The Secret Duke (44 page)

“Not quite yet. Who is with Lady Fowler’s remains?”

The man rolled his eyes. “Her maidservant, Agnes Hoover. Insists on laying her out, sir. Screeched that no man would touch her sweet lady. It’s to be hoped she’ll allow the undertakers to put her in her coffin.”

The man irritated Thorn, but he tried not to show it. “If some of the ladies are willing to place Lady Fowler in the coffin, will you permit it?”

“I don’t see why, Your Grace. My orders—”

“Do not rule out compassion. What harm can they do? It would oblige me,” he added, trying not to snarl it. He always disliked wielding the ducal club.

Angry color touched the man’s cheeks, but he gave in, as he must. “If you advise this, Your Grace.”

In other words,
If you take all responsibility.

“I do. Most firmly.” But would any of the women be willing to take on such a task?

He returned to the room and asked, to be met with silence and shifting eyes.

Of course, it was Bella who spoke. “I will, and I’m sure some of you will help. We all know how Lady Fowler felt about men.”

After that Miss Evesham and Miss Sprott agreed.

He remembered discussing leadership with Bella and her admitting she might be an unwilling leader. This was what she’d been talking about. Reluctantly, she was the leader of this pathetic flock, and it had dragged her into danger.

He left the room again, boiling over with admiration and exasperation.

 

 

 

 

B
ella was gathering her wits and trying to work out how to use this opportunity.

Thorn’s half brother the duke was here, in some sort of official capacity!

When he’d entered, she’d thought him Thorn himself and instinctively hidden as best she could. She’d slowly realized that it had to be the duke, and then the subtle differences had shown themselves. The duke was haughtier, of course, and even though he was wearing country clothing, he was impeccable in every detail, and so closely shaved that hair on the ducal chin must be unthinkable.

The resemblance, however, was astonishing. No wonder Thorn had been sent away as a lad.

Now that she’d realized the truth, she had to find a way to use it to save them all. Would a direct plea work, claiming . . . Claiming what? That she was Captain Rose’s friend? Did she dare claim to be his lover? She wasn’t sure that was true, but looking as she did, he couldn’t possibly believe her.

Thorn kept informed about the duke’s life. Did the duke do the same in reverse?

The duke had said a man would come to listen to be sure they didn’t discuss things, and now a guard had joined them in the room, a grim-jawed fellow who stared at them suspiciously. Everyone fell silent, but then Betsy whispered, “The Duke of Ithorne! They must regard this so very, very seriously. Do . . . do you think we truly could hang?”

“No, no, I’m sure not,” Bella said quickly. “We’re innocent.”

“They could make an example of some of us,” said Hortensia, firing a glare at Betsy. “Those who were eager to help with the printing.”

“I didn’t mean any harm,” Betsy wailed. “Olivia Drummond was so forceful!”

Bella tried to direct Betsy’s attention to the listening man and succeeded all too well. Betsy began to wail again.

“None of us will hang,” Mary said soothingly. “Ladies of good birth. It’s unthinkable.”

“Some of us may be transported, of course,” insisted Hortensia, who never let a grim fact go unfaced.

“This will all be cleared up,” Bella insisted. “The duke has come to help us.”

“You put great faith in dukes, Bellona,” Hortensia sneered. “Simply because you frolicked at . . .”

Thank heavens she didn’t complete that, but Bella’s cheeks were hot beneath her paint.

“He does not have our interests truly at heart,” Hortensia completed, and Bella feared she might be correct. What were they to the Duke of Ithorne?

“I suspect he is interested only in Ellen Spencer,” said Mary.

Bella glanced at the listening man, but nothing about Ellen was likely to condemn them for treason. “Why?”

“Don’t you remember? Before Ellen came here, she was companion to a lady who turned out to be a lord’s unwilling wife.” Mary was being careful not to name names.

“Oh, yes,” Bella said. That had been about the time of the Olympian Revels, when Bella hadn’t been paying much attention to daily events here. She flashed Mary a questioning look, for she still didn’t grasp the point.

“I think her lady’s husband is a connection of the duke’s.”

“Ah.” Bella considered that and was cheered. “If he’s here to save her, he must save us all.”

“Do you think so?” Hortensia said. “You do not know the callous ways of his sort. And he’s an arrant rake.” She made no attempt to speak softly. “Don’t you remember how heartlessly he treated the poor woman he’d been corrupting for years? Tempted her into adultery, but as soon as her husband died, cut the connection entirely.”

Bella sent Hortensia a warning look. All this could be reported and this was no time to antagonize the duke. In any case, she’d encountered Lady Jessingham at the revels. The duke had been in the wrong, but the lady, in Bella’s opinion, didn’t appear to be an innocent victim.

Mary spoke the warning. “It will not advance our case to treat the duke with hostility, Hortensia.”

Hortensia scowled, but said no more.

Betsy, however, whispered, “We should remember his reputation, though, ladies. A ravening rake. Did I understand aright that he will want to be alone with each of us?”

Bella doubted that even Signor Casanova, who was supposed to be the wickedest rake alive, would try his wiles on Betsy—on any of them, for that matter—but she didn’t say so. She’d learned here that even ladies who claimed to have no interest in men became affronted if told their appearance made them safe from them.

