Death in Hellfire by Deryn Lake Page A

elan and much shooting of his cuffs.
    Samuel surveyed the ring with a professional eye. “A nice piece of workmanship that.”
    “My father hates it but I think it rather charming.”
    It was a design of a mermaid coiled round an aquamarine into which she appeared to be gazing as if the stone were a mirror.
    “Perhaps more suitable for a lady.”
    “Nonsense, it is far too big. You are not going to put me off it, Samuel. Anyway, it is just the sort of thing that a roguish younger son would wear. Now, which hat?”
    They chose a French cocked style, slightly out of fashion, which, they decided, would again point to someone who shopped in Dublin as opposed to London. Then, satisfied that he looked the part, John set out on horseback leaving a somewhat reluctant Samuel behind.
    He had his cover story ready, indeed was rehearsing it under his breath as he went along. But thoughts of it were driven from his mind as he entered the parkland by the eastern drive, passing between two lodges as he did so. At the inhabited lodge - the other being got up as some kind of temple - he dismounted and spoke directly to the keeper, asking him if Sir Francis Dashwood were at home. The man confirmed that Sir Francis was in London but that Lady Dashwood was in residence.
    “Would it be possible to see her?” John asked, an Irish burr in his voice. “I am the Honourable Fintan O’Hare, fourth son of the Earl of Cavan. I do not have an appointment, however.”
    “By all means go up to the house, sir. The servants there will be able to tell you more.”
    The gates were opened and John and his horse went within. He found himself in an impressive avenue approaching the mansion from the east, the roadway lined with tall and majestic trees. The Apothecary, staring round him, felt a sense of awe as the trees stopped and he found himself skirting a large and magnificent lake on which was moored a frigate. Narrowing his eyes, he observed a figure sitting on the deck taking its ease in the sunshine. Shaking his head at the sheer impudence of having a manned ship moored on one’s own private waterway, John guided his horse on.
    To the side of the lake was a delightful grotto or cascade. It was built in the form of a huge jagged arch of colossal stones which enshrined a statue of a river god, lying on his back but propped up by one arm. Water trickled round him and on either side of this statue were two little waterfalls formed by the centre of two smaller arches. All these drained into a lower lake which, John observed, had been created by damming the River Wye. Beyond this impressive tract of water a large Broad Walk, very green and attractive looking, could be seen. John reined in his horse to gaze down into the waters.
    The colours were brilliant, each droplet reflecting the sunshine of that summer day, and raising his head the Apothecary saw that the lake almost looked real, rather than man-made. It had a wooded island in the middle, within which some building work had been started and John, observing it closely, thought he saw a figure moving about inside.
    He moved his horse onward and suddenly the house came into view, standing proudly on an incline. Once again John reined Rufus in to get a better look at the home of Sir Francis Dashwood.
    West Wycombe was built in the style of Palladio and was in truth not enormously big. Indeed it was a villa, decorated with porticoes and colonnades, that would not have looked out of place in Italy. Facing John was an entrance with four Doric columns giving the overall impression of a temple. It had a rise of several wide steps leading up to it and a centrally placed door between two large windows. Above the church-like top stood three ornate stone ornaments.
    John hesitated, wondering whether to dismount and knock at the door. Yet something told him that this was not the entrance generally used. Instead he walked Rufus round to the south side of the house and there slid down to the ground. Manners dictated