The Secret Duke (45 page)

“Very well.” He accompanied that with a nod.

Was he really so strongly on their side? Why?

“A clerk will arrive shortly,” he said, moving around the long table. “He will record what is said. You will attend only to preserve the proprieties.” He came to the end, the point farthest from the door, and twitched again, poor man. “You will not speak or prompt. Do you understand?”

Then he beckoned.

Lud, were Hortensia’s fears valid? Were rakes so undiscriminating?

But then he said softly, almost mouthed, “Come over here, Bella.”

By the stars, it was Thorn!

In some way he’d learned about her situation and come here to rescue her! But the danger. Impersonating a duke amid issues of treason? Here in London, where his brother was nearby?

He played the duke well, but this couldn’t work.

She realized she was scowling as she went to him, to the spot farthest from the door and listening ears, and well out of sight. But then she smiled. She couldn’t help it.

She remembered to respond to his latest words as Bellona should. “I will not speak or prompt, Your Grace. I wish to thank you most sincerely for coming here to assist us.”

“I am here to establish the truth, Miss Flint.” But Thorn had taken her hands and was returning her smile. Bella suddenly felt stronger, and no longer alone. “I hope to find all the ladies present in the house to be innocent.”

“You will, sir.” Bella realized she could achieve two very desirable things right now. She gently freed her hands. “There’s a small room here,” she said, opening the disguised door to the storeroom. “It mostly holds paper, ink, and such, but it has a collection of all the issues of Lady Fowler’s letters. I’m sure they will stand as evidence that no one here had treasonous intentions.”

She went in, powerfully aware of him following her, but then she realized something else—something that made her stomach lurch. Now Thorn knew all her folly, and in addition, he was seeing Bellona Flint—literally warts and all!

It took all her courage to turn and face him.

When she did, he was smiling. “Bella, you are a constant surprise.”

“And you are mad!”

“Do not attempt to be sour with me. It seems I’m about to rescue you for the third time. Will I win a prize?”

“It’s likely to be a hangman’s rope.”

“Why on earth am I in danger of that?”

“For impersonating your brother. Here, in London, in the midst of an investigation into treason!”

Thorn was dumbfounded—something that happened to him rarely. He’d been so shocked to find Bella here, so afraid for her, that he’d failed to understand that she would see Captain Rose. No. Probably she’d thought him the duke until he’d been so foolish as to reveal himself.

Whoever “himself” was at this moment.

Be Thorn and have her terrified on his behalf.

Be Ithorne, and reveal to her the deception he’d played, here and now, with no subtlety or preparation.

“You must have seen the risks,” she said, frowning at him—which was quite alarming with the scraped-back hair, meeting eyebrows, and wart.

“Of course,” he said mechanically. “But they’re minor.”

“Minor? I read in the papers only yesterday of Ithorne attending some event at a charity school in Cheapside. Someone has to notice there are two of you.”

“But who is the real one?”

She rolled her eyes. “You can be useful, however,” she said, astonishing him. “Keep giving Bellona instructions for a moment.” She turned away and opened a drawer.

Thorn stared at her back, but then had to fight laughter. Bella Barstowe was truly the most amazing woman he’d ever known. He had to rack his brain for some rational patter. “Perhaps you should take out all these copies of Lady Fowler’s letters, Miss Flint.”

She pointed to a number of boxes on a shelf and continued riffling through the papers in the drawer.

Shaking his head, he took down a box and opened it. “How many are there?”

She took out a number of sheets and looked at them as she replied, “I’m not sure, but Lady Fowler began the letter not long after her husband died, and that was ten years ago.”

He saw that the box did indeed contain a single copy of each letter, written in a rather sharp hand. “Are these archived letters the originals, written by Lady Fowler herself?”

“I don’t know, but I assume the older ones are.” She came over, papers in hand, and looked at a letter. “Yes, that’s her writing. From some time ago, I think. It’s become wilder recently, and the last ones were dictated.”

“What are they?” he asked quietly, glancing at the sheets she held.

