Masquerade of Vengeance (The Rutherford Trilogy Book 3) Read online

  MASQUERADE OF VENGEANCE

  The Rutherford Trilogy

  Book Three

  Alice Chetwynd Ley

  For my dear grandson James, who thought it was about time.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  A NOTE TO THE READER

  MORE BOOKS BY ALICE CHETWYND LEY

  CHAPTER 1

  There had been no moon, but now, towards dawn, a thin grey line on the horizon just distinguished the sky from the dark swell of the ocean. The waves slapped against the sides of the boat as the men bent their backs to the oars, sending their craft running through the water towards a paler line of foam which fringed the shore.

  Only one man did not row. He sat immobile, his body taut, staring with unfocused eyes at the solid dark rise of the cliffs sheltering the beach.

  He was here at last, back once more in his native land. Not that it had ever done anything for him, other than to banish him into exile. His lips tightened as he recalled those brutish early years: the months in irons, working like an animal in the bush, the treadmill and the lash. He might have died under the harsh rule — many had — before he at last gained his ‘ticket of leave’ and the easier times that went with it.

  He could have remained there then, all those thousands of miles away from these shores, working in the service of one of the wealthy farmers until he had risen to a position of some authority, even to the ownership of his own land. He knew himself to be capable enough.

  But always the passion for revenge drove him on to return to England and seek out those who, however small a part they had played, in his view were responsible for his downfall. Three men there were, who in different ways had been culpable. Wherever they might be now, let them look out for themselves! They should die, certainly, and no swift death. No, they should learn the meaning of apprehension and fear as he had been forced to do. This he had sworn many times over in the years of suffering.

  The day of reckoning was at hand.

  His first sight of London took him aback. After so many years, he had forgotten the noise and bustle of the City at the start of a new day, so different from the quiet and decorum of the fashionable West End.

  Brewers’ drays and carts, up from the country with hay for the London markets, clattered over the cobblestones, while drovers skilfully guided herds of sheep and cattle towards Smithfield. Clerks hurried along the pavements to their counting houses, trying to avoid the tradesmen who were taking down the shutters from their shops and sweeping the steps in readiness for another day’s trade. He was jostled by these and a host of others: chimney sweeps carrying brushes, milkmaids with pails suspended on a yoke from their shoulders, scarlet-coated postmen ringing their bells as they delivered the early mail — all intent on their business and caring nothing for loiterers.

  He had not forgotten his way to his one-time refuge, however, in a sleazy quarter not far from the magnificence of St Paul’s Cathedral. He had been told by other criminals that nothing had changed here. The landlord of the Red Lion in Fleet Market had grown heavier with the years, but he was still an incurious individual, this attitude being best suited to his specialised trade. He failed to recognise the newcomer, a fact which satisfied one who had been a regular customer of his in the distant past. The correct signals were given, however, so there was no difficulty in obtaining admission.

  The man did not linger there, but having transacted his business, moved on to a modest though respectable coffee house in the Strand. He emerged from this some time later, having changed his clothes for more fashionable attire.

  Thus clad, he took a hackney to Stratton Street, Piccadilly, where he dismounted and knocked upon a door. It was opened by a dark-suited individual with the look of a gentleman’s gentleman.

  The visitor mentioned a name, and asked if its owner was within. He was met with a hostile look.

  “I fear not. That gentleman quit my rooms several years since, and a good riddance, I must say! No one has inquired for him since I don’t know when,” he added, disdainfully. “Then it was mostly men dunning. If you’re on the same errand, you’ll catch cold at it.”

  He prepared to close the door, but the visitor swiftly interposed a foot.

  “One moment,” he said, cajolingly. “Could you be so vastly obliging as to furnish me with his direction?”

  The man hesitated, for the visitor appeared to be a person of some standing. Then he stiffened.

  “No, I couldn’t, for I don’t know it!” he snapped. “And be good enough to shift your foot!”

  The visitor complied, and the door slammed in his face.

  He shrugged. Maybe it was not going to be as easy as he had hoped. After all, it was a long time…

  Very well, he would seek out the others. At least he was tolerably certain where they might be found. There was just a chance that they, too, might be in London, as they had always had a town-house in Cavendish Square. They would lead him to the first object of his revenge, but they should not escape themselves. No, nor that other, though he was of lesser importance. Everyone concerned must pay the price.

  His jaw was set grimly as he hailed another hackney.

  Several hours later, he was boarding the mail coach for York.

  Sir Nathaniel Conant was chief magistrate of the renowned Bow Street police office founded by the novelist Henry Fielding some sixty years before, and later expanded by his half-brother Sir John Fielding, known as the Blind Beak. It was the foremost in importance of the seven other police offices later set up by a reluctant government, and the only one to be permitted to send officers — known as Runners — into the country to pursue investigations.

  Sir Nathaniel looked speculatively at the man standing erect before him in the manner of an ex-soldier, which indeed he was. Runner Joseph Watts was one of his best officers; the jutting jaw indicated his tenacity of purpose, and the long, sharp nose suggested the curiosity which was a hallmark of the good detective.

