GypsyDukeEpub (22 page)

By the time they reached Robert's home, they had all the details mapped out for John's move against his enemies and those of the crown. "You are certain, Michel, of these dates?"

"You worry more than the old fortune teller. Of course, I'm certain."

"Csinka doesn't hold the lives of several men in her hands. I have to be sure which is the traitor."

"She thinks she does," Michel observed wryly. "How did she treat you after the death of Dago?"

John thought before he answered. Had Csinka really changed in her attitude toward him after the death of her son? He'd expected her ridicule, but it was as if she forgot he existed. She avoided him in camp. She never spoke to him.

He took a deep breath. Not one person at the gypsy camp had asked for an explanation when he and Rasvan had returned with Dago's body. He assumed Rasvan reasoned with them all later, now he wasn't sure.

"I thought she'd blame me when Dago got shot that night, but she didn't. It was very strange, Michel. We waited for hours in the cold for Dago's contact to show. We were hidden in the rocks on the coastline, Rasvan and me. We couldn't even speak with Dago for fear of being discovered."

John tried to read Michel's face, but the gypsy had grown too skilled in the art of hiding his feelings. He saw nothing but a hardened, dark man, with apparently little feelings for anyone else. But he knew the truth was far different. His own mother had written him of Michel's many kindnesses.

"I was already convinced that Dago was being used by someone against the government. He thought so, too, and readily agreed to my plan. Unfortunately, he made us wait so far away, by the time we reached him, it was too late. He'd been shot in the heart and had no opportunity to share the name of his killer." The memory of that helplessness still tore at John. "Rasvan chased after the figure we saw, but to little avail. The man escaped on a horse."

Michel nodded. "If Rasvan couldn't track him, no one could. You weren't in the wrong. Dago never should have involved himself with the French in the first place."

That was a fact John well knew, but he also knew why Dago had risked his life. "Do you know why he did, Michel?"

"No, but he was always impetuous, even among the Roma."

"Not this time. It was for Csinka. I heard them talking one night. Dago said he was trying to save Csinka's other son, the one she really cared about."

"I don't understand. I've never heard this. Did you ask my father? He would know."

"No, I didn't ask Ardaix, but Rasvan said Csinka used to be married to another Roma in France. Perhaps they had a son."

"Have you found this son?"

"I think someone has, and they threatened Dago with it."

Michel's dark blue eyes glinted as they walked under a streetlamp. "That would only make sense if he still lived in France. He would be in danger during the war. But still…"

"I know," John sighed. "The business of spying is a confusing one. I still believe it must have been a powerful secret to make Dago risk involvement with traitors to England."

"On that we are agreed. England may have no love for us, but it is our home."

It was a shock to realize it, but John felt the same. "It took some time, after I became involved in this, for Dago to trust me. But he did. He told Rasvan and me everything about the people he met with. I
have a complete list of names."

"Then why did you not end it?"

"Who listens to a gypsy when there is a peer involved?"

"Is there a peer involved?"

"I am convinced of it, but still, I have no proof. With Newport here, proof is certain to come." They had reached the corner of Robert's street and turned to go down the back where the vendors and servants traveled. "Since Dago's death, we have sought out four men on Dago's list and given them into the hands of Reginald Newport."

"What good will that do? As you said…the word of a gypsy…"

John's eyes narrowed with victorious glee. "Who said a gypsy accused them? We set them up. They were greedy fools, easily led to ruin. The proof was indisputable. One has already hung for treason. The others will follow."

Michel reached for John's arm. "Then you have redeemed yourself. Let it go."

"Not until I make every last one of them pay for robbing me of my life. I will take back what's rightfully mine and watch the guilty suffer."

Michel sighed. "You sound like the Roma. You have Kitty, you have Somerset Park, and your mother…why do you need anything else? Retire from this while you still live."

A gypsy couldn't understand what it felt like to be stripped of all honor and all belongings. They owned nothing, traveling from town to town, as free as could be. They would never understand his sense of responsibility to all that went with being the Duke of Somerset. But John felt the sense of betrayal. "I cannot rest until the guilty have been brought to justice."

"I think you have been too long from polite society. Even I know a feud is usually fatal."

"It isn't a feud, Michel. It's justice." He peered into the darkness of the stable then glanced back at Michel. "Come...sleep in the house."

Michel shook his head. "It's what I'm used to, but you seem to have adjusted well to your elevated stations."

"I must admit, I have missed the attentions of servants. I hate to give it up again next week."

"You don't have to, you know."

John held up a hand to forestall another argument. "Go to sleep. Tomorrow will bring many changes."

Chapter 10

Kitty woke to the sound of pealing bells. A church somewhere tolled the time. What time was it? And her head…why did it feel so heavy?

She blinked her eyes several times, afraid to believe what she saw, but the scene didn't change. And then it all came back to her. Her impetuous flight after John and Michel. Her capture by an unknown villain. But there was no one about now.

She felt stifling hot. She looked at the window, the only light source. It was closed tight. But first, she needed to see if she could escape through the door.

She struggled to her feet, looking with dismay at the filthy cot where she had lain. Her head instantly bowed to examine her dress, pulling at it as if she would be able to see any vermin that had attached themselves to her person.

Her new muslin dress with the lovely blue cornflowers was crumpled and wrinkled, and she stank, but there appeared to be nothing fastened to her…yet.

