Death in the West Wind (21 page)

“Very good, my Lady.” And the footman hurried away.

They were standing in an enormous Great Hall, the proportions of which were quite breathtaking. Seventy feet long and about forty feet wide, paired white Corinthian pilasters soared upwards from the floor to a series of shallow arched niches. These, in turn, swept up to a ceiling with an immense centrepiece depicting Britannia with raised spear. The entire gigantic structure had been decorated in an audacious shade of pink.

The mysterious lady chuckled at the Apothecary’s amazed expression. “Do you think the colour too much?”

“On the contrary. I think it succeeds.”

“Then come to the Blue Drawing Room, you may as well be comfortable while you await medical attention.”

“Which I don’t agree I need, Madam, I am John Rawlings, an apothecary, quite capable of treating myself. I shall suffer nothing worse than a sore throat I assure you. An examination by a physician will only give rise to a lot of questions which, I believe, neither of us really want to answer.”

She looked thoughtful. “Are you certain of this?”

“Yes. Is it too late to stop the doctor coming?”

“It is. But I can always send him away again.”

“Won’t he think that rather churlish?”

“Yes, but as I am considered a great eccentric, he will accept it.”

“And are you? A great eccentric that is?” She stood up, the shape of her muscular body clearly defined beneath the man’s riding clothes she wore, her lustrous black hair tumbling to her shoulders, her scar wickedly revealed by the grey light coming in through the enormous window.

“What would you say?”

“I’d say that you were one of the most outrageous yet one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen.”

Her hand flew to her disfigurement. “Beautiful? With this?”

John nodded. “Yes, even with that.”

She smiled, throwing open the doors of a large salon, its deep blue walls hung with family portraits. Closing the doors again she turned to the Apothecary.

“I long to kiss you.”

He should have felt embarrassed, threatened, guilty, trapped, but none of those emotions came. Instead, knowing that she desired it so much, he folded the woman into his arms and gave her a kiss that electrified them both. In fact so powerful was the feeling as their bodies pressed together that John realised danger lay down that path and gently took a step away.

“Don’t you want more?” It was perfectly clear what she meant.

“Had this happened a few months ago nothing would have prevented me from saying yes. But I am recently married. In fact, I am in Devon on my honeymoon,” John answered.

She smiled, sphinx-like, and said, “We shall see,” then went to sit down in one of the elegantly upholstered chairs.

Collecting his wits with difficulty, John examined the portraits, one in particular of a darkly handsome dashing man, very swarthy of complexion and brilliant of eye, clad in a superb red satin coat and breeches, drawing his attention.

“Who’s this?”

“My husband. I eloped with him. We fell wildly in love and I shamed my family and went off to Venice as his bride.”

“Tell me about him.”

“He was the Marchese di Lorenzi, a Venetian nobleman who owned a fleet of ships. In my youth all the countries of the world were trading with Exeter, his amongst them. It was so exciting to go to the harbour and see vessels from Spain and Portugal bringing in fruit, olive oil, indigo and wines. While from the American Colonies came tobacco and skins, and sugar and molasses from the West Indies. Venice exported fine glass, made on the island of Murano, and it was while my husband was here, showing his wares to prospective buyers, for he had no false pride, that I met him. I was seventeen, he twenty-five, and we fell passionately in love. Anyway, my father, who was Earl of Exmoor and full of good breeding, or so he considered himself, thought all foreigners, titled or no, to be less than the dust. He forbade me to wed Luciano but I eloped and was married at sea.”

John, still standing before the portrait of the handsome Venetian, said, “So that’s why they call you Lady Elizabeth. You’re an Earl’s daughter.”

“Yes, that is so. Anyway, do you want to hear the rest of the story?”

“Please.”

“In typical Shakespearean style, my husband lost his entire fleet, partly due to storms, partly to piracy. We were so in debt after that that we were forced to sell up everything and make our way as best we could. We opened a school, my husband teaching fencing and dancing, I needlework and painting to the daughters of former friends.”

John laughed. “I can’t see you as the needlework type, somehow.”

She came to stand beside him. “I wasn’t. I was far better at swordplay than sewing.”

“Is that how … ?”

“I got my scar? Yes, in a way.”

She took his hands and led him to sit beside her on a small, rather comfortless, settee. “A very foolish young man fell in love with me and when I refused him, haunted me night and day. He would be outside in the street when I drew the curtains in the morning, he would be beneath my window late into the night. In the end the situation got so bad that my husband challenged him to a duel. I was twenty and pregnant with my first child.”

“What happened?”

“He killed Luciano, ran him through his proud heart and watched him bleed to death.”

“How terrible for you. What did you do?”

“I took Luciano’s sword and went after my shadow. And then, pregnant or no, I killed the bastard like the mad dog he was.”

John could not speak, overwhelmed by what he had just heard.

“Then with the authorities after me I took ship for home.”

“So your child was born in England, in this lovely house.”

“Very far from it. My father had cut me off when I ran away, changed his will so that I inherited nothing and refused ever to speak to me again. I had to make my way in the world with a baby son to support.”

“What did you do?”

“I borrowed enough money to start another school, only this time it was I who taught swordsmanship and dancing. At first the sons of gentlemen refused to come, and then, slowly, the novelty value began to have an appeal. Suddenly I was the rage with all the young bucks and blades in town, and my fortunes began to turn round.”

“Was this in London?”

“No, in Bath. Anyway, it seemed that my father had got to hear of my success and one day he sent for me. He had no direct heir, you see, and on his death his estates were going to pass to a remote cousin who, he felt certain, would sell this place of which he, my father, was so fond. It seemed he wanted to leave sufficient money to my son, his grandchild, to ensure that Withycombe House would remain in the family.”