  “He will do,” thought the magistrate, nodding, and aloud, he said, “I understand, Watts, that you’re not engaged in an inquiry at present?”

  “No, sir. It’s been quiet of late for me, ever since the Jermyn case.”

  “Ah, yes.” Conant did not need reminding of the extraordinary affair concerning the late Sir Aubrey Jermyn. It had caused quite a stir at the time, involving as it did a member of the Prince Regent’s circle. The investigation had also received assistance from an unorthodox source, another member of the Quality.

  The Honourable Justin Rutherford, youngest brother of Viscount Rutherford, had the reputation of being a notable academic with antiquarian interests. He was also a young man intrigued by any kind of puzzle, and had lately been turning his hand to amateur detection. His association with Joseph Watts had begun during a brief period a few years earlier when Captain Rutherford had been on Wellington’s staff in the Peninsula as an intelligence officer, and Watts had served under him.

  “The authorities in York,” continued Sir Nathaniel, “are concerned about a number of jewel robberies which have occurred of late in the town and surrounding district. There is to be an important
masked ball at the Assembly Rooms shortly, so our assistance has been requested.”

  He paused.

  “They asked for Townsend,” he continued. “But you know how it is — he’s in Brighton attending the Prince Regent at this time of year. The man can’t be everywhere at once. Of course, it’s the name.”

  Watts nodded. John Townsend was the senior Runner at Bow Street. He had served there for nearly thirty years and had the important task of safeguarding the royal family. He was also employed by the Bank of England on dividend days, when large sums of money were handled. His reputation meant that his presence was frequently requested at fashionable parties; when the words ‘Mr Townsend will attend’ were inscribed on the invitation cards, guests might feel secure. Townsend knew the ‘swell mob’, and they knew it was wise to avoid him.

  “Nevertheless, if the presence of a Bow Street Runner is announced, that should act as a sufficient deterrent,” said Sir Nathaniel in conclusion. “They offer generous terms and accommodation at the Old Starre in Stonegate. A pleasant assignment, I should think — almost a holiday, in fact.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Everyone was agreed that the wedding at Firsdale Hall, the residence of Sir George and Lady Marton situated a few miles outside York, had been a prodigious success. The female members of the household staff, from the humblest kitchen-maid to the stately housekeeper, thought that no bride could have looked lovelier than Miss Marianne in her gown of cream silk, trimmed with Mechlin lace. As for the three bridesmaids — Marianne’s younger sister Frances, still in the schoolroom, and her two cousins, the Honourable Anthea Rutherford and Miss Louisa Harvey — they had presented a picture which even the least impressionable male present had allowed was charming. Several of the more impressionable went further, declaring themselves to be quite bowled over by one or other of the two elder bridesmaids.

  The wedding had naturally been attended by a host of people — family, friends and neighbours, for Firsdale Hall had been in the possession of Sir George Marton’s forbears during the past three hundred years. Some of the guests, mostly family, had travelled long distances to attend, so were staying at the Hall.

  “And I do beg you,” Lady Marton had said several days before the ceremony, “not to desert us and all return home as soon as the wedding is over! It will seem so odiously flat with everyone gone and the house to all intents and purposes empty! Poor George and I will be moped to death — not to mention dear Fanny!”

  Poor George, a somewhat portly gentleman in his late forties with the tanned complexion of an outdoors man, looked surprised at this remark, but did not refute it.

  Lady Marton’s eldest brother, Viscount Rutherford, laughed.

  “I believe George will survive, eh, old fellow? But as you know, Julia, Elizabeth and I have arranged to go on from here for a tour of the Lakes. Anthea doesn’t especially wish to come with us, but I don’t know —”

  He broke off, looking doubtfully at his daughter. Anthea Rutherford was a girl of nineteen with a piquant, lively face, hazel eyes which often glinted with mischief, and a Titus crop of dark curls. She had a trick of deciding matters for herself.

  “Now, do say you’ll stay, Anthea,” begged her aunt. “Poor Fanny will be quite desolate — she’s going to miss Marianne, you know, in spite of having our neighbour’s daughter Anne de Ryde always looking in, with her governess. She’ll need to become accustomed to the lack of an elder sister’s company at home, I know, but just at first it would soften the parting if you were to stay for a while. Louisa —” her tone sounded less eager — “says she will stay on if you do. And as Harry intends to remain here for the Races, she will have her brother to escort her home. If you don’t wish to accompany your parents to the Lakes, it would be the very thing!”

  “Indeed, it would be convenient,” put in Anthea’s mother, “besides being most agreeable, of course,” she added, hastily. “We could call here on our way back to Town and take you up.”

  She looked anxiously at her daughter as she spoke, and was quite relieved when Anthea graciously accepted the invitation. She reflected that at least she could now be sure that the girl would not be getting up to any of her mad starts in her parents’ absence.

  She should have known better. One could never be sure of anything where Anthea was concerned.

