At the Highwayman's Pleasure(11)

‘No matter, my dear, you are the very person I need.' She alighted from  her carriage. ‘Do you have ten minutes to spare? Sir Mark is inside  inspecting a pair of pistols he is minded to buy. He will doubtless be  an age yet and I have seen the most ravishing bonnet in the milliners,  but I am not at all sure the colour would suit. Would you be an angel  and come along to Forde's with me now and give me your opinion?'

‘Why, yes, if you wish....'

‘Excellent.' She turned to her footman. ‘Wait here with the carriage  for Sir Mark and then tell him to pick me up from the milliner's on High  Street.' She tucked her arm through Charity's, saying with a smile,  ‘There, that is all settled. Come along, my dear, it is but a step. You  shall give me your arm and tell me what it is that has you in such a  brown study.'

‘If you must know,' Charity began as they set off, ‘I was thinking about Mr Durden.'

Lady Beverley stopped to stare at her.

‘Heavens, what on earth has brought this on?'

Charity felt the colour flooding her cheek and gently urged her companion to walk on.

‘I was exploring today and came across the lane leading to Wheelston.'  No need to say she had actually driven to the Hall. ‘It looked so run  down and forlorn....'

‘Yes, well, the whole estate is in dire need of repair.'

‘I remember seeing Mr Durden at the reception for my first appearance  at the theatre. You said then something had happened to him....' Charity  let the words hang.

Lady Beverley did not disappoint her. She leaned a little closer,  saying confidentially, ‘It was such a prosperous estate in old Mr  Durden's time, but after he died the son continued in the navy and left  his poor mama to run the place. She was very sickly, you see, and died  in... Now, when was it? Two years ago, almost to the day. Young Mr  Durden came home to find the place nearly derelict. But then, what did  he expect, leaving an ailing woman to look after his inheritance? Quite  shameful of him. A dutiful son would have sold out when his mother  became so ill. Of course, that is easy for us all to say after the  event, and Mr Durden was a very good sailor, I believe. Certainly, he  reached the rank of captain and was commended for bravery on more than  one occasion, that much I know is true, for it was reported in the  newspapers.'

They continued in silence for a few moments and Charity tried to  reconcile this picture of Ross Durden with the man she had seen an hour  or so earlier.

‘I cannot believe- That is,' she continued cautiously, ‘he did not look like a man to neglect his duty.'

‘No, well, I believe he was truly grieved when he came back and  discovered just how bad things were at Wheelston. But then, if he had  shown a little more interest in the place when his mother was alive...'  Lady Beverley stopped. ‘Ah, here we are, my dear, Forde's, and there is  the bonnet I like so much in the window. The green ruched silk, do you  see it? Let us step inside and I shall try it on.'

Charity spent the next half hour with Lady Beverley in the milliner's,  and by the time the lady had made her purchase, Sir Mark was at the door  with the carriage. Charity realised there would be no more confidences  today. She took her leave of her friends and made her way back to North  Street, ostensibly to rest and prepare for her performance, although it  took all her willpower to force her mind to the play and away from the  enigmatic owner of Wheelston.

* * *

The ride into Allingford restored some sense into Ross's overheated  brain. What was he thinking of, paying his hard-earned money for a  theatre ticket? He should have been on the road tonight; who knew what  luck he might have had? At least there was a chance that fortune might  have favoured him, whereas this way he knew that his pocket would be  several shillings lighter by the time he went home.

It was madness, he knew that, but having come all the way into  Allingford it would be even more foolish to turn round and ride all the  way back again without doing something. The thought of risking his money  in a gambling den or drinking himself senseless at the George held even  less appeal for him.

‘Damnation, I have come this far, I might as well watch the play.'  Savagely he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and slid to the ground.  The stable lad at the livery took charge of Robin, and Ross made his  way to the theatre. He was early, so he went into a nearby tavern,  called for a mug of ale and took a seat by the window, where he had a  good view of the theatre's entrance.                       
       
