The Secret Duke (22 page)

Bella continued on her way down, wishing her heart weren’t suddenly pounding with nervousness. She’d asked, begged, for this meeting, and now that she’d achieved it, she must be the one in control.

When she reached the hall she curtsied and spoke coolly. “So, you are returned, Captain.”

He bowed in much the same manner. “As you see, Miss Barstowe.”

“And in good time.”

“Dastardly to keep a lady waiting.”

Through this meaningless exchange, Bella almost felt she was talking to a different person—a more reserved and formidable one. Did drink alter a person as much as that?

“It’s a pleasant day,” he said. “Would you care to walk?”

Bella hesitated over that. She’d expected to take him into the parlor, but she realized that would be safe only with the door open. She might have matters to discuss that weren’t for other ears.

To be with him with the door closed would be folly, especially after their last encounter.

His brow rose at her silence.

Conducting this interview outside, in public, would be an excellent thing. Bella curtsied again. “I’ll go for my outer clothing, Captain.”

She hurried upstairs, certain that he was studying her just as keenly as she’d studied him. With lascivious intent?

She realized for the first time that he might have an odd impression of Bella Barstowe. Four years ago she’d told him as little as she could, so he knew she’d been pursued by bad men, but not why. He might well think she’d tumbled into that predicament more willingly, perhaps with sinful intent.

No wonder he’d made a coarse suggestion the other night.

Her hands turned unsteady as she pinned on her hat, and she fumbled with her cloak and gloves. If there were a horse at hand, she might have mounted it and fled, but she wouldn’t allow such weakness.

A short while with him, out on a public street. There was no danger in that, and he still might be exactly the man she needed to help her destroy Augustus.

 

Thorn waited for Miss Barstowe’s return, fascinated by what he’d seen of her.

She dressed more plainly than four years ago—her gown approached dowdy—and had changed rather more than he’d have expected in that time. He vaguely remembered a pretty girl, and she’d become a good-looking woman who could perhaps be beautiful if relaxed and happy, but she seemed hard and wary. Perhaps that was understandable after her terrible experience.

He felt a strange need to make her relaxed and happy and find out.

She certainly had lovely hair. He hadn’t noticed the color four years ago in muted light. Now she kept it tucked away under an unbecoming cap, but the escaping wisps had been an auburn that came close to bronze, a shade that looked particularly well against her creamy complexion. . . .

He caught himself. He was not interested in Bella Barstowe in that way. Bad enough that he had a strange obsession with Kelano—who had not returned to the Goat, wise nymph. To his benefit too. She was far too tempting for his sanity, and his purpose now was to find the perfect, suitable wife.

That was an excellent reason not to be here, involved with Bella Barstowe, who’d doubtless ended up in trouble four years ago through folly and loose behavior.

He should leave and return to his proper sphere, but she was coming back downstairs in an equally dull heavy wool cloak, a small plain hat on her capped hair. Anything farther from a cunning seductress was hard to imagine. The innkeeper, Pounce, had told him she claimed to be a governess. Unlikely for the spirited young lady he remembered, but not many governesses came to their role by choice.

She walked toward him, trying very hard to be calm and composed, but he saw nervousness beneath, and now she did look her age. So why was she here? What had driven her to accost Caleb in his room? If she was afraid of Captain Rose, why had she patiently waited for him to return?

Sighing at his own folly, he knew he must learn all, and help her again if necessary.

He offered his arm. She hesitated, but then took it, and he led her out of the inn and into the breezy street. He hoped she’d speak first, for Caleb’s account of their meeting had been too brief, but she’d turned mute. Clouds were gathering, and to his experienced eye, rain was on the way, so he broke the silence.

“Let us resume our conversation, Miss Barstowe. Or perhaps you could repeat it. I was a little hampered a few nights ago in my ability to understand. You came to Dover to pay me for my horse?”

She met his eyes then, with remarkable directness. “I made arrangements for it to be returned to you, sir.”

“If I dispute that?”

