The Secret Duke (19 page)

One day the words “His Grace, the Duke of Ithorne” leapt out at her, but it was merely a notice that he’d attended a meeting of the patrons of the smallpox hospital. Doubtless that was something he did only out of a sense of noblesse oblige, but it made her think a little better of him.

Most of the time, she sat with her needlework and listened to comings and goings and occasional snippets of conversation. Bella enjoyed her little window on a passing world, and even heard snatches of drama—missed sailings, lost luggage, and even a case of terror of the sea—but nothing about Captain Rose.

By the third day she had a small pile of handkerchiefs and was wearying of the diversion when she heard someone say, “. . . the
Black Swan
.”

She stilled, straining to hear more. She thought it was the innkeeper who replied, but he said only, “Rain comin’ in.”

Bella hastily folded her needlework and left the room as if returning to her own. To her annoyance, the innkeeper was already alone, but she seized the moment.

“Did I hear mention of a black swan?” she said lightly. “Does such a thing exist?”

The innkeeper bowed with cursory courtesy. “Not at all, ma’am, but perhaps that’s why the name appeals to many. There are inns with the name, and even a ship.”

“A ship?” Bella asked.

“Probably more than one, but there’s a local version. There’s a painting of it over there, ma’am.” He indicated a picture on the wall.

The walls of the entrance hall were almost covered by paintings of ships, but Bella had paid them no particular attention. Now she went to look at the one indicated, but it was simply a ship to her.

“Is it famous then,” she asked, “to have its portrait painted?”

The man chuckled. “Not particularly, ma’am, but I had an artist staying here a while back who couldn’t pay his bill, so I provided canvas and paints and he made the pictures for me of local ships. The
Black Swan
’s master is always asking to buy that one, but I like it.”

“You know him, then?” she asked, trying to sound as if she made idle conversation, but with a thumping heart.

“He stays here when he’s in town, ma’am. Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” He was off to deal with another guest before Bella could glean any more.

She lingered, pretending to study the painting but listening to a new conversation. Neither told her anything new.

Frustrated, she put on her sturdy hooded cloak and went for a walk in the blustery wind before the threatened rain arrived. She could see the building clouds, and as it was not yet noon, once the rain arrived, it would probably settle in for the day.

She took a direction away from the docks, where buildings provided a little protection from the wind, and then turned away from the main streets with their shops and inns into residential streets.

She passed old cottages and newer terraces and saw women engaged in all the daily work of looking after home and family. She paused to watch a smith beat metal into a curve for some purpose, and later saw men laying bricks for a new house.

All around her, people were busy with ordinary life. Did she have any hope of an ordinary life? She’d taken that for granted once—that she would marry, have children, and run her household. In one wild turn of the cards, it had been stolen from her, and even destroying Augustus’s reputation wouldn’t restore her own.

As a church bell began to ring noon, the first rain splattered. Bella turned to return to the inn, but she had to pause when a small but merry wedding party spilled out of a church onto the street, tossing grains of wheat at the blushing couple. Despite the spitting rain, the newlyweds laughed and looked into each other’s eyes as if stars truly twinkled there.

The party raced off, anxious to reach shelter before their best clothes got wet, but Bella followed more slowly, tears mingling with rain.

Bella finally accepted that she wanted, desperately wanted, to marry.

With a modest fortune, even she could buy herself a husband, but she doubted he would be a choice specimen. For heaven’s sake, she’d suffered four years of imprisonment rather than make a bad marriage, and many of the women she’d met at Lady Fowler’s were testaments to the destructive power of the institution. Even Clara Ormond, who’d had a happy marriage, had been left in poverty by her husband’s fecklessness.

Yet the longing wouldn’t die.

She thought of Kitty and Annie, whose eyes shone. And Peg with her sweet memories. And Billy Jakes.

She wanted a good husband, a home, and children.

