so much.’
‘Of course we know you care, silly girl,’ came the irritated response from her father, ignoring the others’ frowns.
Oriel would not let it pass. ‘Father,’ she said, sternly, ‘if you could bring yourself to think of Marguerite as a young lady instead of a silly girl, it might help matters. You may not fully understand why she feels as she does, but Cecily and I can see why she is anxious to make a personal contribution, even by putting herself in danger to do it. Her motives are commendable, even though rather rash. Marguerite, how did you come by this letter?’
‘It was delivered by hand this morning, while you were out. I don’t know who by. I haven’t spoken to the man, or even seen him. That’s the truth, Oriel.’
‘We believe you, love,’ said Cecily. ‘So how did he...?’
‘If you read the rest, you’ll see he was at the theatre when we were there and he saw Annemarie with Lord Verne, so he knows she’s back in society again. He saw me there, too.’
‘So he writes to you?’
‘Well, he wouldn’t write to her, would he? Or to Father. So he’s asked me to meet him tomorrow at the fireworks because he’s assuming I’ll be there. He promises to take me to Mama. He must know where she is.’
‘And you believe him? A man of his sort?’
As her good intentions shattered before her eyes, Marguerite’s sobs burst out once more and were controlled only with some difficulty. ‘What choice is there?’ she howled. ‘I want her back! I don’t care how.’
‘Yes, dearest,’ Cecily said. ‘No wonder you’ve been out of sorts all day with this on your mind. Have you replied to him?’
‘I couldn’t, there’s no address to reply to. I suppose he thinks...’
‘You’ll swallow his silly story,’ said Lord Benistone. ‘Listen to me, Marguerite. When a scoundrel behaves the way he’s done, he forfeits all rights to be believed. If he knows where Mama is, which I doubt, he’d have sent a letter to me direct. But this is all about a ransom. It’s all about money, m’dear. It must have always been about money, right from the start.’
‘I thought I might be the one to bring her back, Papa.’
‘Well then, since I must now begin to regard my little girl as a young lady, I think you ought to be the one to meet him, too.’
‘Elmer!’ Cecily cried. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying, Cec, that Marguerite can keep the rendezvous.’
‘Not alone, surely?’
‘Of course not alone. We’ll all go.’
‘May I come too, my lord?’ said Colonel Harrow. ‘I can make myself useful.’
Lord Benistone eased himself out of the chair as if everything was settled. ‘Certainly, William. You’re family now.’
Cecily had hardly recovered from the shock. ‘What about Annemarie and Lord Verne? Shouldn’t they know about this?’
‘Indeed not, Cecily. They’re off to Warwickshire tomorrow. What’s the point of upsetting her when there’s no need? We can handle this on our own. Anyway, this is Marguerite’s concern, is it not, young lady?’
‘Yes, Papa. Thank you.’
‘Then we’ll thrash out the details tomorrow. No more tears now.’
‘Elmer,’ said Cecily, when Marguerite had left them, ‘ought you to be doing this?’
‘Yes, Cec. I ought. I know exactly what the bastard’s about and I’ve been waiting for a chance to get at him for a year. If it’s fireworks he wants, that’s what he’ll get.’
* * *
The reputation of Vauxhall Gardens as a safe place to spend an evening had suffered in recent years and now, although there were still many attractions to be enjoyed, a rowdy element often spoiled the peace, the music and especially the drinking. For this reason, and also because of the extra thousands expected to turn up for the spectacle of a firework display, neither Cecily nor Lord Benistone had wanted Marguerite to go. He had relented when Oriel and Colonel Harrow had offered to stay by her side all evening. Revised plans now augmented her original escort to include Cecily, Lord Benistone, and no less than three of his lordship’s burly assistants more used to handling bodies of marble and stone than living ones. Packed into two coaches, they set off through dense crowds towards Vauxhall, the horses being forced to a standstill many times before they reached the gates.
Once out of the coaches, however, they had to shout to make themselves heard above the racket. ‘This is impossible,’ Oriel yelled, clinging to Colonel Harrow’s arm. ‘We shall be trampled to death. How shall we ever find him?’
‘He mentioned Milton’s statue,’ her fiancé replied, ‘over on the Rural Downs overlooking the river. Perhaps it’ll be less of a crush over there.’