“The addresses of those who received the letter. I have to destroy them.”

He snatched them from her. “Better not. That would be a serious offense.”

She grabbed the free end, hissing, “Most of these women are innocent of even the tiniest revolutionary inclination.”

“Then they’ll come to no harm.”

“As with us?”

“Not quite so innocent . . .”

“Your Grace?”

They both froze at Norman’s voice out in the other room.

Bella stared at him, begging him.

With only a second to decide, Thorn thrust the sheets down the back of his breeches under his coat. He’d only just finished when Norman came in, frowning suspiciously. “What is this place?”

“I’ve just learned of it myself,” Thorn said, having trouble regaining his ducal hauteur. “Merely a storeroom, but Miss Flint was good enough to inform me that it contains originals of all Lady Fowler’s letters. I assume they should be taken away in case they are evidence.”

“Most certainly,” said Norman, seizing the box from Thorn. “I think it would be best if you left the investigation of this room to my people, sir.”

“You are quite correct. But I do feel thanks are due to Miss Flint. Without her voluntary assistance, it might have been some time before this room was found.”

Norman’s lips tightened, and he looked at Bella with a sneer that, as far as Thorn was concerned, put his life in danger, but he did say, “Your assistance will be noted, ma’am.”

Bella was extremely flinty. “So it should be. I have told you, Mr. Norman, that if you would regard myself and the other ladies as your allies, this could all progress more smoothly.”

“Kindly return to the parlor, Miss Flint,” Norman snapped.

Bella, the naughty wench, looked at Thorn. “Does that accord with your wishes, Your Grace?”

He wanted to say no, partly to annoy Norman and partly to simply spend more time in her presence, but wisdom triumphed. “It does, Miss Flint.” He accompanied it with a bow.

She dropped a curtsy that was both elegant and saucy, and swept away, back straight. He remembered that back. . . .

“A tricky one, that,” Norman muttered. “There’s more to her than it seems.”

“More intelligence, you mean.”

“Females are never intelligent.”

“Sir, I fear you are in danger of a great many shocks in life, but for now I’m interested in the two women hiding away in their rooms.”

“They were both very distressed, Your Grace.”

“And you trust a distressed woman more than a clever one?”

Thorn saw Norman wanted to protest the word “clever” but decided against it. “It is only natural for a woman to collapse in a situation like this.”

“All the same, I strongly recommend that they be told to join the others in the parlor.”

Resentfully, the man said, “As you will, Your Grace.”

Thorn nodded. “I must return to my house to put some measures in hand. I trust you to prevent all the ladies from discussing recent events.”

He stalked away, hoping the slight rustle from his back wasn’t audible a few feet away.

 

Bella returned to the parlor tempted to throw a fit so as to be allowed privacy in a bedchamber, but then the others would assume Thorn had treated her horribly. Assume the Duke of Ithorne had treated her horribly, which didn’t concern her except that it might make one of them do something foolish, or even dangerous.

Her head was whirling with the extraordinary events, but beneath it hummed happiness. He’d come to help her. He cared. She’d seen him again. . . .

“Bellona, dear. What on earth has happened?”

Bella blinked at Mary Evesham, who seemed very worried. “Oh, nothing really. I mean . . . I think the duke does intend to help us.”

“Never trust a man like him,” snapped Hortensia.

“We need help from someone,” Bella snapped back.

“Oh, don’t,” bleated Betsy. “Please don’t argue. I feel a megrim coming on.”

Bella was saved from exploding by Ellen and Clara coming into the parlor. Clara merely looked worn down by worry, but Ellen Spencer was shaking, and her eyes darted around as if fearing danger in every corner.

“You too assisted the Drummonds!” Betsy declared, pointing directly at her. “If they hang me, they must hang you too!”

Ellen Spencer fainted.

 

 

 

 

T
horn spread the crumpled but neatly written address lists on his desk. They were arranged alphabetically, though some of the less common letters were grouped together, with the lower entries in fresher ink, and the top ones faded. As he scanned the names, he recognized many fashionable ladies. He wasn’t surprised. The Fowler letter had become a source of amusement.