Her lips tightened, which was a shame, because in their looser state they were luscious. Not too wide—he always distrusted a wide mouth—but generously full.

Much like the lips of Kelano. He hadn’t been aware of such a strong preference. . . .

“If you truly didn’t get your horse back, Captain, I’ll pay you its value. Have you calculated that?”

“Fifty guineas,” he said.

“Fifty guineas?”

“It was a good horse.”

“Not that good,” she snapped.

Thorn had to fight laughter, and he was delighted that her fighting spirit hadn’t been crushed. “I’m adding something for hire and inconvenience. Well?”

She stopped, pulling her hand free so as to face him fully. “Is that your condition for continuing this conversation?”

“Always best to set sail with a clean hull.”

“Whatever that means. Very well, sir. I’ll pay you fifty guineas, but only because I do owe you something for the inconvenience and for rescuing me. Thank you.”

She snapped out the last words, meeting his eyes, chin up, head tilted slightly to the right. He recognized the frightened, spirited girl, but was surprised to feel a poignant sympathy, as if they had been more to each other than was true.

“I was honored to be of service, Miss Barstowe,” he said, and meant it.

They walked on, but then the wind rose off the sea, carrying moisture, dust, and fallen leaves that made her grab her hat and turn away from the worst of it.

“Perhaps we should return to the Compass,” she said.

Warning bells sounded. “To your room? Rather compromising, don’t you think? Or is that your purpose? You did invade my bedchamber.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “You imagine I’d want to trick you into marriage, Captain Rose? Why?”

Even though Thorn knew she was referring to a sea captain, the sheer novelty of her attitude made him want to grin with delight.

“Forgive me,” he said. “Complete idiocy. But you did come to my bedchamber. . . .”

Her color had risen. “Because I thought you might leave immediately. I explained that.”

But Caleb hadn’t. This conversation was like a maze, and danger could lurk at its heart. He’d escaped marriage traps all his adult life and wouldn’t be caught by the likes of Bella Barstowe.

“In my experience, Miss Barstowe, the only time a woman is willing to dance attendance on a man is when she has marriage in mind. Or occasionally marital pleasures.”

“You are disgusting,” she said, blue eyes flashing with anger. She walked away, heels sharp on the cobblestones.

He should let her go, but he’d suddenly had an astonishing notion. He caught up with her. “What a temperamental wench you are.”

“I am not,” she said between her teeth, eyes fixed ahead, “temperamental. Or a wench. Please do not pester me, Captain Rose.”

She marched on. He kept pace, studying her.

Bronze hair, not black. Complexion clear of any paint.

But the voice and mannerisms, especially when annoyed . . .

Could Bella Barstowe be Kelano? How? Why?

Did she know he was Ithorne?

That could make this into a very clever wedding trap.

She suddenly stopped and turned to face him. “Do I have to scream?”

If so, she was playing a very deep game.

“Would it do any good?” he countered. “The people at the Compass know you left with me willingly, and we’ve been in sight of others all along. We still are, and as I’m known here, I believe my reputation is more at risk than yours.”

Her chin went up and her lips pressed together. “Ridiculous.”

Oh, yes, Kelano. He felt sure of it.

“Is it?” he asked, racing through all the possible permutations of this. “You did burst into my bedchamber unannounced.”

Her color was mostly anger, but it was still pretty. There were advantages to lack of paint, especially for a lady with such an excellent complexion. Despite the blush, she still met his eyes. “As you remember, I was of a mind to hire you. And not, I assure you, for . . . for . . .”

He rescued her. “Then what do you want of me?” he asked. “There are any number of people who’d like to catch me in an illegal activity.”

Her color calmed a little, and then she nodded. “I see. I suppose a smuggler must fear the law.”

“I’m no more a smuggler, Miss Barstowe, than you’re a wench.”

“If you so insist.”

“But then,” he teased, “you are a wench.”

Her eyes flashed again, but there was humor in them now.

“Whatever you are, Captain Rose, I’m not part of a plot against you, but I can see why you might think so. Given that, I’m surprised you will not leave me be. Good-bye, sir.”

