Lady Polly Part 71

The music finished with a final flourish but Polly scarcely noticed as Henry led her back to the Dowager Countess, who had returned to gossip with the d.u.c.h.ess of Broxboume. He excused himself immediately.

"My sister and her chaperon have already left and I must make haste to my next engagement. Good evening, Lady Polly." He bowed to the Dowager Countess, "Good evening, ma'am..."

Polly watched him go. She was even more confused than she had been before she challenged him over his odd behaviour. It seemed that there were more mysteries to Henry March night than met the eye, and none would be explained to her in the near future.

Polly's mouth drooped. She felt tired and bad- tempered with the onset of a headache. Nor did the Dowager Countess seem much inclined to linger. She was suffering from an unusual reticence resulting from her part in the unfortunate scene with Lady Laura.

"For it was very bad ton of Tristan Dit ton to speak as he did," she commented, once she and Polly were in the seclusion of their carriage, 'and though Lady Laura is a little mouse and I had quite forgotten her presence, I feel badly that I did not give him the set- down he deserved. " Polly murmured something in agreement, leaning her head against the seat and closing her eyes. Although the day had been fresh, the wind had now died and the night was almost unbearably humid.

Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance and Polly could see the nicker of lightning away across the river.

She shivered within her cloak, wishing they were already home.

There seemed to be something malevolent in the air.

They had gone perhaps two-thirds of the way back to Brook Street when there were sudden violent shouts outside the carriage, making Polly open her eyes and the Dowager Countess, who had been lulled into a doze by the rumble of the wheels, jump out of her skin.

Torches flared outside the window, and by their flickering light, Polly could see a huge ma.s.s of figures, jostling and shouting, their faces twisted and malignant. There was a sound of breaking gla.s.s and the snap of firecrackers, sudden and shocking, and a growl of excitement rose from the crowd. The carriage lurched, slowing to a crawl.

"What on earth--' the Dowager began, leaning forward to peer out of the window, and then the carriage door was flung open without warning and the nightmare came in.

Filthy hands caught Polly and the Dowager Countess, and dragged them forcibly into the street. The smell of unwashed bodies and the sweet stench of spirits was in Polly's nostrils. The howl of the mob was all around them.

Hands plucked at their clothes, ripping them, and s.n.a.t.c.hing at their jewellery. Lady Sea grave was screaming; Polly felt a sharp pain as her pearl necklace was wrenched from about her throat. She was blinded by the glare of the torches and by the tangle of her hair as her jewelled headband was pulled off. All about her was the swell of menacing power as the mob tested its strength--Polly could feel it and it terrified her.

The coachman was shouting and swearing horribly, his arm raised to defend himself against the blows raining down. In all the noise and confusion, he had not even noticed that Polly and the Dowager Countess needed his aid, and he would have been unable to defend them anyway.

The footman had been pulled from the box and was hanging on to the door of the carriage for dear life as the rabble tried to drag him into the gutter. And then, for a moment, the crowd thinned and the coachman, seizing his chance, whipped the horses into a gallop. The carriage lumbered off down the street with the mob jeering and stoning it.

"All alone, now," a voice breathed in Polly's ear, but she scarcely noticed, for before her was a scene from h.e.l.l that was beyond her worst fantasy.

There had been another carriage behind theirs in the road, and this one had been set on fire. Flames roared from the roof and the open door. A man was kneeling in the gutter, his evening dress smouldering, his hands horribly burned and disfigured. Beside him, a woman was scrabbling about amongst the cobbles, sobbing hysterically. Polly caught her breath as the firelight caught the glitter of something amongst the cobblestones. The woman leant forward, but a hundred hands were quicker than hers, s.n.a.t.c.hing up the coins and precious stones and laughing in scorn. The woman sobbed all the louder.

"She's crying for her money," Polly whispered, horrified.

The Dowager Countess screamed again, pummelled and jostled by the mob.

A ragged cheer went up from the crowd as the fire spurted upwards.

Polly shrank back, trying to evade the grasping hands, but there was nowhere to run.

"And now, my little dove..." the leary, whisky- sodden voice murmured again.

"My, you're a pretty one, ain't ye?"

The frenzied scene began to fade as Polly felt herself slipping into a faint.