Jostling, dodging and surging on a tide of shouting people, they made slow progress through the mass of revellers along the tree-lined avenues, passing temples and rotundas, pavilions, picture galleries and booths selling gifts, all brilliantly lit by festoons of coloured gas-lamps. Dance floors bounced in time to the crash of orchestras, the aroma of food from the intimate supper boxes around the sides mingling with the sour stench of sweating bodies and spilt ale.
Cecily grumbled about having to buy expensive tickets to meet a villain like Mytchett. It was not, she said, her idea of a bargain, and why could he not have met Marguerite in a more civilised venue?
‘It’s the crowds who’ll cover his tracks,’ shouted Lord Benistone. ‘If he saw her with a crowd of her friends at the theatre, he’ll assume she’ll be with them here, too, with no one to take care of her properly. Keep her close, Cecily. Don’t let her out of your grasp.’
There was no chance of that. Marguerite had wanted to come with only Oriel and Colonel Harrow as chaperons, but had had no conception of the potential danger from the rowdies who, like packs of hounds, bayed their way through the alleys and gardens, scattering families on all sides. Having been allowed to take a lead part in the plan, she was determined to be the one to find Mytchett amongst so many, though by now she could no longer believe that he would lead her directly to her mother. She stayed close, hemmed in by the solid black defence of the three bodyguards, her eyes darting and blinking at the mirrored reflections on all sides.
Past the large orchestra and sparkling fountain, they eventually managed to reach the Rural Downs, an open area of wild garden with the river in the background where grottos, caves, waterfalls and marble statues had been erected between dark conifers to represent an idyllic countryside. ‘Keep your eyes peeled,’ Lord Benistone told them. ‘The fireworks are due to start soon and that’s when he’ll appear, when everyone’s attention is diverted. Marguerite, he’ll only be looking for you, not us. You go towards him, but not too close. We shall surround him. Cecily, you and Oriel stay beside this tree with William.’
Still muttering, Cecily thought the chances of finding Mytchett in this throng must be slender indeed, but she had not reckoned on Marguerite’s doggedness. ‘There!’ she cried, grabbing her father’s arm. ‘Look, Papa! There, by Milton’s statue. He’s leaning on it. See?’
‘Are you sure? Is that him? I can’t make out his face.’
Marguerite was convinced. ‘Yes, I am sure. I’m going...no...let me go. I’m going to speak to him.’ Before her father could change his mind about her safety, she pushed herself forwards into the crowd towards the lounging figure whose dark-grey coat blended perfectly with the leaden statue, a camouflage that surely could not have been accidental. At that same moment, an ear-splitting scream of fireworks burst into the night sky from a tower erected at the far end of the field. Accompanied by squeals from the crowd and a seemingly orchestrated lifting of heads, the first rocket exploded, effectively redirecting all attention from below to above. The crowds came to an awe-inspired standstill.
Fearlessly, Marguerite stood her ground with only a few yards between them, confronting the young man before he could do more than push himself upright to meet her. ‘No!’ she yelled at him. ‘Don’t come any nearer. Just tell me...where is Mama?’
One could see the attraction, even in such an unlikely situation: tall and well proportioned, the pleasing flash of white teeth as he recognised her, the confident tilt of his head where a grey beaver sat respectably straight on fair wavy hair. The smooth voice was the same too, silky and calming, the voice with which he’d charmed Annemarie. ‘Miss Marguerite,’ he called, holding out a hand towards her, already expecting too much. ‘I’ll take you to her. I know how she’s missed you. Come. You did well to get here on time. Where are your friends? Gave them the slip, did you?’
The whoops and squeals of excitement rose and fell around them, but Marguerite’s attention remained firmly on her mission. ‘Stay there! Tell me where she is. Give me her address. We... I can find her,’ she called.
Mytchett’s eyes darted from side to side, searching the crowd. ‘We? Who’ve you brought with you? Come with me, quickly! I’ll take you there,’ he persisted, pushing towards her, reaching out for a hand, an elbow. Anything. There was now a tone of desperation in his voice.