Once she would have imagined a manor house, or even aspired to a great estate. Now a modest house would suffice if it held a dear companion. There would be a cozy drawing room where she could sit and sew as her husband read aloud to her. There were children in her dream house too, but in her vision, they were tucked in their beds for the night.

There was nothing grand about this. Nothing to thrust her into embarrassing attention or demand courage. Simply comfort and loving security.

She was jerked out of her idyll by a heavy splash of rain on her face.

See, even the heavens wept at her ambitions!

She ran into a cake shop to take tea and hope the rain passed, but at one of the small tables a couple was holding hands, staring entranced into each other’s eyes.

Bella turned and walked out to trudge back to the Compass, grateful for the rain that hid her leaking tears. As she approached she glared up at the dripping inn sign. Why couldn’t the compass there tell her which direction to take for better days?

She went in, and was standing in the hall, wondering what to do with her sodden cloak, when the outside door burst open and wet men flooded into the hall. Noisy men, smelly men, chattering, laughing, calling out to one another and sometimes shaking off rain like dogs.

Bella pressed back against the wall, wishing they weren’t between her and the stairs.

“Pounce! Pounce!” a man yelled. “Where are you, you blackguard? The
Black Swan
’s in, and we’re all famished!”

Bella no longer noticed discomfort. She searched for the bellowing man. For Captain Rose?

Then a ruddy-faced, black-haired, beefy man yelled again. “Ho, the Compass! Where is everybody? Here’s good men dry as a witch’s—”

He stopped because he saw Bella.

He turned ruddier. “. . . broomstick . . .” He trailed off. “Boys, boys, there’s a lady present!”

Now they were all staring at her, rough men looking like uneasy schoolboys. Bella scanned them, seeking Captain Rose. Tall, dark . . .

Three servants and Mr. Pounce hurried in to take charge. The crew was herded into the dining room and the innkeeper turned to her. “Your pardon, Miss Barstowe. No offense meant. How wet you are. I’ll have someone take your cloak for drying. May I have your dinner sent up to your room?”

Bella glanced toward the dining room, now packed with men from the
Black Swan
, but the innkeeper would never allow her to eat there, so as she surrendered her cloak, she accepted the inevitable.

“Yes, thank you. I gather those men are from the ship we talked of earlier. The
Black Swan
.”

“The very one, ma’am.” He was already turning away to pass her cloak to a servant.

Bella asked a blunt question. “Is one of those men her master?”

He looked back. “Captain Rose, ma’am?” He was understandably puzzled by her interest, but didn’t seem suspicious.

“I’ve heard a little about him. Is he the yelling man?”

Bella didn’t think so, but perhaps five years had distorted her memories that much.

“No, ma’am. That’s Pudsy Galt, the bosun. I’ll have your dinner in your room in a trice.”

He hurried away and Bella heard the meaning. She was to go to her room and stay there, and not harbor any foolish, romantic thoughts about Captain Rose of the
Black Swan
. She lingered a moment longer, listening, but the men’s voices were a cacophony and she could pick out nothing useful.

She went up to her room, mind whirling. Even if Captain Rose wasn’t in the dining room, he must now be in Dover. He might still stay here as he had before. Which meant she might soon have her chance.

Suddenly her knees were shaking so much she had to sit down.

Wanting to encounter Captain Rose was very different from the imminent prospect of it, especially when he was connected to a bunch of dirty, raucous men who were doubtless now becoming drunk.

 

 

 

 

S
he opened her door a crack and heard the growing volume of noise. Louise was coming with her dinner tray, so Bella hastily closed the door again and retreated to a chair.

The maid came in, put down the tray, and laid out the dishes. “There’s a decanter of claret, ma’am, with Mr. Pounce’s compliments, on account of the disturbance below.”

She was keen to rush away, but Bella said, “Are those men staying here?”

“Bless you, no, ma’am. They’ll be off to other amusements.” A dimple was an indication of the sort of amusements. “They generally come here for their first meal ashore, though. Captain Rose pays for it.”