A board creaked as she wobbled her way toward the door, hand held tightly to her churning stomach.

She froze. Would that slight sound bring anyone to investigate? She must avoid that at all costs.

She continued on tiptoe, stepping over a dark stain on the filthy floor, one scarcely different from any number of other dark stains.

She shuddered, wishing desperately for something to drink before she lost the contents of her stomach.

Ever so gently, she reached for the doorknob, aware that any untoward sound might signal someone of her alert state. She turned it, but nothing happened. She turned harder, but it was no use. She was locked in, and the door was abominably solid-looking.

Besides that, the stifling heat did untold misery to her queasy stomach. A result, no doubt, of that noxious smelling rag they had used to render her senseless.

Perhaps she could remedy that. The filth-encrusted window shone like a beacon.

When she reached it, she ascertained that it was nailed shut. Despair rose like a hooded assailant to overwhelm her, and she slid against the wall to the floor.

What could she do?

Kitty sat up suddenly.
I can still pray.
And she did. For inspiration. Then she stood with renewed zeal and examined the nail. Having a purpose somewhat soothed the churning in her stomach.

Just one nail, she noted. One very old, rusty nail that had probably been there for years. With little effort, she could probably have it out.

She tried to peer through the dust-covered windows. No wonder her captor wasn't concerned about her incarceration or escape. She was locked on a second story, with nothing underneath, in a section of town she didn't recognize, and the window was nailed shut.

No matter. She would remove the nail.

Kitty turned away from the window, searching the room for any sign of an instrument she could use to dislodge the nail or even break it.

Underneath a lopsided table in the corner, something barely shined out at her. Kitty practically leaped across the room to get down on her hands and knees and search the dusty floor.

In triumph, she pulled out a bent fork, holding it up for examination. It might do very nicely.

It was then she noticed the absence of her ring. The beautiful emerald ring John had just given her. It was missing. She almost stomped her foot in frustration, until she remembered where she was.

A thorough examination of the room and then her bed confirmed the truth with startling clarity. It was truly gone.

What would John say? She took a deep breath. What a ridiculous thought! If she got out of this, John would give her another ring and be thankful she had escaped with her life.

"Thank you, Lord," she whispered, aware that God had put her priorities in order. Everyone might not thank Providence for a rusty nail and a bent fork, but she was not one to believe in coincidence.

She went to work on the nail. And though the fork bent, the nail moved closer and closer to the desired position. Then it broke.

Kitty sighed with relief. "Well, there's always that, too."

After she moved the nail out of the way, she strained at the window. But, it wasn't going anywhere. Obviously over the years, it had been painted shut. Tightly shut.

Kitty took the fork and scored deep into the paint all the way around the window. She pulled again. At first, nothing happened, and then a slight tremor urged her to greater efforts.

When the window suddenly flew up, she fell onto the floor, and the window dropped back into place. But that didn't deter her, not now that she'd seen it open.

She reapplied herself to opening the window, glancing ever so often at the door behind her. Would someone return for her before she determined a way out?

With the window open, a slight breeze blew against Kitty's face. She closed her eyes, breathing in the cleaner scent of fresh air, though how fresh the air in an alley could be was debatable.

Kitty leaned against the window frame a moment, reveling in the near feeling of freedom. A sound outside drew her attention, and she looked down just in time to see a hay cart pulling out of the alley. In seconds, it would roll under her window. This could be her one chance.

She didn't hesitate. She ran back to the bed for her heavy pelisse then leaned out the window. When the cart drew underneath, she let herself drop.

If she miscalculated, that would be the end of her, but could anything on the other side of that locked door be any better?

John was awakened the next morning when an alarmed, tousled-looking Robert burst into his room, knocking the door back against the wall. "My God, you're still here."

"That is quite obvious. What is not obvious is why you care."

Robert raked his hand through already wild hair. "She's gone. There was nothing there but your ring case. I naturally assumed that you and she…Someone's taken her."

John leaped out of bed, a feeling of dread almost making him double over. He reached a hand toward Robert. "Kitty's gone?"

At Robert's nod, he fell back against the bed. How in the world had he let this happen? They had taken everything else from him and now Kitty…He felt absolute rage. He would find her, and he would kill them. They would pay if they hurt one hair on her head.

"Robert, get Michel out of the stable and come back to my room."

Robert stared woodenly at him.

"Go, Robert," he bellowed. "Time is everything. I need you."

Being needed was something Robert understood. He flew out of the room.

John dressed himself with remarkable haste, hurrying the valet that appeared out of nowhere with immaculate white linens and a starched cravat.

John himself chose buff breeches, a cream and gold embroidered vest, and the matching waistcoat of a slightly darker beige. He wasn't a dandy, but he knew when something looked regal, and muted colors embroidered with gold brought out his most aristocratic features. Something he was counting on to get him through the day, despite the long black hair and earrings.

Today, a duke would be born, either that, or he'd lose all he'd struggled and hoped for. He hadn't fought so long and so hard to
preserve his way of life, to lose it now because he couldn't remember how to be an aristocrat. Yet he couldn't wield the power his birth had brought him if he didn't look the part.

When Robert and Michel rushed into the room, John was almost finished. "Make me look like a duke, Westley."

"You are a duke, Somerset. Act like one, and you will be perceived as one."

Michel leaned against the doorframe. "Act like your father," he suggested. "It hasn't been that long. Surely you remember."