They all fell silent, waiting as their fate was handled by others.

Bella smoothed out her handkerchief, grimacing at the blood spot it had gained when she’d held it to her face and pricked her finger. It needed salting immediately, but she doubted she’d be allowed to do it. In any case, she should finish the hem before she attempted to launder it. She rethreaded her needle, curled the hem, and set another stitch, trying to find a way to lead everyone out of this deadly maze.

Given their need, she would write to Thorn at that Stowting address, begging his influence with his brother, but she doubted she’d be allowed to send any message, and it would take days for him to respond. She feared they didn’t have days before at least being taken to a prison. She knew enough of prisons to dread that fate. They were places of disorder, full of vice, cruelty, and disease.

If only she’d heeded Peg and not come here. She could be safely on her way to Tunbridge Wells. But the other women would still be in danger.

Her needle froze.

She was remembering the Trayce ladies in Tunbridge Wells. She should be on her way there now, and she wondered what Mr. Clatterford was doing. Perhaps he could help. The worrisome thought was that their names were on the subscription lists!

Had the lists been found? They were tucked away with a lot of other papers in a small room off the scriptorium. The door to that room was papered just like the walls, and so easily missed. She wanted to groan at another duty falling on her, but she must try to destroy those lists. The Trayce ladies wouldn’t be the only innocents on them. In fact, all the women on the lists were innocent, but it was terrifyingly clear that the authorities didn’t care.

Perhaps they would hang eight women.

Perhaps they would even drag hundreds into the courts.

Then she saw this from another side.

According to Mr. Clatterford, the Trayce ladies were aunts or great-aunts to the Marquess of Rothgar and the Marquess of Ashart. Could she use their jeopardy to gain their assistance?

Let’s see
, she thought, with grim amusement—
one duke, two marquesses
. She really should try to find three earls connected to this mess.

Thorn had summoned Norman again, and he’d arrived with a tight, resentful mouth but an obsequious bow.

“I think it advisable to question the ladies separately in order to establish some truths. If any are lying, it will become clear. Do you object?” When the man didn’t immediately agree, he added, “I will discuss the matter with Lord Northington if you prefer.”

He was aware of using a cannon to kill a gnat, but he wanted to kill something.

Norman blanched. “No, no, of course not, Your Grace. But
you
wish to question them? Alone?”

Thorn decided to ignore the insinuation. “One of the other ladies can sit in as chaperone.” This was the important point. “I suggest Miss Flint, as she wasn’t present at the crucial times. In fact, I see no reason for her to be held.”

“My instructions were to prevent anyone from leaving, Your Grace.” A modest attempt to fire back.

Thorn reminded himself that the man doubtless needed his post. In fact, he was bullying Norman for following his reasonable orders.

“You appear to be executing your responsibilities very well, Norman. Unless you have a clerk here with time, I will send for one of my own and then begin the questioning.”

There was no need for Overstone, so Thorn sent a message to him to choose a suitable underling, and also to send a lawyer here to advise. He sent a brief report to Rothgar, in case he had not yet left Town, suggesting a word with Northington.

This was not the sort of work Thorn was accustomed to, and he’d intended to quickly place it in the hands of others, but that was unthinkable now, with Bella involved.

And soon he’d be alone with her.

He had to struggle not to smile. This situation wasn’t amusing, but her extreme disguise was enough to make him laugh aloud.

Bella thought she had herself in hand, but when the duke returned, his words startled her.

“Miss Flint, may I speak to you in the room opposite?”

As she rose, folding her needlework, Betsy gasped. “Oh, Bellona . . . !”

“I’m not summoned to the gallows, Betsy. I’m sure I’ll be completely safe.”

“Completely,” the duke said coldly. “The door will, of course, remain open. Ladies, you will all soon be asked to give your account of recent events, but to do so privately. Miss Flint, who wasn’t here at the time, will be your chaperone.”

Bella left the room with the duke, wondering if she might have an opportunity to get the lists. She would need only a few moments alone.

“We call this the scriptorium,” she said as she led the way in. “We sat at the long table to write copies of the letter. Before the printing press, that is.” She turned to face him.

As promised, he’d left the door ajar. He was looking at her strangely, and she wondered if he’d realized how much of her appearance was false. Any disguise could be seen as suspicious.

Or perhaps it was something about her manner. She realized that she wasn’t behaving with enough awe, because it was hard not to see him as Thorn. They truly were almost identical. She longed to go to him, to touch him, to smile and expect a smile in return. She almost laughed at the Duke of Ithorne’s reaction to such an assault by Bellona Flint.

“You are willing to play the chaperone, Miss Flint?”

“I will do anything in my power to help the ladies here, Your Grace.”

He grimaced slightly, glancing at the door. Bella looked that way, but no one was there. She turned back, wondering if the duke had an unfortunate twitch.

“But you would not lie,” he said.

“Wouldn’t anyone if it were that or the gallows?” He gave her such a fierce warning look that she realized the danger. “But no, Your Grace, I rarely lie, and there would be no point. I know nothing that need be concealed.”