           



       

It appeared this comedy was very popular, for a large crowd was  gathering. A number of carriages drew up on the street and disgorged the  wealthier country gentlemen in smart wool coats and embroidered  waistcoats and their fashionable ladies wearing a startling array of  headwear, some with so many ostrich feathers that Ross felt a twinge of  sympathy for anyone unlucky enough to be sitting behind them that  evening. He continued to watch, deriving no little amusement from the  scene, then, suddenly, all his senses were on the alert.

A smart travelling carriage had pulled up outside the theatre. Very few  people in the area owned such an equipage and he knew of only one who  affected a hammer cloth on the box seat. It was pretentious in anyone  other than the nobility, but the gentleman Ross had in mind was all  pretension. The footman opened the door and Ross's lip curled as he  watched a young woman alight, the flambeaux on the street sparkling off  the gold thread in the skirts that peeped from beneath her short,  fur-lined cloak. Even at this distance he could see that she was  strikingly pretty, with large dark eyes and dark curls that were piled  high and adorned with gold ostrich feathers.

Ross felt a surge of loss and regret, but it was quickly succeeded by  bitter anger. How could he feel anything more than contempt for the  woman after what she had done to him? He stared more closely at her,  observed that despite her rosy cheeks and creamy skin, there was a frown  between her brows and her mouth was pursed into a look of discontent.  She glanced around her with disdain and held up a nosegay as if to  protect herself from the offensive smell of the crowd.

Ross turned his attention to the man who followed her out of the coach.  He was some years older than the woman, a tall, portly man in a  wine-coloured coat with stand-up collar, beneath which his starched  neckcloth was so wide it seemed to be holding his head up by the ears,  while the ears themselves appeared to be supporting his powdered wig.

A gold waistcoat strained across his bulging stomach and white satin  knee breeches were stretched over his thighs, the breeches tied at the  knee with gold ribbons that dangled against his embroidered stockings.  Everything about the man screamed opulence, but not elegance. He walked  with an air of self-importance that would have been amusing in anyone  else, but Phineas Weston was a magistrate, and as such he wielded  terrifying power over the common people.

Weston! Ross struck his palm against his forehead. When Charity had  told him she was an actress and had no business in Beringham, he had  immediately assumed Weston was not her real name and had dismissed all  thoughts of a connection. But to see the Beringham magistrate and his  wife here in Allingford-surely that was more than a coincidence.  Especially when it was well known that Phineas considered theatres dens  of iniquity and would not license any such entertainment in Beringham.  Ross downed his drink and went out to join the crowds making their way  into the theatre. He could see the gold ostrich feathers dancing some  way in front of him, but he kept well back-he had no wish for them to  remark his presence just yet.

He bought his ticket and made his way to the pit, but did not sit down  immediately. He waited for the ostentatious couple to appear in one of  the boxes, then chose for himself a seat on the far side of the pit,  where he could keep them in view. It was providential, he told himself,  that he should see them here. It made the journey worthwhile. Certainly  it eased his conscience in coming to Allingford. However, once the play  began he forgot all about gold waistcoats and nodding ostrich feathers,  for Charity Weston was on stage and he found it impossible to think of  anything else. Her last performance had been as a young heiress; this  time she was equally convincing as a rich man's wife with a penchant for  gambling.

It was hard to believe the assured woman on the stage was the shy,  nervous creature he had entertained at Wheelston that afternoon, but  perhaps that had been an act, too. He was suspicious of her beauty. The  luxuriant blonde hair and deep blue eyes belonged to a fantasy, far too  good to be true. He had been caught before by a pretty face only to find  a grasping nature and a heart of flint beneath. He glanced up at the  box where Phineas and his wife were sitting. Mrs Weston-Hannah-was  laughing and applauding the comedy, until her husband admonished her and  she subsided into stern-faced silence.