I sank back into the chair, finding in its low-ceilinged space a hint of reassurance and protection, and saw that a second man, bearded and muffled to defy detection, had taken up position by the first. The chair had been abandoned in an alley — no doubt through the thieves’ collusion with the dastardly chairmen — and the place was unfamiliar to my eyes. In such darkness, however, all of Bath might be disguised. I briefly considered screaming in a bid for assistance — surely the streets must as yet be populous — but recollected the habit of the most common footpad, of carrying a knife or a club. And so I handed the thieves my reticule without complaint.

They were a curious pair — hulking and sturdy as farming hands, but dressed in the ape of fashion. Had I passed them on the street, and never heard them speak, I might have taken them for gentlemen, indeed — and could hardly believe their raiment won from the profits of petty stealing. The first man untied the strings of my little purse and probed within.

The second man peered through the doorway, and I quailed at the rage in his eyes. They were singular, indeed, as though the Devil’s mark was upon him — for even in the gloom I could discern that one eye was light, and the other dark. Where had I seen a similar pair before? But I lacked time for all reflection — for to my extreme terror, he reached a hand to the collar of my pelisse, and the hand held a knife.

I rapped his knuckles sharply with my fan and screamed aloud at the full pitch of my lungs. The ruffian seized me by the shoulders, and endeavoured to bring the knife to my very throat — when his hand was stilled by the blessed sound of running feet careening around a corner.

With an oath and a slam of a fist to the sedan chair’s roof, my assailant dashed back into the darkened alley. His companion followed hard at his heels. And it was then I remembered where last I had seen him — he was Smythe, the labourer from the Theatre Royal. I screamed again, and thrust myself out of the chair and into the arms of a burly fellow in the blue uniform and peaked cap of the chairmen — and recoiled in horror, as from a nightmare too quickly renewed.[59]

“Now, miss,” the man said comfortingly, “what’s the to-do?”

“I was abandoned in this place by some of your brethren, and set upon by thieves,” I managed. “Pray to call the constable.”

He turned and hallooed to some confederates, who dashed off in pursuit of my assailants; and trembling in every limb, I was conducted through a growing crowd to the safety of a coaching inn.

It was another hour before I achieved the stoop of Green Park Buildings, however, having been sent home in a hack chaise at the constable’s expense. I had lost my reticule and such coin as I possessed to my dedicated footpads. The constable had dutifully noted the abandonment of the chair, the seizing of my purse, and my description of a man with parti-coloured eyes, who I thought was named Smythe, and very likely to be found in Orchard Street. He was content to believe the incident one of common theft — but I knew otherwise. It was nothing less than my murder that Smythe had attempted tonight; and that he was sent by the same person responsible for Richard Portal’s death, I felt certain.

The question that remained, however, was why?

MY FATHER WAS SITTING UP WITH AN ANXIOUS FACE, HIS candle nearly guttered and a volume of Grandison open on his lap. “Jane!” he cried, as I entered the sitting-room. “It is nearly one o’clock! The dancing cannot have been so excessively prolonged.”

“No, Father, it was not,” I wearily replied, and laid my bonnet upon the Pembroke table. “I have been waylaid and robbed in the neighbourhood of Westgate Buildings.”

“Robbed? — But were you then walking alone? And how came you near Westgate Buildings?”

“I was not so foolish as to venture entirely alone into the streets on a night without moon.” My voice was cross, but I had perhaps had too much of questioning. “I can only think the chairmen were in league with the thieves, for they brought me to that insalubrious neighbourhood and abandoned me to my fate.”

My father said not another word, but enfolded me in his frail arms. We are almost of a height, he and I; and through the flannel of his dressing-gown, I could discern the light, rapid beating of his heart. “I fear for you, Jane,” he said at last. “This is uncommon, indeed, for Bath at Christmastide, and the close of a respectable evening’s entertainment. It would not have to do, I suppose, with a certain gentleman we all choose to despise?”

“I assure you it does not, Father,” I untruthfully replied; but no further words could I utter.

“Very well.” His looks were grave, and I detected a want of his usual confidence. He might almost have disbelieved me. “But you are not to summon a chair again, Jane, unless in the company of a larger party.”

“I may safely promise you never to do so.”

He bent to kiss the crown of my head in the gentlest fashion possible. “I am sorry for you, indeed, my dear. You will say nothing of this affair to your mother, I beg. Her fancies run quite wild enough, without the fodder of fact to lend them strength.”

SLEEP WAS LONG IN COMING WHEN AT LAST I SOUGHT MY bed, and my dreams were racked with fear — so that I recoiled insensible from knives that pressed against my neck, and should have cried aloud, but for the choking length of pendant chain that twined around my throat. A glittering bauble hung almost to my knees, ringed about with pearls; and as I watched, its smouldering eye turned from blue to brown and back again — unblinking all the while.

I awoke in a shuddering torment, to find the dawn creeping at my window.

I took my father’s excellent advice, and when at breakfast my mother condescended to enquire about my final hour in the Lower Rooms, I talked only of indifferent tea. She was satisfied with this, and soon abandoned us for the writing desk in her bedchamber, and a long-neglected correspondence. My father, however, lingered over his coffee and rolls, and seemed in no hurry to seek acquaintance in the Pump Room.

I flushed, and set down my teacup. “How despicable!”

“You do not find it diverting, Jane?” my father cried with false astonishment. “We may then suppose naïveté, rather than a dangerous taste, to be foremost in your character — and I shall convey the news to the editors of the Chronicle without delay. All of Bath is sure to be impatient for our reply.”

I hastened to my father’s side and snatched the paper from his unprotesting hands. “But this is abominable!”