Her mother was crying and sobbing, but Polly found she could not cry.

Nor could she fight this inexorable tide that had swept them up and carried them on a wave of exultant power. The noise was terrifying and the darkness, with the flames illuminating those freakish, evil faces, only added to her fear.

She hardly noticed when a change came over the crowd, so far was she gone in terror and revulsion. There was a whisper running through the mob like wind through corn, and the edges of the crowd began to fray and break away.

"Don't try... Not worth it... He has a pistol... Two pistols... Let's go..."

An arm slid about Polly's waist, hard and strong, and she was too tired to fight. Let them carry me off and do what they must, she thought tiredly. I cannot do any more. "This is no time for swooning, Lady Polly," Lord Henry March night's voice said, very calm and very resolute.

"I must ask you to show some mettle."

Polly opened her eyes to find that he was real and holding her very close.

Those brilliant grey eyes were blazing into hers. The nausea receded a little. He gave her a slight shake.

"I need you to be strong now, Polly. Don't disappoint me."

Polly's chin came up. Though utterly unprepared for the horrors that had happened to her, she responded instinctively to the authority in his tone.

Besides, there was her mother to consider. The Dowager Countess was stumbling to her feet, her clothes in tatters, filthy and stained. The mob was falling back, hesitant and sullen, slipping away in ones and twos down the dark alleys and lanes, melting into the darkness as they had come.

Lord Henry was bending to help the Dowager Countess to her feet and as he did so, his black cloak swung back and Polly saw the pistols at his belt.

"The militia are coming..." The whisper caught and ran round the remains of the rabble. The madness was dying.

"Let's go..."

"Can you walk, ma'am?" Lord Henry was solicitous, his voice betraying neither fear nor panic.

"If not, I will carry you home. It is not far, but I think we should be moving."

The Dowager, like her daughter, had a strong streak of courage in her.

She straightened up and pushed her tumbled hair away from her face.

"I can walk, sir, if you give me your arm. But the other lady and gentleman...? I thought, I was sure... Lord and Lady Ballantyne?"

"They have gone," Lord Henry was saying, already shepherding them away from the smouldering hulk of the carriage, 'and we can only hope that they man aged to escape the mob. We must concentrate on getting you home safely, ma'am. " The dark streets were empty, littered with broken gla.s.s and smouldering wreckage. It seemed to Polly, summoning the last of her strength to get herself safely back to Brook Street, that the journey could have taken two minutes or two hours. The Dowager Countess limped along, huddled within the tattered remains of her cloak, leaning heavily on Lord Henry's arm. His other arm remained, most improperly, about Polly's waist. But she did not care for propriety or convention. Polly needed the rea.s.surance and strength Lord Henry's presence conveyed, and would have clung to him if all the mobs from h.e.l.l had erupted about them.

Lights flared from the house in Brook Street and the front door stood open.

Lord Henry helped the Dowager Countess up the steps and into the hall.

The whole place was in uproar. Nicholas Sea grave, his face tense and white, was supporting a man Polly recognised with relief as John, the coachman. There was a huge, livid bruise on his temple and dried blood caked to his face.

His eyes were wild as he clutched at the Earl's arm.

The butler, looking almost as shaken as Sea grave himself, was firing orders at a host of servants who appeared to be running aimlessly in all directions.

As they came in at the door, there was a moment of complete silence.

Then the Dowager tottered over to the staircase, clutched at the bannisters and sat down rather heavily on the bottom step. And Lord Henry March night, with the casual aplomb that would not have been out of place at the most exclusive of social gatherings, said, "Your servant, Sea grave. I am happy to be able to restore the Dowager Countess and Lady Polly to you."

Much later, the Dowager Countess had been cosseted and exhorted into bed by her daughter-in-law, and Polly was propped up against her pillows, sipping a cup of hot, sweet tea. She felt light-headed with exhaustion, but the shock had prevented her from sleeping. Nicholas and Lucille, horrified and distressed, had heard the whole story, and were now sitting at the end of the bed.

Lord Henry March night had slipped away before anyone had had the chance to thank him properly.

'and the strangest thing," Polly was saying, stifling a yawn, 'was that Lord Henry appeared to come from nowhere. And when he did, the rabble turned tail and fled. It was most extraordinary. He is a most mysterious man..."