“How generous.”

A wide smile now. “Oh, he is, ma’am. He always stays here when he’s in Dover, and always remembers the servants kindly.” Before Bella could ask another question, she added, “I have to go, ma’am,” and whipped out, closing the door firmly behind her.

After a few moments, Bella opened it again, hoping she’d hear a voice she remembered. Then she sat to her dinner and tried to eat.

She wouldn’t have believed it possible, but the men below became noisier, and their deep- voiced revels were sometimes interrupted by feminine squeals—ones that didn’t sound at all protesting. She wondered if Louise’s voice was among them.

She knew she should be disgusted, but an unfortunate part of her was envious. She didn’t want to be an inn servant romping with rough sailors, but she wanted the high spirits of a celebration and, yes, the company of appreciative men.

The claret was very welcome.

Then came a sudden cry of, “Cap’n! Cap’n!” and a thumping of tankards on tables.

A new voice called, “Are they treating you well, lads?”

“Aye!”

“Then give me a jug of ale and a plump wench. I’ve some catching up to do!”

Laughter poured up to Bella’s room like a flood.

She sat there, eyes wide. That was Captain Rose?

That voice didn’t fit her memory at all! And the image conjured by his words fit even less. A jug of ale and a plump wench?

It made perfect sense, however, for the sort of man he must be. She’d clearly embroidered brief memories into whole new cloth.

She refilled her glass and drank deep.

This Captain Rose was probably more likely to aid her in illegal acts, but she didn’t think he would be at all trustworthy. Strangely, she was still certain that back in 1760 she would have been able to trust him.

She frowned at her empty glass. That was foolish, because she hadn’t trusted him. She’d stolen his horse and ridden off alone—which in itself had been terrifying—because she hadn’t trusted his intentions.

Clearly she’d been right.

His arrival downstairs didn’t calm the affair. Instead, it grew wilder. Soon the men were all singing what sounded like a common tavern song, thumping and banging the rhythm, one strong baritone in the lead. Bella knew it was good that she couldn’t make out the words.

Her glass was full again, so she sipped, considering the new reality.

It wasn’t surprising that she’d built Rose into a chivalrous hero. Back then, even after all that had happened, she’d still been able to dream of a man dashing in on a noble steed to carry her away from imprisonment and torment.

Now it would seem she had a more likely case—a rough sea captain who enjoyed ale and wenches—but a man who was generous to his men and to servants, and whom people in general seemed to think well of.

She hadn’t invented the way he’d reacted so quickly and bravely to the dangerous men in the Black Rat, or the fear his very name had stirred there.

He was still a man capable of daring action, and that was what she needed.

Probably.

She’d have the night to think about it. He always stayed here, so she’d speak with him on the morrow. She reached for the decanter, and realized it was empty. No wonder her head felt a little strange.

She stood, swaying slightly, and went to close the door. There was nothing more to learn that way. She considered the chair by the fire and the book on the table beside it, but instead went to the bed and lay down.

Oh, dear.
She’d left the door unlocked so Louise could return for her dinner dishes, but probably she was busy with the jollity downstairs. . . .

She really should bolt her door before she fell asleep.

She should get up, undress, and wash—but it was so much easier to simply lie here. . . .

She didn’t know how much time had passed before she heard footsteps coming along the corridor. Not a servant’s careful tread but confident, hard boots. She forced herself upright. What had she been thinking, leaving her door unlocked in an inn full of drunken ruffians?

She was halfway off the bed when the boots passed. A moment later, a door close by on her right slammed.

Was that Captain Rose?

Bella sat looking to her right as if she could see through walls. If he was there, he’d be there tomorrow. But then quicker steps hurried past and a door opened. She caught some words. “. . . your horse, Captain . . .”

Horse? Did that mean he was leaving?

She stood, swaying slightly. If he was leaving, this could be her only chance. Her only chance to meet the man, talk to him, assess him.

If she had the courage.