Robin’s mother’s name was there, and Psyche Jessingham’s. He saw Lady Arradale and raised his brows. Had Rothgar’s wife been his conduit, or had she requested the letter on her own behalf? She was known to feel strongly on many matters to do with women.

He couldn’t destroy them because they could be important. A few of the people on these lists could be dangerous, true advocates for revolution. He was pleased to have removed them from the house, however. He locked them away in his desk.

Another service done for his extraordinary lady. He felt uneasily sure he’d do even more dubious things if she asked them of him. He certainly had to remove her from her current danger. . . .

And then what?

Tabitha leapt onto his desk.
“Ai-o.”

“A sigh of resignation? I think so. I cannot possibly attempt to ignore her existence. I’d go gray overnight. But when am I to tell her the truth?”

“Tell who the truth?” Christian asked, walking in.

“Most people knock,” Thorn said coldly.

Christian raised his brows, but he was singularly unimpressed. “I’ve been walking in on you most of our lives. Still talking to Tabby? And is she still talking back?”

“In the manner of an oracle. Thus, what is truth?”

Thorn watched in amusement as Tabitha disappeared under the desk. Clearly her dislike of Christian had not been forgotten. The kittens, now months old, romped out to scramble around Christian’s boots.

“Are you staying?” Thorn asked.

“If it’s convenient,” Christian said, almost sar castically.

Thorn shook his head. “I’m sorry. Of course, this is your home. I’ve had the devil of a morning.”

“Tell me,” Christian said, so Thorn did.

“The Spencer woman!” Christian exploded. “I’m not having her under my roof.”

“I thought of dumping her on Robin.”

“Won’t work for any length of time. What we need is convents for women like that. Enclose them, but treat ’em decently.”

Thorn remembered discussing that with Bella.

“Why are you smiling?” Christian asked.

“Insanity.”

“Can you get Ellen Spencer out of the mess?”

“I have to,” Thorn said, suddenly able to tell his foster brother all about Bella.

When that tale was told, Christian was grinning. “She sounds just the woman for you.”

“She has no more idea how to be a duchess than this cat has sense,” Thorn said, rescuing Sable from the curtains.

“He has sense. Just isn’t interested in behaving the way you expect. We said you needed a wife like that.”

“The eccentric Duchess of Ithorne? I don’t want her to be unhappy, Christian. You know how cruel our world can be, especially in the higher reaches.”

“Yes, but she sounds as if she has the mettle. And as you say, you have no choice.”

“No, I don’t, do I? Whatever the strange force that compels people together despite logic or all the precepts of society, it has me in its toils, and it’s ruled me far too long to believe it’s a whim. Have you a purpose in Town other than advising me?”

“A few errands, and we thought we should relieve you of the cats.”

Thorn looked at Tabitha and felt an unexpected pang. “But whom will I consult?”

“If you want to keep ’em all . . .”

“Caro might object.”

“Dozens of cats at home, and she’s busy as the bees she’s learning to manage.” Christian smiled, dotingly. “She was made to be a country lady. She’s also swelling with the next generation, Lord save England.”

“Congratulations.”

“Get to work on such matters yourself,” Christian said cheerfully. “Keep the cats for now. When we have opportunity for you and Caro to be together, we’ll put it to the test.”

“Very well. I wish I could stay, but I must return to the foul den.” He opened the door to come face-to-face with a footman, who stepped back, startled.

“Yes?”

“A gentleman to see you, sir. A Mr. Clatterford, in connection to the Fowler matter.”

“Where is he?”

“The third reception room, sir.”

Thorn went down and encountered a gentleman both stocky and plump, but at first glance, honest.

Thorn nodded. “Mr. Clatterford.”

Mr. Clatterford bowed. “Your Grace.”

Thorn waved him to a seat. “How may I assist you?”

“I apologize for intruding, sir, but I understand you have become involved in the unfortunate events at Lady Fowler’s house. I have come to beg your assistance in helping one of the ladies there.”