But a steel hand darted out of the crowd to grasp Mychett’s own elbow, swinging him round with a force that took him unawares. Thinking it was some hooligan, he shook himself angrily, bouncing off nearby revellers. At the same time, Marguerite was aware of the bulky presence of her father’s man beside her, offering her his arm. ‘Better come back now, Miss Benistone. His lordship will deal with this,’ he said. ‘Let’s leave it to him. See, he’s not alone.’
Peering through the crowd, she saw that her father’s other two men had placed themselves on each side of Mytchett, preventing his escape, and that her father had come face to face, at last, with the man who had blighted their lives for a year. In the circumstances, it would have been unrealistic to expect Lord Benistone to retain his usual composure after so long struggling to accept his wife’s absence. Now the sight of Mytchett and the sound of his seductive offer to Marguerite ignited some kind of primitive response in the elderly man that no one had encountered for years.
‘Where is she?’ The sound of his bull-like bellow could be heard above the yells of the crowd, turning heads in surprise, holding their attention at the enticing possibility of a brawl. Especially one between toffs.
Mytchett appeared to shrink with the shock. ‘I...I...er...don’t know, my lord,’ he shouted, though his words hardly mattered. ‘I wanted...er...to...’
‘Yes, you vile turd, you thought it was time to get your filthy hands on my youngest daughter, didn’t you? Not satisfied with the damage you’ve done, you thought you’d fleece me for a few grand, didn’t you? Eh? How much were you going to hold her for? Ten grand? Twenty? Well?’
Totally unprepared for this verbal assault, Mytchett tried to back away from the furiously aggressive lord. ‘No...no, sir. My lord, I can explain.’ But his retreat was prevented by the two solid Benistone men and also by a deepening audience whose interest had begun to grow and even to take the side of the white-haired man whose courage they admired. Oblivious to the loud explosions and the flood of light from overhead, they closed in, shouting encouragement.
They were not, however, ready for Lord Benistone’s response to Mytchett’s whining denial, which was to catch the long thin horse-whip thrown to him by one of his henchmen and to crack it expertly across the space between them. Even Cecily had forgotten what a dashing young horseman he had once been. Then, far too suddenly for Mytchett to see it coming, he brought the lash down across the man’s face with a wicked crack that made him scream, drawing a line of blood from brow to chin. Bending double, he covered the wound with his hands.
Marguerite’s escort became more insistent. ‘Come, Miss Benistone, please. Come away to your sister. This is not going to be pretty.’ Firmly, he moved her back to the tree where Cecily tried to shield her from the scene.
‘He ought not to have allowed her to come,’ she said crossly to Oriel. ‘This is not the kind of thing a young girl ought to see.’
‘She’s a woman now, Cecily dear,’ said Oriel. ‘She may as well know that this is what happens. Father knew what he was doing.’
‘I cannot approve, all the same.’
Nevertheless, approving or not, the five of them watched as his lordship raised the cruel whip again to bring the lash accurately across Mytchett’s bent back, his legs, arms and head. Held back by the two Benistone men and the cheering crowd, he could only double over to protect himself from the punishing cut that made ribbons of his coat and covered his face and hands with blood. Howling with pain, he barged blindly about trying to evade the next blow until Colonel Harrow came forwards to grasp Lord Benistone’s wrist. ‘Enough, my lord! Enough.... Please, no more. He’s got the message and you’re tiring. Here, allow me to take this.’ Turning him away, Colonel Harrow supported him through the onlookers and back to his group, none of whom paid any further attention to the ensuing plight of Sir Lionel Mytchett.
The excitable crowd had not had enough. Blood had been drawn and they wanted more. Howling and hooting, they leapt after the terrified man who staggered through the throng, hoping to disappear. But, blinded and half-fainting with pain, he headed for the bright reflections of fireworks on the surface of the River Thames, lurching down its precipitous bank with a sickening thud into the stinging coldness that numbed his senses and rolled him like a weed into its strong night current. Still not satisfied, the mob followed with yelps of blood lust, splashing and churning the water and scattering a kaleidoscope of exploding colours into the deep-black satin depths. Then, when they could neither reach nor see anything of their prey, they waded back to the bank, laughing at the fun and the applause as the river’s surface broke for one last time, gurgling and smoothing like streamers of coloured silk.