  Lady Marton was already aware of this, and ventured a word of advice to her sister-in-law after the wedding was over, and the Rutherfords were about to set off for the Lakes.

  “You know, Elizabeth,” she began, in a firm tone, “it’s high time that Anthea was married.”

  Lady Rutherford smiled indulgently. “Oh, yes, we are quite persuaded of that, my dear Julia. The thing is, how to persuade Anthea?”

  “Well, you don’t mean to tell me she lacks for suitors,” protested her hostess. “Why, wherever she goes there are men surrounding her! Surely there must be someone of them who takes her fancy?”

  “Not seriously, I fear. She takes up with first one beau, then another! I’ve quite given up hope of ever seeing it come to anything, though at first I was on tenterhooks, thinking each one would be Mr Right at last.”

  “One needs to make a little push in these matters,” replied Julia, with the confidence of a mother who had recently managed to get a daughter wed. “Now tell me, my dear, what do you say to Mr Rogers?”

  “Can you mean Sprog?” asked Lady Rutherford.

  “Such an ugly nickname,” deprecated Julia Marton. “Just the kind of sobriquet that schoolboys delight in foisting on each other, and unfortunately it often remains with them for the rest of their lives.”

  “True. I do remember not to call him by it to his face — at least, most of the time. But I’m so accustomed to hearing Justin use it, that I fear it does slip out sometimes,” confessed Lady Rutherford.

  “Yes, yes, I understand that,” replied Julia Marton, a shade impatiently. “But you haven’t answered my question, Elizabeth — what do you think of him as a husband for Anthea? His parents and ours were close friends — I mean my parents, the Rutherfords, of course, and not George’s. Moreover, Mr Rogers and Justin were at school and Oxford together; always the best of friends, too. Would you approve of a match there?”

  Lady Rutherford smiled. “Indeed I would! So, too, would Justin and Ned —” she referred to her husband Edward, Viscount Rutherford. “Nothing would please them more than to see Sidney Paul Rogers a member of the family. He’s not only a delightful young man, but of course a most eligible parti, well-connected and so on. But —”

  “Precisely,” cut in Julia, sweeping aside this hint of a possible objection. “He’s so eligible, my dear Elizabeth, that I am of the firm opinion that there must be dozens of hopeful mamas on the catch for him for their daughters! Which is why I made sure that both he and Anthea would be staying here in the house for the wedding, and not to have him putting up at an hotel in York. He’s agreed to stay on for a while, too, in order to accompany Justin on some of those peculiar antiquarian expeditions of his, so that should be splendid, don’t you agree?”

  “Well, yes,” responded her sister-in-law doubtfully. “That’s to say, yes, of course,” she added in a livelier tone, seeing Julia’s somewhat crestfallen face. “It’s vastly good of you, my dear Julia, to go to so much trouble.”

  The doubts Lady Rutherford could not help feeling would have been increased could she have been privileged to hear a conversation between her brother-in-law Justin and his niece Anthea on this very same subject.

  The pair were on very easy terms, more like brother and sister than uncle and niece. This was scarcely surprising with only fourteen years difference in age, and a strong similarity of temperament. Justin was frequently in and out of his brother’s town house in Berkeley Square whenever he chanced to be in London, although he had a snug set of bachelor rooms in Albemarle Street.

  “You know, Justin,” said Anthea, solemnly, but with an irrepressible twinkle in her eye, “I have the most melancholy persuasion that m
y aunt, not content with having married off Marianne, is determined to perform the same office for me.”

  “No, you don’t say? Whatever gives you that notion, my dear niece?”

  “As if you didn’t know,” she retorted. “Your much vaunted powers of deduction must be in abeyance at present!”

  “Well, a fellow can’t always be exercising his undoubted talents,” replied Justin, loftily. “Besides,” he continued, grinning, “only a fool would attempt to make any accurate deductions from the behaviour of a female.”

  Anthea inspected him as if he were something nasty which had just crawled out of a garden vegetable.

  “Females, of course, being so vastly inferior — a lesser breed, in fact?”

  “Well…”

  He dodged a flying cushion.

  “At least there’s one thing you must allow they can’t do,” he said reasonably. “And that’s to aim straight.”

  “You’re the greatest beast in Nature,” she informed him, but without rancour.

  “And you’re regrettably wanting in conduct, let me tell you. Suppose anyone had chanced to come in at that moment? A gently-reared female pelting people with cushions! I ask you!”

  “You’re not people, and, of course, I don’t make a habit of it.”

  “You relieve my mind,” he said mockingly. “But tell me, niece, what leads you to suspect that Aunt Julia’s planning to push you into Parson’s Mousetrap? Why not Louisa, for instance?”

  “Oh, surely you’ve heard that Louisa is as good as engaged? You must have noticed how particular Aunt Julia is to thrust me into the company of your friend Mr Rogers! It’s as plain as a pikestaff. Apart from that, she went to such lengths to urge him to stay on after the wedding.”

  “Hm. As I recall, she pressed all of us, you and myself included.”

  “Pray do not be so obtuse! We are family, so it’s natural she should press us to stay on.”