The Secret Duke (35 page)

Then she heard a shriek, and not a merry one. Not the scream that would be the signal, but enough to make Bella want to rush to the woman’s aid. She remembered her pistol and took a step toward her valise. She made herself stop. She mustn’t spoil everything by impetuous action. Not this time, not even when she heard a new burst of laughter from the men.

They were cheering one another on—to do what, she hoped never to know. Not all the women’s cries were of pain, and there was laughter from them as well as the men. The men’s laughter, however, especially Augustus’s high whinny, was vile.

Then she heard the unmistakable sound of a whip. Twice. Thrice. That brought a new kind of shriek, a begging one.

Wasn’t that the signal? Why wasn’t Thorn doing anything?

Then the whip again and a bloodcurdling scream.

That must be it!

Squire Thoroughgood bellowed, “Shut up, you stupid woman!” but Bella heard Thorn next door exclaim something, and then his running, booted footsteps going below.

She grabbed the candle so quickly it almost went out. She carried it carefully to the window and waved it. A lantern flickered back and then went dark again. Colly Barber was on his way.

She put on her shoes and raced after, catching up to Lord Fortescue at the bottom of the steps. Thorn was already at the downstairs parlor door.

A few men were in the hall, clearly having come out of the taproom, tankards still in hand, alerted by the scream, but unwilling to interfere.

“The magistrates.” It ran around like a snake’s hiss.

Outside in the street someone cried, “Murder’s being done at the Hart. Murder!” That should bring everyone within earshot running.

Bella was hard-pressed not to smile with grim satisfaction.

She watched from the third stair as Thorn threw open the door, Fortescue at his back, head thrust forward to see.

From this height she could look over Thorn’s shoulder and see a naked woman flat on her front on the long table amid the wreck of the magistrates’ supper and some dice. Livid stripes marked her buttocks.

She saw Thoroughgood staring at Thorn, his face puce with rage.

Augustus—how blessedly perfect—Augustus was standing behind the table, his jacket gone, riding crop in hand. His jaw had dropped and seemed frozen in that position, his eyes showing white all around.

“What the devil’s going on here?” Thorn bellowed in a shipboard voice, continuing on into the room. He shrugged off his coat and flung it over the woman.

She scrambled off the table, huddling into the coat, looking the perfect image of terrorized womanhood. Bella didn’t miss the bright satisfaction in her eyes, however, and hoped the whores could fully play their parts.

The men in the hall were inching toward the doorway now. In a moment it would be a stampede to get a better view.

A lady really should flee to her room at this point, but Bella would not miss a scrap of this. She raced down the last few steps and seized the place just behind Fortescue.

Now she could see the complete scene, and it was almost too much for her. The three whores were naked except for some pieces of jewelry. Food and drink had spilled onto the floor, and some broken glass threatened bare feet. Perhaps that was why the three women all wore shoes, which seemed only to emphasize their complete lack of other clothing.

The room stank of food, wine, cheap perfume, and something else.

Squire Thoroughgood had risen from a chair at the head of the table and finally found his voice. “Take your rotten carcasses out of here, damn your eyes! Out! Out!”

The local people shrank back, but Thorn moved forward. “If anyone is rotten here, sir, it is you and your friends. What sort of debauch is this? What a stink.”

He strode around the table to the window, pushed back the shutters, and flung it open. The people outside rushed to see.

“This is a private matter,” Thoroughgood snarled, on his feet now, growing, impossibly, a deeper red. “I’ll have you horsewhipped!”

Sir Newleigh, wig gone to reveal thin, pale hair, whispered, “Goody, Goody, it’s . . . it’s you-know-who!”

But Thoroughgood was beyond reason. He leaned forward to glare even more fiercely at Thorn, his belly pressing into his messy plate. “I don’t care if he’s the bloody king. I don’t care if it’s God himself. I’ll have him up for . . . for something. Tampering with the law! That’s it. Tampering with the law.”

“Make way, make way.” A deep baritone accustomed to thundering from the pulpit parted the audience like the Red Sea. The Reverend Jervingham had arrived. Tall, robust, and with a mane of silver hair, he lacked only the beard to represent God himself. Bella ducked behind Lord Fortescue, and Fortescue backed out of God’s way.