She walked off again, not angrily, but firmly.

Having a woman walk away from him, twice, was a novelty. Or more than twice? Kelano had also rejected him. Twice.

Fighting a smile, he caught up and kept pace. “But you have some urgent need of me, Miss Barstowe. You seized the opportunity to speak to me. When I didn’t have time to delay, you waited here, twiddling your thumbs. . . .”

“I never twiddle my thumbs.”

“Then what did you do these past days?”

“I sewed handkerchiefs.”

“Neatly?”

“Perfectly.”

“What a model of domesticity!”

And unlikely for both the girl he’d rescued and Kelano. Was he building a wild story out of nothing? Even if so, there was her youth, her need, and her urgency. He couldn’t abandon her.

“Tell me what you think I can do,” he said, as persuasively as he could. She made no response. “Devil take it, Miss Barstowe, governess or not, you’re too young to be venturing out alone, especially to make assignations with dangerous men.”

That brought a response. She whirled to face him. “Do not presume to order me about, sir! And in any case, such a guardian would be to protect me from dangerous men like you.”

She actually poked a gloved finger into his chest. “Touché,” he said, smiling, “in both senses of the word.”

A number of people were watching. Dover would be abuzz over this for days: over a young lady berating Captain Rose and getting away with it.

He added to the story by stepping back to sweep a bow. “My dear Miss Barstowe, I apologize for all my many faults, but please believe me, at the moment I’m willing to be your most humble servant. So why not tell me your problem so we can see what I can do to help.”

 

 

 

 

B
ella’s fiery infuriation fizzled into a kind of quiver. Was it the bow—so elegant and courtly? Or eyes that seemed sympathetic, and truly interested—in her?

And in this light his eyes seemed hazel rather than brown.

Changeable as the sea. That was how he’d described himself, and it was clearly true, but how could she cope with such a man? She needed to escape this bramble patch she’d wantonly walked into, but she felt already entangled. Trapped.

“Is your problem a vile man, Miss Barstowe? Perhaps the same one who caused you to be in the Black Rat four years ago?”

“How do you know that?” she asked, appalled.

He raised a soothing hand. “Simple deduction. Something caused you to come to me. The only connection between us is that brief incident years ago. Have those men attempted to harm you again?”

Bella tried to gather her wits. His explanation made sense, and yet his guess seemed uncanny. “No, they haven’t harmed me. You warned them off, for which I truly thank you.”

“How do you know that?” Now he seemed startled.

Bella realized people were eyeing them with interest and walked on. There was no reason not to tell him this part.

“One of them told me. The older one, called Coxy. I recently encountered him in London, completely by accident. I was so shocked to see him that I felt no fear. I demanded to know the reason for it all.”

“Forcefully, I’m sure,” he murmured. “You didn’t know why you ended up in the Black Rat?”

“You did?” she asked in horror. Had he been part of the plot all along?

He raised a hand. “That wasn’t my meaning. I assumed back then that you understood everything, but chose not to tell me. Is Barstowe your real name?”

“Yes.”

“Unwise, perhaps, to be using it here?”

A dry laugh escaped. “As a result of what happened four years ago, Bella Barstowe is ruined. There’s no more harm to be done.”

“Tell me what happened.” He sounded both serious and sympathetic, which was tempting as the apple in Eden, but Bella didn’t obey. This man was dangerous as the serpent.

“I can’t compel you,” he said, “but sometimes telling a tale helps to clarify the mind, and I was present for some of the story. I’m naturally curious about the rest.”

Put that way it was hard to deny him, though she didn’t relish reliving the story. “I was snatched from my father’s estate,” she said.

“How was that possible? They invaded the gardens?”

“Are ladies only allowed to stroll in the gardens? I was some distance from the house”—she added a lie—“collecting wildflowers to press for my collection.”

“First handkerchiefs and now a pressed-flower collection,” he said, clearly not believing any of it. “And your maid?”