“How old was your boy by this time?”

“Frederico was twelve and handsome as day. He had inherited the dark looks of neither of us but instead was as fair and as blue-eyed as an angel. And in that lay his undoing.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have heard of the Society of Angels?”

“I have indeed. A gang of young ne’er-do- wells who terrorise the citizens of Exeter after dark.”

Elizabeth gave a humourless smile. “I’m afraid they are a little bit more than that. They are not just naughty pranksters but something far more sinister.”

“In what way?”

“They poison and corrupt. My father duly died and my cousin sold this house to Frederico, paid for with the money left to him by his grandfather. We moved from Bath and took up residence here — and then the trouble started. My son, aged sixteen, frequented Exeter for his entertainment. Monied, with an Earl for a grandfather and an exotic Italian title, he rapidly attracted the attention of the wrong sort. To cut to the bare bones, he joined the Angels and through them learned the noxious delights of opium smoking. Soon my beautiful boy became a craven addict, a wreck of what had been a fine and glorious youth. Then, in some seedy house in the backstreets, he took too much of the filthy stuff and he died, alone and in degradation. It was I who had to bring his body back, it was I who had to deal with the coroner, it was I who swore revenge on them all and who have made it my life’s work to hunt the bastards down and get rid of them one by one.”

“You mean you kill them?”

“If I can do so safely and without leaving trace, yes. Some I merely wound. Others I frighten into submission.”

“I was told that the gang packed up for a while. Was that your doing?”

“Partly. But they were revived again for a purpose, at least that’s my opinion.”

John shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“They’re up to something more than assaulting women and terrorising night watchmen. It’s my belief that they are smuggling.”

“What makes you say so?”

“They’ve rigged up a phantom coach, complete with headless coachman.”

“I’ve seen it and must admit to being frightened by it.”

“Well

But the Marchesa got no further. There was a knock on the door and a footman appeared.

“The doctor is here, Lady Elizabeth, and I have also brought the gentleman’s caudle.”

“We need one but not the other. Tell the physician that I will pay him for his trouble but that he will not be required today.”

“Very good, my Lady.” Setting the drink down on a small table, the servant left the room again.

John turned to his hostess. “You didn’t tell me how you got this,” and he ran his fingers gently over Elizabeth’s scar.

“It was during the duel I fought with my husband’s murderer, my so-called admirer. He shrieked at me that if he couldn’t have me nobody else would and that he would disfigure me for life, so just before I killed him he did this to me.”

“But it hasn’t disfigured you.”

She was very close to him. “Do you mean it?”

“Of course I do.”

“Will you kiss me just to prove that.”

“No,” answered John very seriously, “I am far too afraid of the consequences.”And with a great deal of determination, he went to sit on the other side of the room to listen to the rest of her story.

*
 
*
 
*

The sun was high by the time he rode down the drive and headed back towards Topsham, his thoughts in turmoil. The Marchesa had told him everything, even down to the fact that she had made herself a hideout in the deserted Wildtor Grange in order that she might spy on the Angels more successfully. The phantom coach she dismissed as a ploy to frighten people away while the gang was about its illegal business.

“They’re landing cargo on the Clyst, somewhere round near the Bridge Inn, I’m certain of it. So it suits them well to ride out in that coach and scare people into their houses. I watch for them as often as I can but so far have not discovered their landing point.”

Thinking of Joe Jago and the Runners, John had said, “It seems to me you could do with some help.”

She had given him the most enigmatic of looks. “I have always ridden alone, my friend. There is no reason why I should ask for assistance now.”

“Perhaps because you might then get the results you want.”

The Marchesa had smiled at him. “With or without help, I usually achieve those.”

Shortly after that he had left her, bowing formally, deliberately avoiding looking into her mocking eyes, wondering when, despite everything, he would see her again.

But now as he headed for Topsham and his wife, he felt guilty that even so much as a kiss had passed between him and the extraordinary Lady Elizabeth di Lorenzi.

Realising that most of the morning had gone, John encouraged the plodding Hicks to make best speed he could, and finally arrived at The Salutation just in time to see Joe Jago heading down towards the quay with purposeful tread.

“Joe,” he called, “where are you off to?”

“I’m going to catch the noonday coach into Exeter.”

“Don’t worry about that, Emilia and I will take you in. I’ll quickly change, then I’ll be with you.

Mr. Fielding’s clerk looked very solemn though John could have sworn there was a twinkle about the light blue eyes. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Sir.”

“Oh? Why’s that?””Mrs. Rawlings has already taken your coach and gone.”

“Gone? Gone where?” the Apothecary asked in sudden alarm, the terrible thought that by means unknown Emilia had found out about this morning’s kiss and left him, uppermost in his mind.

“She’s gone into town, Sir. She said that Irish Tom must take the carriage to be repaired and then she had several people to call upon.”

“But she doesn’t know anybody.”

“On the contrary she reeled off quite a few names, Gerald Fitz’s among them.”

“She mustn’t see him. He’s a womaniser.” Joe Jago burst out laughing. “I’m sure Mrs. Rawlings is quite capable of looking after herself. Now, if you come as you are we might yet catch the coach and then you’ll be able to find her.”

Handing Hicks to a hostler and giving the man a coin to return the weary animal to its stables, John crammed his hat on his head and sprinted down the road to the harbour where the coach that ran between Topsham and Exeter was virtually closing its doors. Clambering on to the roof, John and Joe squeezed into a place normally meant for one person.