His arrival created a moment of complete silence.

Then the whores grabbed clothing from the floor to attempt to cover themselves, while Sir Newleigh’s mouth opened and shut like a mechanical doll’s as he tried and failed to find something to say.

Augustus, clearly lost in his own horror, moaned. He was behind the table, however, and he’d either lowered or dropped the whip.

Thoroughgood said nothing, but rage steamed all around him.

The vicar turned to him. “I was summoned to hear your confession, Squire Thoroughgood, you being in extremis. Though your health is not as bad as I feared, your soul is in an even worse state.” His voice rose again to its godlike tones. “Confess, confess, you miserable sinner, before it is too late.”

“Go preach to hell,” Thoroughgood said, sitting down again.

Bella heard gasps behind her, but Reverend Jervingham seemed unmoved. He turned to the other two men.

“Can I hope you gentlemen have an interest in avoiding the torments of hell?”

“Oh, yes, definitely . . .” said Sir Newleigh, but in a fading voice. His eyes turned up and he crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.

“Sir Augustus?” asked the voice of God.

Now Augustus was opening and shutting his mouth, but then he did find words. “Sir . . . Reverend . . . all a mistake. Terrible mistake. None of my doing. Meeting of the magistrates . . . women . . . whores . . .”

Thorn was behind Augustus and now he grabbed him by the shirt collar and hauled him backward, away from the table’s concealment. Augustus’s breeches were down around his knees, only his shirt keeping him decent.

“I can explain. . . .” He gasped, half choking.

“Perhaps you were preparing to be punished for your sins—is that it?” Thorn grabbed the riding crop from the floor and landed a stinging blow on Augustus’s behind.

Augustus shrieked. “Stop! Stop it! How dare you . . . ?” He yelped again under another blow.

Bella covered her face, but it was to hide her thrilled delight. This was better than anything she’d ever dreamed.

Thorn let her brother go. Augustus dropped to all fours to scurry under the table like the cockroach he was.

Thorn turned toward Squire Thoroughgood.

“You wouldn’t dare,” the man said, but he was pale now, rather than purple. Pale with fury, however. “You might be a poxy duke, but you wouldn’t dare.”

“Duke . . . !”

The word skittered around behind Bella and she winced. They were back to that danger. All concern about that flew out of her head when Thoroughgood suddenly produced a pistol and pointed it at Thorn. He held it aimed on him while he used his other hand to unsteadily cock it. He was drunk, but not too drunk to kill at that range.

Why, oh, why hadn’t she brought her pistol down with her?

“Don’t be a fool, man,” Fortescue said sharply.

“Put down that weapon!” Jervingham commanded.

Thorn had become very still, and Thoroughgood didn’t seem moved by either instruction. Thorn put the crop on the table.

“I think I’ll shoot you anyway,” Thoroughgood sneered. “Last of your line, aren’t you, Ithorne? That’ll be some recompense for this.”

“You’ll hang,” Thorn said.

“Shoot m’self first.”

“By all means,” Thorn said in a fine simulation of amusement. “Shoot yourself now and the whole area will be much improved.”

Bella growled at him. Why enrage the man more?

When Thoroughgood raised the pistol, trying to sight on his target, she looked around for a weapon. Any weapon.

A gaping man nearby clutched a pewter tankard. She grabbed it from him. Last time she’d thrown a pot of ale, she’d hit the man’s head by sheer good fortune, so she didn’t aim there. She’d aim for Squire Thoroughgood’s enormous middle. It should at least give Thorn a chance. Praying that the goddesses of good fortune would bless her again, she hurled the tankard with all her might.

It hit and exploded with such a bang her ears rang. No, wait! It wasn’t the tankard. Smoke swirled from the powder, and plaster sprayed from the wall.

He’d fired!

She whirled to look at Thorn, but he was looking at her in astonishment, seeming unharmed. Then his eyes turned brilliant with laughter. “If we had an army of such stalwart wenches, Britain would never lose a battle!”

Thoroughgood stared at the damaged wall, finally at a loss. Bella realized that her tankard had knocked the pistol sideways.

Thorn turned to the room in general. “Attempt to commit murder, wouldn’t you say? I think we need a magistrate.”

Laughter began as a titter, but then swelled and spread until it was a gale. Sir Newleigh had come out of his faint but was a wreck of a man. Augustus was still hiding beneath the table.

None of the magistrates would be able to hold their heads up in this area again, and Bella felt a tiny touch of pity—for Sir Newleigh, at least. She’d seen enough to heal her wounds and was easing away from the door when a new arrival to the inn politely asked others to make way.

Ah.
It was not quite finished. Bella stayed to watch the arrival of Mr. Langham. He was a stocky, square-jawed man dressed by an excellent tailor.

He came to the doorway and looked around the room.

After a long silence, he said, “I was given to understand that a certain gentleman was here, but I see it isn’t so. I’m glad of it.”

“If you seek Sir Augustus Barstowe,” said Reverend Jervingham, in a tone weighty with sorrow, “look under the table, sir.”

From the sounds, Augustus was trying to scrabble backward, but Thorn must have pushed him forward with his boot, for suddenly his pop-eyed, chubby face came into view, cowled by the tablecloth.

He was crying.

His nose was running.

“Sir . . . I can explain. . . .”

Poor Augustus. He’d always been able to wheedle out of any sticky situation, and he hadn’t yet accepted that he couldn’t do that here.

Mr. Langham stared. “I very much doubt it, sir. If you were a gentleman, I would assume you would know that you will never be welcome in my house again. But as you are not, I’ll make it clear: if you ever approach my daughter in any way, you’ll receive a whipping that will cast anything that’s occurred here into insignificance.”

He turned and walked out, jaw set so fiercely that he looked like a bulldog, paying no attention to anyone else.

Now it was over, Bella thought.

Now it was done.

She even felt a tiny bit sorry for Augustus in his complete destruction, but she remembered it was well earned and she had no regrets.

She slipped back toward the stairs. She’d have done it without notice, except that the mood was turning jolly and a number of the men congratulated her on her aim. It wasn’t hard for her to demur, to say haltingly that it had been an impulse of the moment. That she had no idea what had inspired her. She was feeling slightly shaky, almost light- headed, and held tight to the banister as she went upstairs.

Once in the bedchamber she collapsed onto a chair. This dizziness must be shock. Instead of being thrilled, she felt sick.

This wasn’t a happy ending. Perhaps those other magistrates hadn’t deserved shame and ridicule as Augustus had. She loathed Thoroughgood, but he was doubtless no more wicked than many other men. She hardly knew Sir Newleigh. He might be nothing more than weak.

She lowered her head into her hands, unable to think clearly. Discordant thoughts jangled in her mind.

What-ifs . . .

If-onlys . . .

“Bella? What’s amiss?”

She looked up to see Thorn’s concern.

He came to kneel by her chair. “Was all that too much for you?” When she didn’t reply, he asked, “Was that not what you wanted?”

His anxiety touched her soul. She’d never thought to see Captain Rose uncertain and worried. She straightened and took his hands. “Yes, of course it was. Thank you. It was magnificent.”

He studied her a moment longer and then pulled her up from the chair and sat down in it. He brought her into his lap. Bella tensed for a moment, but at his gentle urging she relaxed into his arms.

“Now,” he said. “Tell me what you’re really thinking.”

That it’s over
would be the true answer now. Both her driving purpose and her time with him were over. Instead, she said, “I suspect Sir Newleigh is not a truly bad man.”

“Weak involvement in sin is as vile as powerful commitment.”

“Is it?”

“The consequences for the victims are the same.”

“I suppose so. How are the women?”

“Cock-a-hoop. Did you expect anything else? But they too had no deep animus against Sir Newleigh. Thoroughgood and your brother were the vicious ones.”

“What will happen to them now? The magistrates.”

“They’ll have to give up their seats on the bench.”

“Is that all?”

“It’s significant. Thoroughgood may bully his way on with life, but if your assessment of your brother is correct, he’s finished.”

“I wonder what he will do?”